Tag Archives: Storytelling

Compulsion to Flee – Part 2 – Conversion or Reversion?

Picking up where I left off yesterday . . .

We’ve all heard the stories of Cortez conquering the Aztecs and Pizzaro conquering the Incas, but we often only hear the stories of those who are regarded as conquerors.  The victors.  Even if their acts were entirely atrocious and inhumane.

History is distorted that way.

Continue reading Compulsion to Flee – Part 2 – Conversion or Reversion?

Compulsion to Flee

I often write about my travels and the things I experience while traveling.  The adventure of it. 😊  Particularly getting back to Nature and hiking in the wilderness.  Something I do whenever possible.  And the urge to travel, or to continue traveling once on the road, is always at the surface.

Lingering, like a Tiger ready to pounce on its prey.

Frankly, I like that feeling.  For it drives me to drive.  Gives me reason and purpose.  An impetus to greet Grandfather Sun each day.

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My Mom Had Guts!

International Women’s Day was yesterday.  To honor it last year, I made a post about my daughter.  Today, I’ll honor my mother.

My mom grew up on a farm in southern Michigan.  The closest “big town” was Sylvania, Ohio.  As soon as she could, she left the farm and found work in Toledo.  While there, she also sold War Bonds  for WWII and was a “War Bond Captain.”

But this wasn’t exciting enough for her.

Continue reading My Mom Had Guts!

Open Range – Revisited

Intro:  I wrote this story back in 1993, describing some of my time on the road between 1978 and 1980.  I had packed up and bugged out after a little run-in with the law.

Something sparked the memory, and I dug out a copy of the publication it appeared in at the time – “Out Your Backdoor.”

I found it fun to look back at my writing style then.  Not that much different from today.

I was trying to break into freelance writing and looking for small publications that would pick up an article – payment was usually a couple copies of the newsletter, magazine, or journal, or whatever print media it might have been.

With a few minor edits, here it be . . .

*****

Continue reading Open Range – Revisited

When Mountains Dance on Tiny Feet

I left you all at a juncture in my story “The Club 66.”  So, it’s time to circle back a little.  If you don’t remember, check out the last couple of paragraphs.

Disclaimer:  I don’t recommend that anyone participate in such a ceremony without proper guidance, intent, and knowledge.  Also, since we are all individuals, creatures with complex chemical-electrical systems, there is no way to predict how ingestion of any substance might affect someone.  To either their benefit or detriment.

Nor can I offer any guidance in how to interpret such an experience.  Words fall far short.

Continue reading When Mountains Dance on Tiny Feet

A Little “Tude” Please

Well, as language continues to evolve, or devolve, there’s nothing “cooler” than shortening words for effect. 😊  It also takes less energy and effort.  I mean, why bother with all those syllables and pronunciation, right?

There’s also a connotation that sticks with these phrases.  These monotone soundbites.

Today’s example is “tude.”  The short version of “attitude.”  And it’s usually with the negative connotation.  “So, what’s with all the tude man?”  “Too early in the day for that kind of tude.”

I’m sure you’ve heard it before.

Continue reading A Little “Tude” Please

The Conman

I had finished a couple of beers and an appetizer with a friend at a local pub.  Nice neighborhood.  Quiet part of town.

While he had to leave, the night was still young, and I decided to mosey on over to the bar and have another round before I hit the trail.

I generally like meeting new people at the bar, and I’ve met some fine ones and had wonderful conversations.  Trading stories.  Slices of life.  Different paths in different timelines converge for a bit.

A smiling between souls.

Continue reading The Conman

The Heart of Storytelling

I read a post a couple of days ago stating that the difference between humans and other animals was the ability of humans to tell stories.  And that this ability is what has led to discoveries, inventions (good and bad), art, poetry, war, etc.

Of course, I believe other species have their own way of telling stories. 🙂

Stories have been said to create a special niche where we love to reside.  Fictional worlds that fill our minds, the majority of the time for some of us, with a central plot-line of underlying “conflict.”  There are generally dark forces to overcome, battles to be won or lost, struggles that define the protagonists, to whom we relate ourselves.

It is us that mirrors back as being the heroine or hero.  Whether defeated or exalted.

Continue reading The Heart of Storytelling

Neural Roadmaps Revisited

Revisiting the past seems to cycle in our lives.  If not physically, mentally.  But it seems there are times when the physical odyssey is unavoidable.  It may even be unconscious at first.  We embark on a journey just to realize midway we are circling back in time. Perceptions have shifted, aged, but we are retracing routes gone by.  “Treading trodden trails,” as the saying goes.  Neural roadmaps.  Highways of memories.  Echoes of day dreams.

The roads might be slightly different.  And the faces we see this time around may be new to us, drawn together, in passing, by a transitional event.  In this case, it was my mother’s final breaths.

I saw the parallels as I was driving by the home where myself and my brothers grew up.  A small town now a burgeoning suburb of a major city.  When the family moved there, the population was around 250, plus a lot of corn fields.  When I left, there were little more than 2500 people.  It’s no longer a rural community and the population has passed 30,000.  The corn fields replaced with structures.  More boxes for storage, of categorized life.

My old home is now a dental office with the yard paved over.  A parking lot for tooth repair.  The vacant lot across the street, a playland of the imagination where mythic battles raged in the jungles of weeds, now a motor bank.  The majestic apricot tree on the corner by the park, gone.  Not even a seed to carry its memory of the sweet fruit it offered free for the taking.  The lake we fished in, fenced off, imprisoned.

The historic downtown, an outward reflection, a mimic of time, but the core has transformed.  The library is office space.  The hardware store, an art gallery.   The feed mill, a microbrewery.  The old school is torn down.  Time and places evaporated.

