The Pirates of Lore

Or, Talking Is Throwing Fictional Worlds at One Another

"The real treasure we've been hunting is lore.

"Folktales, stories, songs, spells. . . somewhere in there, in all those sacred teachings and trickster stories and barroom waltzes and murder ballads and lullabies and love songs, there's an answer."

(Source below.)

I love a section of this interview with a linguist at Nautilus:

Talking Is Throwing Fictional Worlds at One Another

I wanted to take people’s minds away from this notion of grammar as something dry and boring, and something that people get told at school, and convey this fact that combining words into sentences is a wonder. It’s a marvelous aspect of our human universe. It takes us as finite beings and gives us almost infinite capacity to create new worlds of imagination. . . . 

You write that language, like fiction, creates meaning where none existed before. Have you ever thought that when we talk to each other, we’re just throwing fictional worlds at one another?

I totally think that’s what we’re doing! This goes back to what the limits of humans are. Our own internal worlds are what we represent and think about the external world. They’re probably all wrong to start with, and then we try and link those fictions with other people’s fictions. I think most of our interaction is an attempt to align the fictions that we build to be able to survive in the world. And this goes back to culture wars. People have different fictions of the world and sometimes they are pretty brutally out of alignment. Like now. And that’s quite terrifying, right?

So how do people understand each other?

Our languages allow us to both create these new ways of thinking and to maintain the ways of thinking we’ve already built. So there’s another paradox there, which is that language maintains as well as creates. But then our individual worlds can be distinct. And trying to pull them into cohesion with other people is a huge amount of work.

It reminds me of something I wrote in Imagination: Not Just for Kids in response to a description of children's imaginative play as a constant negotiation of the rules of their shared play:

And, really, in a very broad sense, isn't this what we're doing when we discuss politics and religion, when we gossip and spread rumors, when we create mission and vision statements for our workplaces, when we try to figure out how to live with one another as neighbors and define ourselves as communities--aren't we really just negotiating the rules of our shared games and trying to find groups to be part of whose styles match our own?  How we define reality is up to all of us to figure out together, and it happens in the interplay between us.

So much of what we consider "reality" is really intersubjective beliefs we've come to agree on.

Or, as Jandy Nelson puts it:

I might be the author of my own story, but so is everyone else the author of their own stories, and sometimes, like now, there’s no overlap. . . . We need to start a new philosophical movement: messessentialism instead of existentialism: For those who revel in the essential mess that is life. Because Gram’s right, there’s not one truth ever, just a whole bunch of stories, all going on at once, in our heads, in our hearts, all getting in the way of each other. It’s all a beautiful calamitous mess.

From The Sky Is Everywhere.

On a lighter but related note, here are a couple of things I've posted to Facebook in the past week.

First, I created a status that simply read:

Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!

Then immediately added as a comment:

The thing I love about sharing that status is it could be interpreted as a long sigh of relief and relaxation, a scream of existential horror, or any number of other things. You, the reader, get to decide.

And this meme came across my feed a few times:

Instead of identifying with one or the other, though, I wrote:

Ah, see, but I don't want to specialize, but remain a generalist who does both. Who is both. Which is probably why I remain an enigma for many. Embrace contradiction and paradox.

Messessentialism.

Speaking of the "fictional" nature of language, all words are "made up" at some point. This just came across my feed:

as someone who studies linguistics, i will never not laugh when someone says "that word doesn't exist" like, my good bitch. if a word is regularly used by a certain amount of people then it exists. if it has its own grammatical rules then its perfectly valid. it's part of their lexicon now, sweetie. "It's a made up word" honey, all words are made up. Linguists didn't just fucking excavate athens and were like BEHOLD!!! VOCABULARY!! "that word isn't in the dictionary" dictionaries are not rule books, they're record books. "Refrigerate" didn't exist 200 years ago and yet here we are. a language that doesn't adapt to an ever changing society is bound to be lost because, eventually, it won't be able to keep up with social progress. you motherfuckers.

