I suppose that it has been ever within my nature to want to make up tales. Reluctantly perhaps? Much like my father who could tell a great joke but needed the crutch of some children’s book to prime the pump so they say. That strange ritual of sitting by your child’s bed with a small richly illustrated volume of cleverly fashioned words and using your voice to soothingly launch them into the world of dreams.With me as their only offspring I have to believe that the gateway to that other world of inexplicable apparitions and disconnected shoreline that needs no excuse to jump from one absurd chapter to the next became at least as real as the waking world. Sometimes more coherent. Take stock of a life and find it upon the peanut butter and jelly fantasies over-layered in the midst of one’s first decade. A desire to recapture some slowly fading magic in those oft repetitious words, “Read it again!” It is only through such affirming fantasy well-diffused within ones inner self that one finds the ability to so often skim across the tempestuous waves of stormy misfortune. My own efforts to reach my hand into the ether and wrest a tale untold so often a reluctant exercise. An inner journey that borrows too often from events and feelings that resurrected serve to haunt as opposed to enchant. Why is that those we love die off so soon either in presence or spirit only to set up residence within the same world that they once related at our bedsides? That nightly uncontrollable journey that lands one in the most unlikely of places that seem impossible to explain in the light of subsequent day but whose immediacy lays heavily upon on from that point onward. As if as tenuous as circumstance may have suggest it possesses the same degree of physical validity as humdrum waking existence?
Start a story about any topic however artificial and in its telling find it making a long lazy circuitous journey back to the dilemma of one’s self.There seems no escape. No matter the the roving nature of that inner wish escape desired it comes back to the shackles of that particular repetitive cycle of life that we respectively choose to honor each day in an unspoken desire for the sake of inner continuity. Much like this strange device wrought of grunts and groans and universally acknowledged marks upon a page, its universality works without any great degree of explanation. The resort of a scrivener to the art of his most recent tale being a journey into that same mist ever-present within grasping the wrists of unlikely characters to pull them from the diaphanous fog and make them real to sight in the clear bright sunlight of day. The sonorous tone of well-ordered thoughts conveyed in rhythmic phrases enraptures the minds of others in a manner that there seems an intimate compact between that anonymous speaker lodged within the mind and any random individual. The unknowable surrogate that one figures does in truth exist. But like the spirit of one’s ancestors remains anonymous to one’s self. Their stories implicit by some strange sense of inheritance through familial protocols handed down without question from father to son and mother to daughter. Roles indirectly noted by all within the family as the proper form of being that the illusion of a larger world of consensus of course heartily approve and sanction. Such is the power of a story so oft retold. Something that can divert the course of rivers and damn the flow of civilizations for generations to come. And in the course of one’s own time we becoming both hero and author, bard and poet to the beat our own pentameter of repeatable exclamations and penchants for wending through the most salient parts of any given type of event poised upon the reader’s imagination by our silent lips. This expected loss of personal identity required to inspire regard within a community of disparate individual souls who seek to engender their own escape. It being more expeditious in the waking world to lay back and note the tales wrought by another as if retold in those ancient tale by those wiser youngsters of today.