Pondering the life story...

Today, today, today. Today was quite a day. Maybe it was because I wasn't getting enough oxygen to my brain, or maybe it was because I was hyped up on Benadryl, but the whole day seemed kind of like a dream, like a story. I had so many signals coming my way today, all of a freakishly similar nature, that it almost seems ridiculous to call them a collective sign. A sign is something that happens once or twice, maybe. But today, four times over, I was acquainted with the importance of the "life story".

This morning at the hotel was slow, and I actually had help, so all my work was done in the first hour. So I spent the rest of the morning paring down the last section of Dreams from my Father. The section addresses Obama's first visit to Kenya, his homeland, and in today's reading in particular, his first visit with his grandmother, who lays out his ancestry for him in a short story, very similar to the first book of the Bible. So and so begat so and so, who begat so and so, etc... She traced his history back over hundreds of years. I remember pulling away from the book and just thinking what an amazing life this person has lived, but I bet to him, it was a shock people even wanted to read about it. Strangely, my musings were interrupted by my boss, who, though he had no clue what I was reading, for some reason, launched into a tale of his own life and travels. He spoke of the traditions of his Phillipino heritage, his travels to the United States and decision to finally remain here, his values which he passed on to his daughters. Staring off over my shoulder somewhere, he ended his story confirming to himself, more than to me, that he has had a good life. And, that he believes he has given his daughters the experiences they need to be happy fulfilled people.

When I got in my car to drive home, I picked up on Stephen King dictating his spiral downward into alcohol and drugs, as I listened to his book on cd. His book, written with a focus on discussing the craft of writing, in fact begins with a short tale of his life from birth to The Tommyknockers. Actually it begins with an introduction that makes it clear that he does not call this book a biography, because, it seems, he does not feel his life is worthy to be written about at length. Same with his discussion of writing. He claims that most books on writing are "bullshit", and that he has kept his short as a means of limiting the bullshit therein.

Finally, because I am so sick, I decided that instead of spending the night working on items for my art show in two weeks, I would cozy up on the couch with my old torn baby blanket, a box of tissues, and the final three episodes of Dawson's Creek. Good thing I had the tissues. My head is still swimming from all the tears. For all the pain of watching the last 3 seasons, the final two episodes were well worth it. They must've hired some new writers for those, or else smacked the old ones. Anyhow, the finale of the series depicts Dawson turning his life- the first 5 seasons- into a movie, and then, a tv series. (Remember, his dream was to be a filmmaker.) There was something about the idea of putting your life onto paper, onto a screen, that grabbed me. That seemed so powerful. So telling. But everyone who writes a biography, I imagine, is initially plagued by the thought that his life is unremarkable, who would want to read about my life?? But people do.

I don't know why. But I figure it's the same reason people love "reality" shows and Lifetime movies. There's a certain draw to watching life as an outsider. Maybe because it gives us a sense that it all comes together, eventually. Maybe it's the desire to have closure, because our real lives are constantly rotating wheels with no brakes. Or maybe it's because we like a little reminder every once in a while that life has a purpose. Obama went through all those hard times, feeling like he didn't belong, so that he could be a great leader. My boss jumped over all his obstacles so that he could pass on the true meaning of living to his children. Stephen King went through all his ups and downs so that he could write some amazing books. And, Dawson, well Dawson went through those ten tormenting years chasing after Joey so that she could end up with Pacey and he could finally get that meeting with Spielberg. Everything works out in the end.

So, do I take this as a sign? Do I write about my life, though there are large chunks of it I don't even remember at all? Maybe this is my way to recollect my past, determine my future. Who knows? But that's the fun part of life. You never know how it ends.


Like the lines that encircle a tree's trunk, we too are drawn as people to leave the mark of our pasts.