It reminds me of this quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson:

The poets made all the words, and therefore language is the archives of history, and, if we must say it, a sort of tomb of the muses. For, though the origin of most of our words is forgotten, each word was at first a stroke of genius, and obtained currency, because for the moment it symbolized the world to the first speaker and to the hearer. The etymologist finds the deadest word to have been once a brilliant picture. Language is fossil poetry. As the limestone of the continent consists of infinite masses of the shells of animalcules, so language is made up of images, or tropes, which now, in their secondary use, have long ceased to remind us of their poetic origin. But the poet names the thing because he sees it, or comes one step nearer to it than any other.

Language is fossil poetry.

(See also: A Glossary of Enchantment.)

As to the hunting of lore, I've long considered myself a seeker. The quote above comes from Ballad & Dagger (Outlaw Saints, #1) by Daniel José Older. Of the book, I wrote

What a wonderful place Daniel Jose Older has created. A place, a people, a culture, a community. The mythical Caribbean Island of San Madrigal, founded by an odd shipwrecked trio, a pirate captain, a Jewish rabbi, and a priest of Santería. Traditions mixed, merged, and clashed for centuries, then, 15 years ago, the island sank into the ocean and the community took refuge in the heart of New York City.

Now something is stirring in that diaspora neighborhood, centered on the the teens who were carried away from catastrophe as babies. A stirring that turns into a swirl of music, passion, culture, spirits, gods, monsters, and secrets, colorful and loving and hateful and so much more. In the middle of it all is Mateo, a somewhat shy, awkward musician just trying to find his way who learns he is much more connected to the swirl than he ever imagined.

It's an exciting story full of action, conflict, suspense, and discovery. Its heart is the wonderful community that surrounds, nurtures, and follows Mateo over the course of his tale.

And here's more context for the quote:

He leans forward, smiling slightly. "Do y'all know what I do, exactly?"

Tams doesn't miss a beat. "You want the real answer, or the polite one?"

It's a gamble, man, but Tolo immediately slams one thick hand on his desk and busts out laughing. Whew. "I like her," he says. "But please, do not be polite with me. Not now, not ever. I'm a pirate, man, come on."

"Well," Maza says, "word on the street is you came up as a smuggler under your dad and that's how you made your fortune, and now you run his old crew."

He nods, appraising the info thoughtfully. "And what do they say I smuggle?"

Tams shrugs. "We always figured it was the usual stuff--guns and drugs and whatnot."

Tolo flicks the notion away with a shrug and a swipe of his palm. "I mean, sure, in the beginning. But that gets boring pretty quick, you know."

We don't, but it's not a question.

"I heard," Maza says, "you have crews all over the world hunting ancient treasures and then selling them off on the black market"

He nods, serious now. "Mm, that's part of it, yes. Some people invest in stocks; we invest in . . . long-lost treasures, as you say. But for these past fifteen years, ever since the day of the catastrophe . . . " He raises his eyebrows, eyes far away, voice trailing to nothing. Then he shakes it off. "The real treasure my father and now I have been hunting is lore."

I think we all blink at him at the same time.

"Folktales, stories, songs, spells. . . A lot of cultures make up who we are. Not just the Santeros, Sefaradim, and pirates they always talk about. Taínos and Arawaks came through to trade, some started families. Plus, all kinds of folks trying to get away from the law or the various empires all over the Caribbean. For a while, we had crews going out to take down slave ships, and many newly freed people would stay, so cultures from different parts of West Africa. Plus, Jews would regularly pop up, escaping one pogrom or another in different parts of Europe."

"Wow . . . " I say. I knew other cultures were mixed in; I'd just never thought about the extent of it.

"And all brought traditions with them, their myths and monsters, and those became part of who we are. Our own mythology is gigantic, spans centuries. And somewhere in there, in all those sacred teachings and trickster stories and barroom waltzes and murder ballads and lullabies and love songs, there's an answer. There's a reason our homeland sank, and if there's a reason it sank, there's a way to bring it back. I think we're close. But there's a lot we still don't know. One thing we know is that we need to find that third initiated child, the one made to San Madrigal herself."

