Stories & Soliloquies

Stories & Soliloquies
    • Tag: stories

      • The Magic of Santa Claus

        Posted at 3:00 pm by michellejoelle, on December 24, 2013

        In some ways, I never believed in Santa Claus. In other ways, I still think he’s as real.

        I figured out pretty early that it was impossible for Santa Claus, as a physical human being, to do all the things he was supposed to be able to do. I crafted every version of magical theory I could to try and make sense of it all, but I couldn’t come up with anything internally consistent enough to be satisfying. My parents agreed, and so the story in my house was that Santa used to be a real person who gave out presents, and parents then carried on the tradition in his name.

        Nothing was ruined for me. I had just as much fun imagining historical Santa Claus as I did magical Santa Claus, and I loved playing the game – I wrote letters knowing they would go to my parents, and I left them cookies too. I pretended I heard reindeer on the roof, and listened for my dad to shake the jingle bells I knew he had by his bedside. I was in on the joke, but it still worked for me. And I think, actually, that it still does. As an idea, Santa Claus carries more weight (no pun intended), depth, joy, and truth than he ever could as a “real” person bound to the particularities of lived experience.

        What it comes down to, really, is that Santa is magic, in the same way that linguistic concepts are inherently magic. Words are magic spells cast on our minds, calling up all sorts of ideas and connections and connotations without us having to move a mental muscle, allowing you to participate in an idea that goes far beyond any quantifiable or physical referent. Rousseau expresses this most clearly when he explains, in his Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, that concepts can only really exist in your mind as words or phrases. The reality of thought is purely linguistic:

        If you endeavour to trace in your mind the image of a tree in general, you never attain to your end. In spite of all you can do, you will have to see it as great or little, bare or leafy, light or dark, and were you capable of seeing nothing in it but what is common to all trees, it would no longer be like a tree at all.

        While this leads Rousseau to disdain the overtly philosophical for its total remove of the referent, I think there’s something more positive – something beautiful – at work here. The turn to the ideal concept is a turn to knowledge that goes beyond the limitations of your immediate surroundings, and lets you participate in something larger.

        To grab onto a general idea like “tree” lets you use that signifier to speak to anyone who also has that idea, whether the trees that are real for you have ever been real for your discussion partner. The physical, quantifiable things are only real for those who see it, while they are able to see it. Ideas marked by words and phrases can be real for everyone, everywhere, for all time – even if the linguistic marker shifts, it is still part of a larger network, wherein eventually, the word and the idea it represents meld together indecipherably, granting the power of the idea to the word by which it is signified.

        Says St. Augustine, in his dialogue De Magistro (The Teacher):

        To handle words with words is to interweave them like interlaced fingers: rubbing them together makes it hard to tell, except by each finger on its own, which is doing the itching and which the scratching.

        In this way, words pull you subconsciously into a network of knowledge and community and history without you ever having to think like a philologist. I think that images can do much the same thing, and have real power over the way we think and see the world. As ideas need not have a physical presence in order to be real, neither, I think do characters and stories. And so I believe in Santa Claus, because I believe in everything he represents – imagination, joy, giving, tradition, magic – and because I believe in images that let us hold so many ideas together in our minds at once without us having to break them down into disparate parts.

        And in this way the idea of Santa can become more real than just a collection of ideas held together under a jolly umbrella – it creates something new, something that can exist apart from the particularities of its inception and take a life of its own.

        That’s the reason I believe in ideas, in stories, in magic, and even in Santa Claus.

        Related articles
        • Why I believe in Santa Claus (chrismarkham.wordpress.com)
        • Why I still believe in Santa Claus (buncheslife.wordpress.com)
        • The Wonders and Physics of Santa Claus [Infographic] (infotainmentnews.net)
        Posted in Essays | 5 Comments | Tagged christmas, harry potter, language, Metaphysics, stories, words, writing
      • The Ephemerality of Gingerbread Houses

        Posted at 10:00 am by michellejoelle, on December 16, 2013

        One of the things I love about stories – particularly myths – is that they can grow inside your mind. They’re expansive and engulfing, leaping off the page and turning into something full and exciting as you put them into your mind. Writing lets me take that experience and leave behind a record can reawaken that story if ever it goes dormant.

        But there are lots of experiences for which this isn’t so easy. You can’t really capture the experience of a live performance in a recording. You’ll watch it later or look at photos and it won’t be the same. You can remember the ephemeral experience of a particular dance, the delivery of a line, or a moment of harmonization, but you’ll be grasping after a fading image, elated for a while, but eventually, mourning its loss. It’s not impossible to keep a hold on it, but it’s harder.

        These experiences can be hyperbolic and transcendent precisely because they are so brief. Like the flash of colorful foliage that makes autumn so delightful, like sandcastles doomed to wash out to sea, and like dancing to a live band, these experiences burn a little brighter for their ephemerality. They demand that your full attention be given the moment, because there’s no coming back to it another time. Feel this now, they whisper, holding your mind as you try desperately to take in as much of the moment you can.

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        The past two years, my husband and I have made Gingerbread houses for the Christmas season. The first year, we spent hours of time over the course of several days over the course of two weeks designing, baking, shopping, decorating, constructing, and landscaping. There were long sessions of doing geometry, most of which was abandoned when we realized that gingerbread doesn’t bake to precision, visits and revisits to multiple candy stores, and moments of agony when the pretzel reindeer I’d been holding for an hour while it dried crashed to the floor and I had to start over.

        And then, after just a month or so of enjoying this incredible labor of love, we dumped it in the trash. Gingerbread houses don’t last forever, and it’s devastating to see them go. All that careful construction, the hours of placing individual strands of shredded wheat to fill out the thatched roof, the starburst masonry, all gone in an instant of post-holiday cleaning.

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        It was worth every minute. The limitations of the material are freeing because the constraints force me to be more creative as I make it, and more unrestrained in my experience of it.

        I think this is the case for all ephemeral arts. They don’t just shine brighter because they’re about to flame out, they shine brighter because we see them more generously. We have to. If we don’t drop our filters and open ourselves wholly to them, they won’t take hold of us, and we’ll miss them when they fade.

        This includes snowmen, too.

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        They really don’t last. 🙂

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        Related articles
        • These museums are actually unbelievable gingerbread houses (jeremiahtillman.wordpress.com)
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        Posted in Essays | 9 Comments | Tagged christmas, crafts, ephemerality, gingerbread houses, stories
      • It All Comes Back to Stories

        Posted at 1:00 pm by michellejoelle, on November 22, 2013

        The writer of the blog Standing Ovation, Seated, username artmoscow, has a gift for seeing stories in paintings and explaining how the nonverbal elements of the painting really speak to a viewer. I’ve learned a lot from reading his recent blog posts and also combing the archives.

        People like to say that art can mean anything, and that every interpretation is valid, and that’s sort of true. But as much as art is open to interpretation, there’s also a guiding structure that at the very least narrows the path. Though the path might lead anywhere, there’s still a defined path, whether that path is straight and marked with boundaries and guardrails, or whether it is overgrown and meandering, or teetering on the edge of a cliff. There’s a story there, and that’s why art speaks to us, even if we don’t take the time to puzzle it out.

        Stories crop up in a lot of places that we don’t expect – in a painting or photograph, in a song, or even in a well planned meal. With Thanksgiving coming up, I can’t help but think of the non-verbal associations that food calls forth in a rush a of flavor and warmth. Even though we supply much of the content that is evoked, the signposts given by the artistry of the work tap into different memories and tell our minds what to call up. There’s a story there, and we’re able to write it around the emotional content the artwork conveys, and find meaning.

        But when it comes to work that leads with a verbal expression of its meaning, however, we still try to figure out how to make it into a story, coming back from the message so that we can figure out the emotional content underneath. We take a precise explanation of a concept and say to ourselves, once again: yes, but what does this mean to me?

        My day job is teaching and studying philosophy. Even though a great number of the texts I teach openly state their message, explaining what the message means to us nearly always comes down to effective story-telling. Plato tackles this idea in his Republic; Socrates begins by laying the concepts out for his interlocutors plainly – and none of them really seem to get it. So he pedals back a bit, using models to make his concepts less conceptual, and then he pedals back again until the Republic dissolves into allegory, and even open fictions about the message. It’s weirdly clearer that way. Socrates ironically delves deeper and deeper into the cave as he’s trying to lead us out. It is inevitable; story is the lens through which we finite humans, trapped in the linear experience of our own subjective narratives, see the world.

        Posted in Essays | 0 Comments | Tagged art, artmoscow, Augustine, jamie wallace, philosophy, Plato, stories
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