The Articulation of Stories as Scars

Last week during a reading of some blog post or another (and for the life of me I wish I had kept the reference to link you to it; I went searching through my browser history without luck) and this idea developed:

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My apologies to the original author whose work I was reading because I don’t think my thought is originally mine, simply a reworking or a remixing of what I had read and I don’t want to pass this statement off as purely my own. I’m using it as a launching point for discussion. 

As a story teller, the narrative I am creating has a purpose. For my writing, I want to explore the lives of ordinary people, to understand who they are, their decisions and the ramifications.

I do not write autobiographically so the story is not an attempt to exorcise a past, redress an indiscretion or justify a choice. But a narrative, once released to the reader, can wound or heal. 

A story has the potential to open up issues in the reader’s past, or to dress a wound. Such is the power a story can wield. As a writer, I don’t know what the impact a story will have on the reader, and it is my hope that the story I write will move the reader in some way.

The stories we tell one another, orally or written, are evidence of the life we have lived. Those stories are like scars; wounds inflicted by accident, neglect, or others. They are markers of who we are, what we were, what we have become and what we want to be.

Sometimes those scars are worn with pride. Sometimes those scars are hidden. Sometimes those scars are repurposed, redecorated.

This is the power of the story.

Zentangle #7 Bare Feet

bare-feet

Every so often
walk with bare
feet
in the trees
stand and
imagine

And a bonus black out poem

the-other-side

I know 
the other side
I know
another direction

Zentangle #6 Celestial Bodies

celestial-bodies

celestial bodies
would be
quite unbearable

And a bonus blackout poem for your enjoyment

odd-things

Zentangle #5

zentangle-5

Once upon a time
you
gave up this nonsense
I
think we
changed places without
moving

 

Zentangle #4

image

humans love sadness
it was a comfort
in the end

Still not a zentangle in the official sense but an interesting experiment nonetheless in my continuing defacing (or repurposing) of Jostein Gaarder’s novel, “Through A Glass Darkly.”

And a bonus blackout poem from the same novel because it was fun to do and it’s keeping me writing and creating when time is limited. 

image

keep an eye on beauty
to school times
sit with 
the old gods
read
how everything was

Handwritten Pages #13

image

Sonia waited on the platform, trailed by her shadow, for the last possible moment to board the train. She wanted to time her entrance into the carriage with the closing of the doors to separate her physical body from her shadow. So far, she had not succeeded.

Today’s Handwritten Page was inspired by this image. It was a  random prompt given to me by a friend. 

train-station

Handwritten Pages #12

image

The boy said, “Daddy, you’re crying. Are you hurt?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Where? I can’t see it.”
“In my heart and in my head.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandpa, my father, died and I miss him.”
For the first time the boy knew a pain beyond the physical scrape of a grazed knee, the sting of Dettol and the salve of attention.
In the awkwardness of facing human pain he saw the wounded soul seeping out from behind an imaginary Band-Aid; a too small covering for a gaping wound.
He leaned forward and kissed his father’s forehead.