I've always felt my goal was to become a lore master, but perhaps a lore pirate would be better. Or both.

Since life is a mess of competing stories, the rest of this post will be as well. First, a couple about my children (ages 7 and 9):

[Older] has it all figured out. For years he's said he's not going to have kids because they're too much work, just be the fun uncle for (7-year-old) [Younger]'s kids. Tonight he said something about how Mom and Dad will always have to take care of him.

"Eventually that reverses," I said.

"You can take care of yourself. You get wiser as you get older, you know. Besides, there's such a thing as nursing homes."

He's already plotting to get rid of us to preserve his leisurely, self-centered lifestyle.

[Younger]'s commentary as we served the cake for our family anniversary celebration yesterday: "Ugh, why did it have to be lemon? Lemon is my least favorite kind of cake. Why did you give me a slice--I told you I don't like lemon. No, I'm not going to try a bite to see if I like--Hey! [Older]'s slice is bigger than mine? How come he gets a bigger piece than I do. . . . [eventually] Can I have more? [Older] got more than I did."

Also, at bedtime last night [Younger] decided he wanted to give us a treat for our anniversary, so he made us lemonade. Went into the kitchen and did it all on his own initiative; wouldn't let us come in so it would be a surprised. He found a portable coffee cup to give us as a pitcher and brought it with two fancy glasses (from our wedding). He wanted to make sure it was extra sweet for us, as you can tell by all the sugar sludge at the bottom of my glass.

And a mini "story" I wrote yesterday to accompany these pictures:

Looking back, I realize I didn't feel the awe I normally would during a close encounter with a creature of the wild.

I was walking around the park behind work, trying to soak in the vague hints of wilderness that remain around the edges of the domestication. I noticed a pattern that didn't blend, the vegetation too sparse for the camouflage to work as intended. A bird, I realized. A very large bird. Round, like an owl, but colored like a hawk. It was a very large hawk, I determined.

Figuring it would fly off before I could get close, I pulled out my phone and started a video recording to chronicle its inevitable flight. I slowly approached. And approached. And approached. The bird sat still. I never expected to get so close, but I did.

Finally, I stopped recording and just watched. It watched me back, sometimes with one eye, sometimes both. The head was the only part of the hawk that moved. It didn't seem alarmed or even especially alert. Just stoic. That seemed wrong. Its shape was on the round side, not sleek. A bit puffy. Ruffled. Under the ruffled puff, I could see only one talon. It was standing, still and steady, but on only one leg. I saw no sign of the other. The hidden or missing leg, the ruffled appearance, the lack of flight--all pieces that left me puzzled. Any awe I might have felt was subsumed by curiosity and sense that something wasn't quite right.

I watched a bit longer, shuffled a few steps to the side for a different angle; nothing changed. Eventually I wandered on my way, wondering--even as I knew it wasn't realistic--if I should come back with a container of water and some kind of food. On my return some while later the hawk remained as I passed it again, still, stoic, and stationary.

I was recently asked at work to participate in an after-school event at one of our local elementary schools. They wanted to base it on the STEAM acronym (Science Technology Engineering Arts Math), with one activity for each subject. I chose Arts, and had the students do Story Creation. To help me articulate and solidify my thoughts in preparation, I wrote myself the following story about how to tell a story:

Introduction – Say some version of the following . . . 

From a very young age, my son loved trains. We got him wooden train sets to play with. He would spend hours building tracks and chugging his trains along them. But even from a very young age, before he could talk, building and chugging wasn’t enough. After trying out his tracks a time or two, he would choose to cause some kind of break in the track. The next time his train went through that section of its journey, there would be issues. “Uh-oh, crash!” he would say with his limited language.

Why did he do that? Because even before we’re two years old, we know what makes a good story: a conflict. A problem. Something to solve. “The train went around the tracks.” That’s a story, but a very boring one. It’s much more interesting if the story is:

“The train started down the tracks. Little did the engineer know that flooding earlier in the week had washed away a section of the track. He careened toward that normally safe spot, only to crash. He radioed for help. A crane arrived to lift the train back onto the rails. Smaller cranes reloaded the freight, and an engineering crew repaired the damage to the train. A different crew shored up the ground and rebuilt the track. Finally, after a monumental delay, the train was able to complete its journey.”

