Each person is a story. Graspable and ungraspable at the same time. Comprehensible, yet incomprehensible. As a person leaves this world, what is left is the impact they had on others; their story turning into other people’s stories. Still, with each person gone a story is lost, unless captured in memories, photos, films and books. Fragments of a life, pieced together. Analysis from people who most likely don’t understand. They create their own stories around the story. Still, that’s what makes it so beautiful – how we fuel our own fires with that of someone else’s. Yet, at the same time, it’s the tragedy as we will feed our own beliefs to the point of ridicule. Look at what happened in Germany, look at what’s happening with terrorism today. The religion at fault. The scapegoat.
Give me a word and I’ll write you a poem. I can even write you a story. I can write about anything. I can make up the unbelievable and believable. In high school I called certain discussions and essays “intellectual bullshitting.” I still do. I can take a quote or a novel and make up almost anything about what it means. I can weave it into a nice story and argue my point of view. You can debate anything if you really want to. I can look at things from different point of views and argue them; making up more arguments as I go along. Most people don’t. Most people look at it from their point of view; using the fabric of their life as a point of reference. Just like I do when I write poems and stories. I’ll write about anything you ask, but it’s still me. It’s different things I see. Different aspects of my life. And sometimes I like arguing the points I haven’t resolved myself, nor know if they are resolvable. By the end of the day we know very little. Life evolves and we with it. Today is not tomorrow, nor yesterday. Yet, I still believe we can learn from the stories of others.
Sometimes we find ourselves in stories too. Like I’ve said in previous blogs, artists connect us through their art. For a moment in a note, in a lyric, in a painting, in a choreography we find ourselves. A part of our world. And we feel connected to the artist. At the same time, we created our own story around the story. We connected with what we felt; not necessarily with what they meant.
And there he was this young boy…he was strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words… – The Fugees (One of my favorite lines of all time because it describes that moment of connection perfectly; in love and in art.)
The media writes stories all the time. It comes up with opinions of its own. I once read that because Oscar Pretorious once lied and once ended up in a pub brawl (or similar) where he shouted “I’ll kill you,” he was a murderer. I’m wondering how many people have lied and at one point shouted “I’ll kill you” in a fit of anger? I presume there are quite a few murderers in our midst if this is what makes you a murderer.
It’s rare to read articles about what we can learn from so and so conflict and how we can best resolve it. Experts are wired to talk about it from a certain angle. I’ve rarely ever heard someone scream “Yes, let’s get some immigrants and involve them in a project in our country whilst the war is on so that we all come out richer because of it.” Not sure that’s possible, my point is mainly that people tend to view situations from a certain angle (it’s a “crisis” not an “opportunity”) and therefore go about creating results based on their assumptions.
Collaborations across man made borders is a beautiful thing. It’s also rare. Because there are borders of beliefs. Of assumptions. Of trains of thought, religion and politics. But it’s possible. And stories help it become possible as they share our humanity with the world. Romeo wasn’t all that different from Juliet after all. The Capulets and the Montagues.
Stories to me is about how we see life. I tend to see mine as a tale; one where I can add magic by changing my point of view. I’ve also been known to make decisions based on how well it will suit the plot of my life. Adventure normally comes before sanity. Sometimes that leads to plot twists. Yet, at other times I’m so dedicated to my dreams I forget to live entirely, I just work and lose the plot with it…
Stories to me are also my life in so many other ways. I write them for others. I write them for myself. I have a passion for sharing people’s stories. I want to create products that create stories for people; give them an opportunity to enjoy the magic of a moment that was crafted for them. The story was written for them and they get to experience it. All products, in essence, are stories waiting to happen.
I just took a break from a very busy day to write this as I felt the need to write for me, not clients…and because the threads of a poem started coming to me as I was walking around doing some things round the cottage and I felt like taking five to write it down. You’ll find it below. And I could tell you what each line means. I could tell you what made me laugh about it. I could. Or you could just write your own story around it. Mine is my secret. Written in plain sight.
Good Morning Lover
He blew by on the wind
Chili mingled with salt
Spices calmed by yoghurt
Mildness and sweetness
Yet that undertone of hot sauce and fruity notes
Playful adventure; hot desire
You meet, you greet, you feel
You learn to taste them
See them for who they truly are
Discover their scent, layer by layer, until only the base notes remain
Yet they wouldn’t be the base without the heart and the top notes
Through the dust and the sweat; passion tangled in starched sheets
You search, yet you already know
You stand there half-drunk on possibility
Possibly scared of heartbreak
Like two souls semi-conscious at the dawn of eternity
As the sun cuts through the clouds
By Maria Montgomery
Image Source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/507780926715741047/