![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
There are stories and there are stories.
Chaosmanor tells exciting stories, full of exotic animals, violence, weaponry, sex and life. And I ruminated on the nature of stories because mine have none of the above, and in a way seemed to be very boring, a beige painting next to something big and splashy and wonderful.
My stories have no exotic animals, very little weaponry, some sex, and much talking. Talking talking talking.
When my friend first told me he was very likely going to jail, I spent some time staggering under the knowledge of this. It's not an easy knowledge to have. It came in dribs and drabs, pieces from too many jigsaws to make sense of. He said to me: I would prefer you don't know the details. I need somewhere I can be me until I go in. I said: fine. But it wasn't fine, and I struggled to allow him this sacred space of my own home whilst he was a "me" which wasn't really him. Eventually, I became so stressed I lost my milk and spent too much time unable to cope with simple things. This was not acceptable.
He said: I will tell you if you ask me.
So I said: Tell me. But I can't do this without some coping mechanism. Let's walk.
I asked him to tell me his story. And as we walked, it occurred to me that he should be grateful to me. Every person involved will have their own story, their own point where they cut and pasted and took part of the story and made it their own. The police would have taken their parts of the story, the people involved will have taken their parts of the story, and the chance to tell his story from beginning to ending would be rare. My own story is as complex as his and the notes interweave like an opera. But I remained as silent as I could, asking questions for more details and knowing he was too caught up in the moment to understand the full value of the gift I had offered him.
Maybe in a few years I'll ask him again. He's not going anywhere. He got six years, maybe four and a half if he's a good boy.
Stories are the way we say things to make sense of the horrors around us. Sometimes I stagger under my books. I'm telling stories of the women in the fantasy novels. The powerful ones, the miserable ones, the beaten ones, the married ones, the mothers and the virgins. I wonder what I'm staggering under to spend so many thousand words exploring these women.
We tell ourselves stories because sometimes the reality is so huge, so big, so daunting, we can't cope. We tell the story differently each time, savouring the parts that bring us something, and rewording the parts that don't meet our needs. Eventually we face the story and somewhere along the line, we've become big enough, wise enough, adult enough, to be able to accept the story, and take it into us and make it a part of ourselves that no longer needs to be told.
Maybe that's what I'm doing. I'm making myself bigger so I can absorb more women's stories. I'm telling these stories to help myself cope with the horrors that are already too close to home.
Chaosmanor tells exciting stories, full of exotic animals, violence, weaponry, sex and life. And I ruminated on the nature of stories because mine have none of the above, and in a way seemed to be very boring, a beige painting next to something big and splashy and wonderful.
My stories have no exotic animals, very little weaponry, some sex, and much talking. Talking talking talking.
When my friend first told me he was very likely going to jail, I spent some time staggering under the knowledge of this. It's not an easy knowledge to have. It came in dribs and drabs, pieces from too many jigsaws to make sense of. He said to me: I would prefer you don't know the details. I need somewhere I can be me until I go in. I said: fine. But it wasn't fine, and I struggled to allow him this sacred space of my own home whilst he was a "me" which wasn't really him. Eventually, I became so stressed I lost my milk and spent too much time unable to cope with simple things. This was not acceptable.
He said: I will tell you if you ask me.
So I said: Tell me. But I can't do this without some coping mechanism. Let's walk.
I asked him to tell me his story. And as we walked, it occurred to me that he should be grateful to me. Every person involved will have their own story, their own point where they cut and pasted and took part of the story and made it their own. The police would have taken their parts of the story, the people involved will have taken their parts of the story, and the chance to tell his story from beginning to ending would be rare. My own story is as complex as his and the notes interweave like an opera. But I remained as silent as I could, asking questions for more details and knowing he was too caught up in the moment to understand the full value of the gift I had offered him.
Maybe in a few years I'll ask him again. He's not going anywhere. He got six years, maybe four and a half if he's a good boy.
Stories are the way we say things to make sense of the horrors around us. Sometimes I stagger under my books. I'm telling stories of the women in the fantasy novels. The powerful ones, the miserable ones, the beaten ones, the married ones, the mothers and the virgins. I wonder what I'm staggering under to spend so many thousand words exploring these women.
We tell ourselves stories because sometimes the reality is so huge, so big, so daunting, we can't cope. We tell the story differently each time, savouring the parts that bring us something, and rewording the parts that don't meet our needs. Eventually we face the story and somewhere along the line, we've become big enough, wise enough, adult enough, to be able to accept the story, and take it into us and make it a part of ourselves that no longer needs to be told.
Maybe that's what I'm doing. I'm making myself bigger so I can absorb more women's stories. I'm telling these stories to help myself cope with the horrors that are already too close to home.