That’s a much more exciting story. It made the play much more fun for my young son. He didn’t have the language or concepts to describe his play the way I just did, but a version of that story was being told in his head as his hands and body acted it out. It’s what he meant when he said, “Uh-oh, crash!”

Stories can take many forms and they surround us constantly. Just as with my young son, every time you play there is a story in your head describing what you’re doing. The television announcers during a football or basketball or soccer game are there to tell a story about what is taking place between the athletes. “I’m stuck in my room because my mom is mean” is a story you might tell yourself or friends. We don’t usually realize we’re telling stories, but we are. All the time.

Then there are the more formal, recognized forms of stories. Storytellers perform their stories for others. Authors write stories down. Artists illustrate them. Actors play them out. Musicians sing them. It’s what artists of all types do, find different ways to tell stories. Books, movies, music. Video games and board games. We are made of stories, depend on them to entertain ourselves, and use them to explain the world.

For today’s activity, I want to help you start a story. Given our time and space limitations, we’re going to get a story idea on paper. Make notes, write something, draw a few sketches. How you end up finally telling that story later—with writing, drawing, video, play, etc.—will be up to you to determine eventually. For now, we’ll use pencils and paper.

Here’s where we’re going to start, by determining a few elements of your story:

• Who is the story about?
• What does that character want or need?
• Who or what stands in the way of that goal?
• Where and when does the story take place?

Protagonist:

Who is the story about? Who is your main character? AND what is that person like? Describe them a little bit. What do they like, dislike? What’s their personality—quiet, loud, athletic, studious, creative, etc? What do they look like? Do they have family, friends? Hobbies and interests?

• The young steam engine had a shiny new coat of blue paint. He’d never left the trainyard without an adult, and was eager to show his parents he was ready. He was hitched to four freight cars and an old, red caboose.

Goal:

What does your character want or need? Something they don’t have now, a goal to achieve.

• To make a new friend.
• To get through practice without being laughed at.
• To survive the plane crash and get back home.
• To save the city from rampaging villains.
• To win the race.
• To embarrass their brother.
• To solve a mystery.
• To make enough money to buy a new bike.
• To become a ninja master.

Why do they want or need that? Why don’t they have it already? Who are they that this is something important to them?

• The young, blue steam engine was hitched to his train and loaded with freight, eager to show his parents he was ready. It was his first delivery, and he was determined to get everything to the right destination by the deadline. He was sure he could. Then his parents would be proud, and he would be able to venture beyond the trainyard whenever he wanted.

Conflict:

Who or what stands in the way of your character getting what they want? What are the obstacles? What makes it difficult? What is the conflict? You might love your character, but you need to make things difficult for them if the story’s to be interesting. You have to make them suffer a bit. This can be something external (caused by events or others) or internal (caused by the character). Many stories have multiple obstacles.

• A natural disaster.
• A lack of money.
• Difficult parents or teachers or adults with authority.
• Bullies.
• Moving to a new home and school.
• Friends drifting apart.
• Change in family circumstances.
• Villains or thieves or a dark lord (and minions) or an evil nemesis – “bad guys.”
• An accident or bad decision that has gotten the character into trouble.
• A habit of lying that everyone’s aware of, so no one will be the character’s friend and they are lonely.
• A bad temper and a mean streak.
• Lack of ongoing railroad maintenance combined with exceptionally heavy rain that washed away a section of track, unknown to the engine, straight in his lumbering path.

Setting:

Where is this story taking place & When does it happen? What is the setting? At what point in time (past, present, future)? Is it someplace real or imaginary? How can you describe the setting? How does it define the main character—give them culture, beliefs, and values; make them feel included or excluded; determine their wants and needs? What kinds of obstacles does the setting create?

