Stories from My Youth: Dedication
Dear Little Girl,
I know that you like to listen to stories, and so I wish not to disappoint you; but since I am not particularly imaginative or inventive, I can only satisfy your desires by telling you real stories - stories of my life. Sitting at the edge of my second decade, I feel that perhaps now it is a good time to look back at some of the things that happened to me: my triumphs, my failures, my pride, my shame...In short, all that contributed to mould the child into the Big Guy right now, right here, right before you (in print, of course). It is only by writing down the past that I can conquer the past - for what is written down cannot change, and one can only conquer a static idea. It is by overcoming the past that I can be in the present; it is by conquering the past that I know I will have a future.
But Little Girl! They are also for you, for as you fear (or shy away from, perhaps?) of telling me your past, you choose to listen instead; and so the stories are for you to listen to. As you listen you might hear echoes of my past in your memory. Memory is a weird thing - it hides in a corner and weeps, until consciousness drags it out of darkness and dances in it in the light of the present, only to be ushered back to its corner, by that mysterious hand of everyday forgetfulness. Memory can only weep once more, and it is not known when it shall dance again.
Give me your hand, Little Girl, and let me dance with you. Let us lead each other out of the past and into the present - I shall lead, and you follow; I shall tell, and you listen. As I bring to you my past, so may you gradually pull on the thin thread of fragments of memory, leading them out into the open air, then capturing them with your pen. Behold my past, and behold yous, and see how we parallel each other before we intersect at our dance...
Perhaps you might wonder why you are chosen to be the partner of our dance. To this wonder I have no reasonable answer. But reason is often overrated - it answers no fundamental questions. Do you recall the moment when our eyes met? There was tranquility in a room full of gestures, words and laughter. The gift of tranquility was what you gave me that day, and in return, I shall give you my past. But as yours is a simple prelude, so mine is a complex fugue. Preludes and fugues, Bach teaches, always go together.
And now, Little Girl, I shall unfold my past to you...
I know that you like to listen to stories, and so I wish not to disappoint you; but since I am not particularly imaginative or inventive, I can only satisfy your desires by telling you real stories - stories of my life. Sitting at the edge of my second decade, I feel that perhaps now it is a good time to look back at some of the things that happened to me: my triumphs, my failures, my pride, my shame...In short, all that contributed to mould the child into the Big Guy right now, right here, right before you (in print, of course). It is only by writing down the past that I can conquer the past - for what is written down cannot change, and one can only conquer a static idea. It is by overcoming the past that I can be in the present; it is by conquering the past that I know I will have a future.
But Little Girl! They are also for you, for as you fear (or shy away from, perhaps?) of telling me your past, you choose to listen instead; and so the stories are for you to listen to. As you listen you might hear echoes of my past in your memory. Memory is a weird thing - it hides in a corner and weeps, until consciousness drags it out of darkness and dances in it in the light of the present, only to be ushered back to its corner, by that mysterious hand of everyday forgetfulness. Memory can only weep once more, and it is not known when it shall dance again.
Give me your hand, Little Girl, and let me dance with you. Let us lead each other out of the past and into the present - I shall lead, and you follow; I shall tell, and you listen. As I bring to you my past, so may you gradually pull on the thin thread of fragments of memory, leading them out into the open air, then capturing them with your pen. Behold my past, and behold yous, and see how we parallel each other before we intersect at our dance...
Perhaps you might wonder why you are chosen to be the partner of our dance. To this wonder I have no reasonable answer. But reason is often overrated - it answers no fundamental questions. Do you recall the moment when our eyes met? There was tranquility in a room full of gestures, words and laughter. The gift of tranquility was what you gave me that day, and in return, I shall give you my past. But as yours is a simple prelude, so mine is a complex fugue. Preludes and fugues, Bach teaches, always go together.
And now, Little Girl, I shall unfold my past to you...
posted by Tristan at 1:05 p.m.
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