Rendered Fat Content


You inspire me but that’s only your birthright and my responsibility.

We become our stories. Once we disappear, after we’ve gone, when we’ve left behind all the sacred possibilities every breath brings, we become our stories. Speak mindfully of nothing else. The facts don’t matter; the most terrible turmoil merely grist for this mill. We will each become the stories we tell.

They become the stories they heard. Not all of anyone, no, but some of who each of us become, while more than the simple sum of any explanation, certainly involves these parts which started by accumulating stories until subsumed into them, blended into the ones others owned themselves.

One dabbles at first with fiction. Resolving the friction between existence and possibility, we choose to expand how it really, truly was; just a little fuzz on the peach that seems otherwise out of the reach of such small hands. Otherwise, adventure might have slipped by without ever once falling within anyone’s grasp: the past merely past; the future beyond anyone.

We teach each other, praying the facts won’t unduly encumber our experience, hoping each plot might resolve. None will. We entangle ourselves enabling ourselves with the stories we tell, and we tell them well whether we master words or not. We will have forgotten half the lyrics by the time it comes time to sing and we’ll still bring more blessing than we could have ever intended, blending live action with long ago experienced play. Today we tell so tomorrow and then forever after might themselves tell, reliving our own brief adventures here.

The books become bookmarks, points of reference and punctuation along an infinite shelf. That shelf itself remains eternally indifferent, merely present, there to retain. With so many stories, their sources seemingly so tangled, we might perceive ourselves irrelevant, indistinguishable from some of the less notable spaces in between, but only this notion ever qualifies as genuinely obscene. We might not have been seen passing by, but each of us were most certainly heard.

Not one of has ever once experienced being heard. That pointy end minds it’s own business out there, finding its own targets; skewering some, leaving others unscathed. Sometimes even I have been afraid nobody heard a single damned thing I said. No one can ever properly insist that anyone listen or anyone hear, but let me be clear, none of us are here to merely listen and absorb, but that constitutes much of our work.

We are here to tell our stories, some of which might even be our own. We plagiarize freely hoping they might so bless us in return. Our voices never solely our own, we echo up and down the ages in pretty much everything we say. Then one day they will say we went away, betraying their innocence when they say it; resurrecting what they say is gone in the very grieving songs they sing.

We each arrive destined to become our stories—thrilling or boring, convoluted or clear. We heard no more than half of what anyone ever said without knowing that’s more than enough to preserve most of what they meant to say. Our actions once seemed to speak much louder than our words but those words, so casually tossed into indifferent winds, extended beyond that realm and into a welcoming if infinite narrative where we have a speaking part in plays staged beyond this place.

We become our stories.

©2015 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

blog comments powered by Disqus

Made in RapidWeaver