• At home.
• At school.
• Around the neighborhood.
• In a city.
• In the country.
• In the wild.
• In space.
• In a castle, and in some caves, and on a great journey across the land.
• The train must take freight from one city to the next, deliver its load, get a new one, and return home. He travels across some winding hills and forest, with curves and trees that hide much of the track ahead until it is too late to stop.

A protagonist, the who.

A goal, the why.

A conflict, the uh-oh.

And a setting, the where and when.

Your mission today is to get those elements determined at at least a basic level. If you get that done and still have time, you can start making the elements more detailed or you can start working out the plot of you story, the what happens when.

I then needed to shorten and simplify for my presentation, but that got me started.

 

I find some truth in this, though I usually refer to the idea as "don't sweat the small stuff" and "pick your battles."

Indifference Is a Power

*As legions of warriors and prisoners can attest, Stoicism is not grim resolve but a way to wrest happiness from adversity*

The truth is, indifference really is a power, selectively applied, and living in such a way is not only eminently possible, with a conscious adoption of certain attitudes, but facilitates a freer, more expansive, more adventurous mode of living. Joy and grief are still there, along with all the other emotions, but they are tempered – and, in their temperance, they are less tyrannical. . . . 

the Urban Dictionary. Check out what this crowdsourced online reference to slang gives as the definition of a ‘stoic’:

stoic

Someone who does not give a shit about the stupid things in this world that most people care so much about. Stoics do have emotions, but only for the things in this world that really matter. They are the most real people alive.

Group of kids are sitting on a porch. Stoic walks by.

Kid – ‘Hey man, yur a fuckin faggot an you suck cock!’

Stoic – ‘Good for you.’

Keeps going. . . . 

What the whole thing comes down to, distilled to its briefest essence, is making the choice that choice is really all we have, and that all else is not worth considering. . . . 

Any misfortune ‘that lies outside the sphere of choice’ should be considered an opportunity to strengthen our resolve, not an excuse to weaken it. This is one of the truly great mind-hacks ever devised, this willingness to convert adversity to opportunity . . . 

By keeping the very worst that can happen in our heads constantly, the Stoics tell us, we immunise ourselves from the dangers of too much so-called ‘positive thinking’, a product of the mind that believes a realistic accounting of the world can lead only to despair. Only by envisioning the bad can we truly appreciate the good; gratitude does not arrive when we take things for granted. It’s precisely this gratitude that leaves us content to cede control of what the world has already removed from our control anyway. . . . 

 . . . had read the Stoics in his youth and used to prescribe to his patients Epictetus’s maxim that ‘People are disturbed not by things but by their view of things.’ ‘That’s actually the “cognitive model of emotion” in a nutshell,’ . . . 

I don't think I'm anywhere near a real philosophical stoic, but the older I get the more I lean that direction.

Here are some similar stories that have recently come across my feed:

There is no such thing as a self-made man. Every businessman has used the vast American infrastructure, which the taxpayers paid for, to make his money.

 - George Lakoff (on Facebook)

He led the image with this:

The private depends on the public. Taxation is what you pay to live in a civilized country—what you pay to have democracy and opportunity, and what you pay to use the infrastructure paid for by previous taxpayers: the highway system, the Internet, the entire scientific establishment, the medical establishment, the communications system, the airline system. All are or were paid for by taxpayers.

Related, one local and one national:

• Kansas City Schools Missed Out on $45 Million Last Year Due to Tax Breaks for Developers
• Treasury Department Study: White People Get 90 Percent of the Benefits of Many Tax Breaks

And I like this thought that Farnam Street shared on Facebook:

"Marshall Goldsmith on the number one problem with leaders."

You have to learn to quit being right all the time, quit being smart all the time, and quit thinking this is a contest about how smart you are and how right you are and realize that I'm here to make a positive difference in the world. And me being smart and me being right is probably no longer the way to do that . . .

We are programmed to prove we're smart, and it's hard to stop . . . 

What's the number one problem of all the successful people you've coached over the years? My answer, winning too much.

 - Marshall Goldsmith, Episode 142

Don't try to "win" or be right; simply pay attention to all the stories.

