Storytelling

I spoke at a storytelling event recently. The theme was narrowed to migration but with a lot of room to work. Immigration, emigration, nomadic migration, moving, movement … the body in motion. I thought about the one thing that comes with me wherever I go: my body. It is the “I” that I refer to as if “I” was something other than the body. How could it be? All I know is through this vessel.

Except that I get flashes that seem to come from nowhere, spontaneous thoughts and presences that rise from somewhere beneath me or come from somewhere beyond me or exist within another universe I can feel as an internal organ, taking up space inside of me. But, still, I experience them within my body even if they seemingly come from outside of it. Which puts it all back to the age old question of perception. A commitment to perceptual reality at the expense of sensory experience or contemplation of theories or speculative hypothesizing or imaginative daydreaming or stream of consciousness blathering.

Flowing like a stream, floating like a butterfly, falling like a feather, wafting like the smell of pie cooling on a window sill. Splashing like a toddler in a bath, gurgling like an old man who can’t clear his throat, shuffling hesitantly like a dog about to give way and die. These were the thoughts I was thinking at the event. They were only marginally part of the story I told. The fragments I have thus far written here were utterances in a somewhat different story I told there.

As I listened to the stories of others I thought, “I know what she’s going to say next” and then she’d surprise me with a left uppercut that made me dizzy and ready to go down if she landed another clean blow. But for some reason she backed off and didn’t put me away. I’m not sure why, I was there for the taking, the title would have been hers, but she just didn’t have that killer instinct. I was left in limbo, wondering what her story was about, if it was anything other than a snapshot of life’s relative meaninglessness. Throughout the night there were stories of struggles, trivialities, mundane events, obvious observations, random curiosities, lethargic dramas, a sense of being judged without the courage to be vulnerable.

Did I know more than the rest of them? As I told my story I wondered. I thought of Apple Jacks but decided against mentioning that. But I also wondered whether they knew more than I did, if they could sense that I thought they had not thought the thoughts I was thinking and that they were secretly being patient with me because I, poor fool, just didn’t know that I only knew what I knew. But then I remembered I am usually open to being wrong and, in fact, believe that I am always wrong but must commit with certainty each moment to my wrongness until the evidence dictates that I change course for reasons as simple as allowing needs and desires to inform, through the body by way of emotions, what the issue is during any particular moment. If those in the coffee shop knew this, and indefinitely more, then I could perhaps be even more of myself than I had thought I could be. If I be judged then judge me as I am.

But how could I convey who I am in any significant way in less than ten minutes? "Cartwheels, Jumping jacks, weird facial expressions, wild hand gestures, flailing arms, weird walking, adopting strange postures, talking in strange voices, randomly changing from one pitch to another tone to a scream to a whisper, bug-eyed, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, fists pumping, feet stomping, cheeks puffed out, head bobbing, hair waving, body writhing, Hallelujah, Glory Be, 2001: A Space Odyssey, I formation play action pass to the tight end splitting the safeties and getting behind the linebacker down the seam for the go-ahead touchdown! Amen."

A woman decided she’d had enough of me babbling on and on. She stood up, waved her hand, and announced, “Enough!” I stopped speaking and everyone looked at her. “I’ve decided that I need to speak now.” I stepped to the side of the stage and gestured for her to come up. “I’ve been listening to this man speak, as have all of you, and I am struck by the absurdity of his way of viewing the world. Or, at least, this persona he’s created for himself. What the hell are we to do with all of this, Mr. Man?”

I stood to the side as she glared at me. I tilted my head up as if in thought but I was blank, just allowing emotions to roll over me. I felt hoopty-doopty. I snapped my head down and spoke with urgency, “Woman, I do not know your name, but I can assure you that my gibberish is no more nonsensical than that of those who came before me. Please, allow me to continue and I will give you an orgasm later.”

The woman shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Eh, I expected more but I’ll take what I can get.” The show was free after all; it wasn't like anyone was paying to listen or anything. Just bullshit flowing freely. A smile on a few faces now. More silliness to follow. I gave them hoops of laughter, jaunty bits of juicy gossip, ooh-la-la’s and French Frenching, sloshy boots, wet mittens, waterfront tacos, oozing yellow cupcakes, jalapeno milkshakes, and frosty guava rum with chilled pineapple tequila served in half-moon melon rind ... nothing but fun.

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