{"id":21128,"date":"2019-05-24T06:24:38","date_gmt":"2019-05-24T10:24:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=21128"},"modified":"2019-05-24T06:26:18","modified_gmt":"2019-05-24T10:26:18","slug":"inside-stories","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2019\/05\/inside-stories\/","title":{"rendered":"Inside Stories"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Iimage:<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Stories,” by Elias Ruiz Monserrat on Flickr<\/a>. (Used here under a Creative Commons license; thank you!)]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

But what we call a “self” is actually just a story about our experience of life. And we construct the story because we’re trying to give some order to what is actually a remarkably chaotic process. And then we get seduced by the seeming consistency of the story that we’ve constructed, and instead of just relating directly to our experience, we try to relate to our experience in terms of the story.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ken McLeod [source: numerous citations around the Web, none canonical<\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Just see, nothing is actually touching you when you just observe, when you don’t say “this should not be.” Pay attention to this wonderful power in you. Just witness without judgment, interference or attachment. Give it a chance.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mooji [source: numerous citations around the Web, none canonical<\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

One Source of Bad Information<\/strong><\/p>\n

There’s a boy in you about three
\nYears old who hasn’t learned a thing for thirty
\nThousand years. Sometimes it’s a girl.<\/p>\n

This child had to make up its mind
\nHow to save you from death. He said things like:
\n“Stay home. Avoid elevators. Eat only elk.”<\/p>\n

You live with this child, but you don’t know it.
\nYou’re in the office, yes, but live with this boy
\nAt night. He’s uninformed, but he does want<\/p>\n

To save your life. And he has. Because of this boy
\nYou survived a lot. He’s got six big ideas.
\nFive don’t work. Right now he’s repeating them to you.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Robert Bly [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Talking among Ourselves<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the rental cottage it comes to me,
\nhow the four lives of myself
\nand my brothers
\ncrisscross
\nlike tracer bullets,
\nand how, from a distance maybe,
\nif you had the right kind of glasses,
\nthere might appear to be a target
\nwe all were aiming at
\nbeyond that black escutcheon of cloud
\nabove Santa Rosa Bay
\nas we lie on the deck
\ndrinking tequila and beer,
\nour voices growing vague and weary
\nas time passes, until one of us
\ntells a story, more cordial than precise,
\nabout climbing to the top of a magnolia tree
\nwhen he was ten, and falling. The rest of us
\ndraw closer around the story
\nas we watch the great flattened cloud
\nraise its triangular wing
\nover the state of Florida. It is night
\nin Florida
\nand, in a moment, one of us will recall
\nthe time our father, in a gray suit,
\nclimbed the steps of an airliner
\nbound for Paris
\nand never came back. And one, or another,
\nwill tell how our mother, more blond
\nand beautiful than ever
\nthat spring, said,
\nYou must now be soldiers,
\nand screamed and screamed. We will each
\nraise his head
\nand stare for a moment through the lighted gate
\nof the living room window
\nat our wives,
\nwho are putting away the last of the supper dishes,
\nspeaking among themselves
\nwith the easy familiarity of women
\nwhose husbands
\nare brothers. And one of us will begin so sing
\nan old song
\nthat our father sang
\nbefore he went away, a song
\nabout losing a fair woman
\nin the foggy, foggy dew,
\nand as the late chill rises off the bay
\nwe will all remember
\nwhat we thought as children
\nwhen we heard him sing of the woman
\nwho was not, and never could have been,
\nour mother
\nand of how an emptiness,
\nbigger than an ocean,
\nopened inside us, and one of us
\nwill say, I think it is going to rain,
\nand we will get up
\nand go back inside.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Charlie Smith [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Only Child<\/strong><\/p>\n

I never wished for a sibling, boy or girl.
\nCenter of the universe,
\nI had the back of my parents’ car
\nall to myself. I could look out one window
\nthen slide over to the other window
\nwithout any quibbling over territorial rights,
\nand whenever I played a game
\non the floor of my bedroom, it was always my turn.<\/p>\n

Not until my parents entered their 90s
\ndid I long for a sister, a nurse I named Mary,
\nwho worked in a hospital
\nfive minutes away from their house
\nand who would drop everything,
\neven a thermometer, whenever I called.
\n“Be there in a jiff” and “On my way!”
\nwere two of her favorite expressions, and mine.<\/p>\n

And now that the parents are dead,
\nI wish I could meet Mary for coffee
\nevery now and then at that Italian place
\nwith the blue awning where we would sit
\nand reminisce, even on rainy days.
\nI would gaze into her green eyes
\nand see my parents, my mother looking out
\nof Mary’s right eye and my father staring out of her left,<\/p>\n

which would remind me of what an odd duck
\nI was as a child, a little prince and a loner,
\nwho would break off from his gang of friends
\non a Saturday and find a hedge to hide behind.
\nAnd I would tell Mary about all that, too,
\nand never embarrass her by asking about
\nher nonexistence, and maybe we
\nwould have another espresso and a pastry
\nand I would always pay the bill and walk her home.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Billy Collins [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Stories,” by Elias Ruiz Monserrat on Flickr. (Used here under a Creative Commons license; thank you!)] From whiskey river: But what we call a “self” is actually just a story about our experience of life. And we construct the story because we’re trying to give some order to what is actually a remarkably chaotic […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":21134,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Billy Collins, Robert Bly, et al,: stories for an audience of one ('Inside Stories')","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,5,251,4159],"tags":[1141,1395,4915,4920,4921,4922],"class_list":{"0":"post-21128","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"category-essays","12":"tag-billy-collins","13":"tag-robert-bly","14":"tag-ken-mcleod","15":"tag-charlie-smith","16":"tag-mooji","17":"tag-stories-for-an-audience-of-one","18":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/05\/stories_eliasruizmonserrat_thumb.jpg?fit=500%2C313&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5uM","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21128","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21128"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21128\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21133,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21128\/revisions\/21133"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21134"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21128"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21128"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21128"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}