But all of my memories are intact.  The pleasure and the pain of growth.

Every summer this home was a launch point for the family reunions.  First with my dad’s family in Indiana, and then my mom’s in Michigan.  Those were times of active voices.  Of laughter and play.  The excitement of seeing cousins, of family card games, and mysterious old homes to explore.  Spiral staircases to dusty attics, and coal furnaces in the basements.  We mined for treasures.  And we found them in shiny objects unearthed, planted by the generation before.

And there were haylofts in old barns, where we leaped into the sky, hay piles lying beneath to break our fall.  Flying for instants that lasted forever.  A shirt was a cape, or a parachute.

An old hand pump still brought water from the earth.  A hidden aquifer of life.

An electric fence for horses, and a dare to feel its pulses.  Grab hold the wire and zap a brother with the other hand, before mom or dad would shoo us away.

Pulses, pulses, I feel my heart beating as I drive, wandering back in time, shuffling though images not matching the roadway.  Highway hypnosis.

I’m retracing that reunion route again, but this time, the nuclei of both families are gone, having passed on to the Blue Road of the Spirit.

My father passed in ’09, and after revisiting the ground where I was raised, I stop to pay my respects to him and my paternal ancestors.  He was buried in the family plot in the town where he grew up.  A few miles down the road is “Stearleyville,” or its shadow, founded by my great, great grandfather.  The reverse of my hometown.  The small village is gone, fully reverted to farmland.

The cemetery is filled with generations, back to the original immigrant couple.  Two stones eerily bear my own name.  One my grandfather, and one his second son that died as an infant – born on my same birthday, passed 30 years before my birth.

I remember my dad’s funeral.  Full military honors.  Steeped in tradition.

He taught me the meanings of honor, integrity, loyalty, strength of character, and hard work.

We talk in silence.  For a while.

Then it’s on to Michigan.  A small town on the border of Ohio. My mother also to be buried in a family plot.  Similar small town and farm family roots.  The memories of both homes blurred.

She’s outlived the rest of her family so we have a small ceremony.  A few cousins, whom I’m meeting for the first time.  It’s a nice service for a well-lived life of a good heart.

She taught me compassion, empathy, and self-sacrifice.

My parents’ bodies lay some 300 miles apart.  Their spirits united?  Their soul contracts complete?  And the particles of consciousness they helped bring into the world are scattered about the Midwest. Such is the stardust of which we’re composed.

Family plots.  Family traditions.  Traditions I will not follow.  My ashes are to be released into the wind.  No name carved in stone.

I wonder, when I leave, what neural roadmaps my daughter’s memories will travel.  I hope that she too has flown wearing a magic cape.

***

 

Photo: I didn’t actually take this image, but it is an image of my brain from an MRI . . .

And if you didn’t see it earlier, check out my intro to this post in my Daily Musings – Rotation.

Rotation

A number of things were swirling in my head as I woke from my slumbers.

For one, Kirk Douglas died yesterday.  And as I read off the list of his many accomplishments and movies I was reminded of the film “Lonely are the Brave.”  Now I saw this film a long time ago, loved it, and when I watched it oh so many years ago, I had no idea of the connection with Edward Abbey, whose work I’ve also come to thoroughly enjoy.

It’s strange how things can circle around in our lives.

Continue reading Rotation

The Club 66

There is always a struggle in a writer’s mind about just what to write about.  We want our posts to be meaningful in some way, although the definition of meaningful may vary from day-to-day.  And lately, I’ve taken a little rest from writing.  It’s not because I don’t have stories to tell, it’s just trying to decide which I want to tell, and how I want to tell them, and if they’re relevant, and would a reader enjoy them?

Those are big questions, and I don’t have any answers for any of them this morning.  But I need to write.

It’s sort of an addiction and I’m in withdrawals.

Continue reading The Club 66

Thrown for a Loop

Back in early November, I had settled into what I thought was a pretty decent routine.  Reading, walking, hiking, meditating, and exploring my hobby of photography.  That routine came crashing down when the house I was living in became contaminated and I had to make a hasty retreat.*

My patterns are still in a state of disruption.

Writing has become a bit secondary to solving the housing problem.  But I did finish a series, at the invitation and encouragement of my blogging friend George,** about marriage and divorce.  And that too left my head spinning a bit.  I was, after all, revisiting some very painful memories.  Basically, these memories, as well as the present situation, all involved a theme in common – the loss of home.

And I mean “home” in the more intangible sense of that word.

Not just a place to stay, but a feeling.  A feeling of sanctuary.  Of warmth.  Of love.

Loss of “home” is not the same as moving out of a place we’ve “occupied.”  It’s abandoning a sense of security, of integration, of sentiment.  A home is where there is a heart connection.  It becomes part of you.  An extension.

Usually, this extension of ourselves is tied up with another individual or a family.  It’s a communal nature.  What makes a “house” a “home” is not the decor.  Not the pictures hanging on the wall, or the color scheme of the bathroom fixtures.  It’s an amalgamation of the feelings of warmth and protection and mutual love.

Quite an introduction there, I guess.

Intro to what?  You know how I like to switch gears. 🙂

Continue reading Thrown for a Loop

Reflections – Three

I was visiting a friend this past weekend and we had tea, did some meditation, and a little bit of guided writing.  It’s an interesting way to spend a few hours.

Setting an intention to engage in mindful activities.

So, the writing exercise was basically a prompt, and we saw what we could come up with in ten minutes.  I don’t think we could have been more ying-yang.

Continue reading Reflections – Three