Some stories have it, some don't. Special relationships. Embodied by repârté, by explicit or unexpressed love, by loyalty, by acrid vapours, by expressions on faces, in humour, in all seriousness, innocently, in ernest or insincere villany. Some stories have it some don't. Those that lack it seem to suffer from a dislocation of the soul.
I don't mean stories in any narrow sense. I don't restrict this fancy to fantasy, nor even to fiction. A story is anything with its imperative, anything when you sense on the ragged edge of your mind that there could well be a camera pointing your way, that someone somewhere might just be narrating your legend, that your name could well turn out to be legion.
Sometimes, it's hard to think any other way, but it's something we push behind the furniture or under the carpets in the dusty corners of where we live.
Even so, some stories have 'it' and some don't, an ensemble that works well together, a cause celebre, a unity of purpose, shared ideals a dedication to the transcendent. Such things take time to nurture, but they are the things that make us care care about stories in which we are not lead players, or for that matter about our own lives. So many stories, so little time to stay conscious and read them.
Most stories don't have endings. Generally they don't need them. It's the telling not the ending. It's the flight of fancy, not the inevitible crash landing. Stories don't end, they only split apart, weave and tangle together, splice, split and shatter. It's the way the different stories braid together, the way the colours blend or clash, the unexpected twists and turns that gifts them their glories.
These glories are called arcs. Not something I've ever really understood. An arc has the seeming of ad hoc inevitability. It is the abstract fusion of colour, light and meaning. It traverses and transcends a myriad lesser stories to create the high-minded ideal, the causal progress even as we acknowledge the conviction that there are no beginnings or endings except as we impose them on our stories. We do this in a brave quest to wrest purpose and meaning from an unrelentingly chaotic universe. This fault is not in our stars. Nor is it a fault.
Even though we'd be hard pressed to prove it's existence, it is the arc that catches our eye. It does more than that, it wraps it's threads around our hearts and usurps our rhythms.
This has nothing to do with life immitating art, nor the converse. It is the unity of life and art, just another way that role-playing can be a paradigm of life. It is also the reason why it is the arc and never the characters or the stories that drives me. It is the campaign, never the fast, fleeting, foray. Yet, the arc is comprised. Somehow, we derive it from its lesser parts. Let us all be mystics. Let us be analytical. May the arc emerge in its glories from the flotsam and jetsam, from Sunday's leftovers. Give this character a terminal illness and make that one very sad. Why? I have no idea, but I'm sure it will become clear. Some deep meaning, some transcendent arc will emerge and it will all turn out well. Of course, by 'well' I mean in a way that advances the plot. We have not read the lesson plan, yet we have arational confidence in its existence.
Just like in real life, the arc will emerge from the game, from the telling of myriad stories. It's up to the GameMaster to take the credit.
Another Twist in an Already Twisted Plot
November 14-15
Just got back from my oncologist. I looked 'onc' up once. It apparently means 'lump' in Greek, but surprisingly has nothing to do with teenagers. So I have two more 'Mal-sized' oncs. one has moved into Mal's old place (a sublet?) and the other has colonised further forward. (I think I might call them Book and Wash, because they don't make it through the movie.) So the fact that I look fat in photographs is not entirely the fault of the photographers... seems Book and Wash need more room. I've decided to go into onc-farming. I've grown two huge oncs in just four months. I haven't figured out how to make any money farming oncs, but it's got to pay more than whatever it is I do now? My passport says fantasist.
Being a fantasist, being able to suspend my disbelief is going to be useful. See? I was right again.
The New Theory
The new theory or if you prefer 'Theory Number Two', ahem ahem 'The New Theory by N. Robin Crossby.' Ahem. Ahem. This is it: Life is very narrow at one end, gets much fatter and more problematical in the middle and then very small and quiet at the other end.
The New Plan
Ignore the bad stuff. Maybe go sit by the sea. Big needles is bad stuff.. I dream about big needles. They are going to stick me with honkin' big needles. The sea the sea... going to sea... mmm... Anyone got a house on a rocky coast they can lend me for a few days?
Ignore the bad stuff sounds like a stupid plan, but that's some of the bad stuff I'm ignoring. See how well the plan works?
Meanwhile, my doctor says that a sauna turns fat into water. So I figure I need to sit in there for about six weeks.