Finally, some poetry. The two books that I checked out from the library the other day seemed to make a haiku.  

The world keeps ending,

and the world goes on.

Unstoppable us.

More earnestly, I've already sporadically shared a number of selections from the book The Path to Kindness: Poems of Connection and Joy edited by James Crews, as I've only very gradually read through it. I just finished. Here are a few selections from the second half I really enjoyed.

This is an excellent guidepost.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

THE QUESTION

for Jude Janett

All day, I replay these words:

Is this the path of love?

I think of them as I rise, as

I wake my children, as I wash dishes,

as I drive too close behind the slow

blue Subaru, Is this the path of love?

Think of these words as I stand in line

at the grocery store,

think of them as I sit on the couch

with my daughter. Amazing how

quickly six words become compass,

the new lens through which to see myself

in the world. I notice what the question is not.

Not, “Is this right?” Not,

“Is this wrong?” It just longs to know

how the action of existence

links us to the path to love.

And is it this? Is it this? All day,

I let myself be led by the question.

All day I let myself not be too certain

of the answer. Is it this? I ask as I

argue with my son. Is it this? I ask

as I wait for the next word to come.

Somewhat related. I think it speaks to the wisdom of age, in addition to other things.

Naomi Shihab Nye

KINDNESS

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness

you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

it is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you everywhere

like a shadow or a friend.

Again, somewhat related.

Patricia McKernon Runkle

WHEN YOU MEET SOMEONE DEEP IN GRIEF

Slip off your needs

and set them by the door.

Enter barefoot

this darkened chapel

hollowed by loss

hallowed by sorrow

its gray stone walls

and floor.

You, congregation

of one

are here to listen

not to sing.

Kneel in the back pew.

Make no sound,

let the candles

speak.

I think this one speaks more to that hidden answer that lies inside all the lore we seek.

Brad Aaron Modlin

WHAT YOU MISSED THAT DAY YOU WERE ABSENT FROM FOURTH GRADE

Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen

to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,

how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took

questions on how not to feel lost in the dark.

After lunch she distributed worksheets

that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s

voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep

without feeling you had forgotten to do something else—

something important—and how to believe

the house you wake in is your home. This prompted

Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing

how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks,

and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts

are all you hear; also, that you have enough.

The English lesson was that I am

is a complete sentence.

And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation look easy.

The one that proves that hundreds of questions,

and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking

for whatever it was you lost, and one person

add up to something.

It contains much secret wisdom.

Finally, one from a different source with a different secret.

CooXooEii Black

MY UNCLE TEACHES ME ABOUT PRAYER

the early blue-sky bird sings

and in my half-sleep i say

hohou!

my uncle taught me “thank you”

is prayer in and of itself.

the first sip of morning coffee,

a long day’s work, a rise-before-the-sun hunt,

old country, and pepsi cans.

hohou!

the russian olive tree

reveals yellow flowers

against red bark.

tribal workers leave early,

a slow evening.

hohou hohou!

in the distance a dog,

always a dog barking,

you come to hear one

even if there isn’t.

my uncle asks for help.

a tool, a truck,

some money, or laughter.

after hitting an animal

with his gold 1990s hyundai,

i give him gold duct tape.

the dragging part of his front bumper

taped up by a star.

hohou hohou!

us arapahos always use symmetry in our art, he says.

 

the sun sneaks behind the mountain

as someone tells a joke.

everyone erupts into laughter.

there’s water ambiance just beyond the road.

kids swim in a ditch

and it flows green and alive.

no, wait.

it’s a river.

hohou hohou!

my cousin is tired of the rust

eating his bike.

i offer him the gold duct tape to cover his frame.

hohou hohou!

he says, partly to me,

partly to God because he provided again.

it won’t stay golden forever i tell him

but right now it looks bright

in the moon’s budding grey.

—from The Morning You Saw a Train of Stars Streaking Across the Sky

Existential gratitude.

Seek the sacred teachings and trickster stories and barroom waltzes and murder ballads and lullabies and love songs. They all hold answers.