I apologize for the bareness of my blog site. I live in the desert Southwest of old El Paso. The junction between Mexico south of me and the white winters north of me. There are other seasons up from me but if you live in my home town, walk in my shoes or those of the people who see me, you will experience discomfort. Yellow poppies bloom in the summer.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
A Growing Conceit
If you have been drawn into storytelling then the edge which outlined your compulsion may have been an obscure game called HeroQuest. If you are feeling a bit ashamed because this is not the case, do not. Culture is a tagline and we have all gotten used to a little forgiveness.
Back in those days I did not tell stories. I gave accounts and with every roll of the dice I would say "You have done this much damage", or "Oh my gosh you are trouble that hit caused you this much damage". There was not much investment in the development of my friend's character. This is the consequence of telling stories by the numbers. I appreciated what little forgiveness my friends' afforded me since the only leverage I had was my the table. Mountain dew and Doritos went a long way toward making plastic figurines, some dice, and a witching hour into a digestible tale but it was my friendships that made the stories on and off the table memorable. A story enjoyed in isolation is not worth a damn. Ask Emily Dickinson.
One day the father of a friend of mine, John Elderidge, walked into the family game room as I proclaimed the doom of plastic barbarians and wizards from the numbered surfaces of a tiny polyhedron. I think John's dad took pity on my audience and his son. Who can rightfully measure the mercy of a father? John's dad was in the mechanized infantry and drove a tank for a living. He had to stop being a soldier when his wife left their house with two sons empty. She had gone out to buy eggs.
We never spoke about when his mom would have finally bought those eggs. John was angry about it. Operation Desert Storm had happened to his family and it was shitty though my trading cards said different.
John's dad had allot of time on his hands when his wife went to go buy eggs so he played a lot of Dungeons and Dragons. More so then he even did while out in the field or Iraq. All you needed was three books, a pencil, and some paper. He asked if he could run the game. I was a little wary. My ledger was complex. Who else could read the dice and tally the dooms of those little frozen explorers?
What happened next was a kaleidoscopic seething.
John's dad bleed his colors into vapor behind the Game Master's sharp cardboard edges. Hard shadows angled a convex darkness inward and over me and my friends. There are no stars in outer space. They were cut out so long ago. In the empty a world was muttered, slanted, from the one which passed. Mortal coils and oblivion were real but not mine and out of the strange syllables my mind inhabited tales of great daring were born. Such is the conceit of storytelling.
Back in those days I did not tell stories. I gave accounts and with every roll of the dice I would say "You have done this much damage", or "Oh my gosh you are trouble that hit caused you this much damage". There was not much investment in the development of my friend's character. This is the consequence of telling stories by the numbers. I appreciated what little forgiveness my friends' afforded me since the only leverage I had was my the table. Mountain dew and Doritos went a long way toward making plastic figurines, some dice, and a witching hour into a digestible tale but it was my friendships that made the stories on and off the table memorable. A story enjoyed in isolation is not worth a damn. Ask Emily Dickinson.
One day the father of a friend of mine, John Elderidge, walked into the family game room as I proclaimed the doom of plastic barbarians and wizards from the numbered surfaces of a tiny polyhedron. I think John's dad took pity on my audience and his son. Who can rightfully measure the mercy of a father? John's dad was in the mechanized infantry and drove a tank for a living. He had to stop being a soldier when his wife left their house with two sons empty. She had gone out to buy eggs.
We never spoke about when his mom would have finally bought those eggs. John was angry about it. Operation Desert Storm had happened to his family and it was shitty though my trading cards said different.
John's dad had allot of time on his hands when his wife went to go buy eggs so he played a lot of Dungeons and Dragons. More so then he even did while out in the field or Iraq. All you needed was three books, a pencil, and some paper. He asked if he could run the game. I was a little wary. My ledger was complex. Who else could read the dice and tally the dooms of those little frozen explorers?
What happened next was a kaleidoscopic seething.
John's dad bleed his colors into vapor behind the Game Master's sharp cardboard edges. Hard shadows angled a convex darkness inward and over me and my friends. There are no stars in outer space. They were cut out so long ago. In the empty a world was muttered, slanted, from the one which passed. Mortal coils and oblivion were real but not mine and out of the strange syllables my mind inhabited tales of great daring were born. Such is the conceit of storytelling.
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