Been thinking of stories, as of late.

Perhaps our greatest ability, or greatest flaw, that damaged human design of making stories of everything. In every moment, in every word and vision, the tale is told from a singular perspective to an audience of at least one. Perhaps more, depending on the number of one’s personalities, or viewers. One of those, for yours truly, often seems more populous than the other.

But anyway, dig.

I think of the role memory plays within all this. And the stain of incongruity these personal reflections may or may not hold. The things seen and said, so often misconstrued and understood in perfect clarity.

I think of a woman who told me, with certainty, that I am a writer. That is what I am meant to be. And how she walked away, again, in certainty. Not exactly in that order, but essentially so.

And I think of my last time encountering that soul. Likely the last time in this lifetime. It was a celebration for someone else, on the waters of the East River. Liquid courage (or insanity) compelled me to take that hand, to inspect for myself the engagement band. It wasn’t a diamond. The stone was dark, entirely black, according to my recollection. Comedic, almost, that reflection back. Whether that was the true appearance of that rock, or just how my mind chooses to replay it back, in the rare times of such rewind. We’ll never know for sure, I suppose.

And so, I could rifle through all the memories of recent and ancient and pick apart the meaning concrete or fantastically conceived within each. But I will not. Not this evening.

Perhaps I’ve been listening to too much Tragically Hip. That, or not enough. Hard to tell.

Was dialoging earlier about the idea of being a loser. Believe it or not, dear reader, but even I have felt the weight of loserdom, from time to time. Not all that infrequently, or very far off in time from where we currently reside. Or at least the point of time for this particular bout of writing. You could be consuming this ages from now, I’ll never know. Not unless you say so.

But yes, even your intrepid narrator is humble enough to feel the impact of loss and the loser identity. He is, poor thing, human after all. For now, at least.

But that loser idea discussion wound its way to the dichotomy of action and result. It could easily be seen as the result being the deciding factor, but I believe I disagree. Even if failed, I think the intention and execution of action, no matter the result, warrants the moniker of loser be shed. If only measured by the product produced, so little would be deemed success on specific scales. After all, so little goes the way we imagine, whether meaning exceeding expectation or wallowing in severe disappointments. I know much of what I said was a genuine aim to uplift the friend who sparred ideas with me this day, as so many times before and many more into the future, I sincerely hope. And it is not difficult to assume were such thoughts projected inward, my opinion might hold a great difference. My own harshest critic, and whatnot.

But that’s just it, though. That’s this story telling business. The way the perception is individualized. That the self-made legends have their tropes and metrics. These personal themes of selfsameness we echo around in our heads and out into eternity, as far as can be reached.

We are, all of us, tellers of our own tales. The clash and intertwinement with others may invoke a sense of being an outside reader of our own idiosyncratic realities, at times. The action at intersection may cast a light or shadow seeming beyond our capacity for control. Yet, even within that subsequent thought and outward kinetics- the pen finds its place back in this first-person grasp.

A writer, after all. Such are tigers and their stripes.

I spent the holiday last, that trite one revolving around romantic ideas, with a dear friend. There were pints and expressions of woes, in vague and specific. There was comfort in commiseration and comradery, while each of us encouraged the other that some worthy ramification for our lives lived was bound to find us. Both believe the best for the other, and more doubtful of the achievement for ourselves. We’ll see who was right and who was wrong. Might be both and neither. Might be something else, altogether.

But I am not fool or ungrateful enough to disregard the fortune this life has found me. As the sun set on this day (looking at the sky being all the rage among the hip crowd, these days) writing out ideas at the kitchen table, I hear clear from the other room, a Beatles tune, sung and played by my own progeny, begat from my own flesh and blood melded with another’s. This was followed by another song by Penny and the Quarters. And an Everly Brothers, after that.  

Watching her story unfold, this young lady I call daughter, has been and continues to be the most profound experience. And I have no shortage of such experiences, both within parenthood and all other aspects of my life. I know I have seen and felt and heard things that most others never will. Just ask me what I do for a living, and you’d know this to be true. And what I earn my paycheck doing sure as shit ain’t with writing.

But witnessing her tale unfurl itself through time does not diminish my own. It inspires, rather. For the effort of setting an example of a life worth living is a critical part of her finding her own. Under whatever circumstances we arrive upon or from. I am not some soul lost in parental servitude. In addition to my near decade old role of being father, all those other parts exist as well. Enhanced and invigorated, in fact. For there would be great tragedy in that spawn of mine thinking her first and closest ancestor was little more than some blue-collar loser. So my actions always aim at being more, whatever that result may end up being.

We watched a film, this evening. One almost a century old, which is a wild enough prospect in and of itself. This particular flick, as much early cinema does, is a remaking of something that was built and intended to be performed live. And where often aspects we see under modern lenses might dictate that this fails in the medium delivered, there is something universally striking about this bridge between artistic worlds. The realness of the adventure from one avenue to the next, even if more perilous and uncertain.

At times, I feel like a vaudeville act in early film. Lost in the medium of the age, all the strength of what is there to offer, lost in the execution. For now. Adaptations can still be made, and will be made, and as I have always done- I will find a way to be who and what and how I want, or rather, need to be, and make it work for whatever world is presented before me. And echo into all the worlds that are to enter into existence long after I make my exit off stage.

But tomorrow is already nearly upon us, so let’s wrap this up, shall we?

I will continue to divulge my mind into the projects of reflection and expression. At this point, I’m too hooked to stop. I’ve been doing all this no matter outside attendance for as long as I can recall. And every once in awhile it produces something of value for some outside soul. But whether it did or didn’t, onward would be the route always taken. For I do these not for recognition, even when hopeful for such a by-product. I do this, write, and so many other tasks, not because I want, but because I must.

After all, what makes you think a writer isn’t a drug salesman?

Even if he’s getting high on his own supply.