Sunday, September 2, 2007


To continue yesterday's thoughts...

The web isn't quite a collective conscious, insomuch it isn't conscious (though monitors might give it that quality!), but it is a collective storehouse of our stories.

And I realized that's what we are in our heads, stories.

That movie, The Never Ending Story, had it that a story in a book came to life...the kid reading it entered the story.

And I think we have a hard time reconciling our stories with reality. We live in a realm of make believe.

I'm part of the American story, and Christian story, and of course my own personal story, and it's all a story, a story come to life.

The old tribes all had their own Genesis story, a story about where people came from. And there's the Bible's...and here the protestations begin insomuch as the faithful insist the Bible's story isn't just a story but the truth and real.

We're saturated with story telling!! Alias is on, a grim megalomania hunt.

Our stories interplay with reality. When the Israeli's took back the Wailing Wall, the soldiers broke into tears. This was because they were moved experiencing an episode in the story of Israel.
The Arabs have their story too.

At the end of WW2 a story was made that had the United Nations reigning in the nations conflicts. I dont know, it still may be unfolding. One of the first tellers of this story was Cordell Hull, and some others of the JFK cast.

JFK is a story, it weaves in and out of reality...

Sloan's getting the mind treatment, hallucinating under interrogation!

I thought a lot about this today, our dependency on story, on story telling, seeing ourselves in a story.

"All the world's a stage..."

It might be the trouble with Iraq and Afghanistan and the Middle East is that no one can come up with a good story for it all...

Seeing it all as an unfolding of an Armegeddon story, while it gives ideas for Hollywood, is grim. And the movies enfold back into our minds these stories and we role play with the expectation that reality is part of the story. The shaping of reality, building temples, bombing temples, is OUR doing, our acting out these stories inside our minds.

CNN last night with The Anivl of God doc. told a story. Reality happend, and is the source of ideas for the story, but the story isn't real. To use the story to make more "reality", more battles, leads to a loop, a back and forth zig zag between story and reality.

There's a movie about bird's migrating. Migration is their story, and each individual has it's own story. Great movie.

Each species has it's story. And they interplay with reality, which would be the passing seasons.

Our reality is no longer the fact, in the City's world, it's all story.

Grave's has this poem, To Juan at the Winter Solstice, which begins...

There is one story, and one story only...

The image of Geese migrating is a good fit for that, the migration as the one story.

I watched the Dirty Job episode again about the Yukon Geese!!
from As You Like It by Shakespeare...
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Tree in the Door
September 1, 2007

No comments: