on storytelling / by IKB

God is Idea; I am the Word becoming flesh. I am the killer in the story – I know the truth. I am better than this: I am both author and participant.

The Story revolves around me; without me, it ceases to be. I am the Fates, weaving, concocting: artful craftman.

On occasion, I reshuffle the patina of characters. Sometimes, from the recesses of my mind, hidden but not forgotten, I draw ancient characters. I attempt to understand each one, to decipher the motives for his behavior, ultimately: why? I am a species unto myself, I am what I said: Lógos becoming flesh. I am always becoming.

For the longes time, I was consumed with a single character; perhaps the most important one ever to exist in the Story. I wanted to understand him. I ached, convulsing in my own skin. I made myself physically sick, acquiring the symptoms, the aspect of a consumptive all but in name; subject without object. Finally, I sunk into deep depression.

I hid underneath some bed and vanished my mind in the syllabic gaps between the latter half of a whimsical strophe:

En la piscina vacía vive algún roedor
Y hay arbustos que asoman buscando el sol.

In the empty pool lives some rodent
And there are bushes peering over seeking the sun.

Fractured and spersed, the machine of thought was placated. Only thus was I deterred from contemplating the rodent; I was the bush peering for clarity, stretching my roots beyond breaking point.

Out of the obscurity of an endless stream of featureless faces, I pulled his forth and he came alive; his features instantiated. But ultimately, something went wrong and he had to sink back whence he came from but I was not ready to let go – I needed to understand.

With time, this most important of all characters lost everything: primarily his importance; secondarily, his humanity. Not even his acne-covered face, a horrid manifestation of his flaws and thus his humanity, could retain this last bit of essence. He was transformed into a name, a skeleton. Whatever bits of flesh hung to his moribund body quickly faded away.

Now, time and space as a divider, I understand I will never be able to understand. He is something altogether different – meaningless. To attempt to understand him is to attempt to understand nothingness: it is nonsensical.

I no longer care for understanding; he is a mere footnote in the Story. Likewise, all other characters, upon concluding their rôle and thus, exiting the stage, are reduced to footnotes – some are not even worthy of such a noble end.

Some characters disappear for extended periods of time and upon their return, we continue without a hiccup. It is all rather charming. With others, it is rather difficult. In the end, they do not play their part, struggling excessively to stand out and be memorable. Such histrionics simply leave me disgusted. I cannot endure it and I simply turn away. But then again, not all characters are possessed of quality; after all, I am still becoming, I am still learning.

In time, the art of storytelling is perfected and each story is superseded by a new one. Each previous story disgusts and one hopelessly looks forward, unto the next one. It will palliate the literary taste temporarily before it too is susceptible to imprecations.