When the Storyteller Loses His Tale

This is a work in progress. It is by no means complete. Please forgive the rambling thoughts and incoherence. em

I can still feel the breeze tickling my face. My ears echo with the low, constant hum of the flat bottom rowboat cutting through the glass-like water. I can hear the metronomic rhythm of the oars breaking into and tearing through the water, so perfectly that an orchestra could keep time with their waving and beat. We are breaking the halfway point; the far side shore is now closer than the little gravel dock we used to launch the little, Army green vessel. The little trailer that has been our home for the past two nights now looks more like something from a Matchbox set than last night’s bed. From here the wildly verdant woodland, just inland the small, sandy beach looks tame, almost placid and inviting. But then, somewhere deep inside, I start to hear the beat. Boom…boom…boom-boom…boom…boom…boom-boom…boom…. The sounds of tribal drums, of frenzied, native tribesmen begin to fill me ears. As the bushes move and branches shift, I try in vain to blame it on the brisk gusts of wind that just ushered in the ominous clouds overhead. I remember the stories he told me the night before, the “bedtime” tales around the campfire. “Do you think they see us?” His voice pierces the nervous silence and cinches the vice grips that are already locked onto my stomach. As the oars continue to turn, the little dinghy creeps closer to the sand and rocks. “Turn around! Don’t take us to the shore!” My voices cracks in desperation, knowing what lurks in the shadows on the land ahead. And he knows. He was the one who told me about the frenetic natives on this side of the river. He thumped out their devilish drumbeat on the empty Maxwell House can. How can he not be afraid? How can he not be paralyzed by fear? But his arms keep rowing the oars with a methodical confidence. He rows with the confidence of one who knows that his imagination dictates our fate, that the final chapter of this saga is yet to be penned. He is the storyteller.


The story thief: Papa losing his story

Stories shape our existence, the determine the shape of our lives and create our reality of the world in which live.

Movies: Big Fish, The Notebook, The Matrix

Wedding rehearsal dinner and story sharing; Brian’s funeral and story sharing

Interweaving of stories (our with each other and with the Divine story through sharing and through ritual)