The Truth

I must say that the first place my mind moves to when I think about this subject is post-modern and post-structural literary theory's assertion that simply (perhaps too much so), there is no truth. I'm loathe to open up that debate here, and so other than its cursory previous mention, I'm content to let that particular sleeping dog lie.

I'm much more interested in why—and how—we value truth. I, for one, am not concerned with accuracy when I tell a story. Many of the stories—however plausible they may seem—that I tell simply did not happen; they are, as one might say, "made up." At the risk of deviating too far from the path of my discussion, I'd like to momentarily examine the act of calling a fabricated story "made up." It is not entirely pejorative or positive; children enjoy "make believe" and made-up stories, but a pained exclamation of "He made the whole thing up!" upon being deceived certainly carries its own venom. "Made up," however, is neither damning nor comforting; it simply denotes creation—with a touch of the ethereal. "Made" is literally a term of construction and denotes the presence of a new object (i.e. the one that has been made). This presence, quite naturally, heightens awareness of an absence—one that most probably existed before the new object was made. In contrast to expression of physically making something (i.e. a chair is simply made), fictions are made up, and the expression contains a direction. We can, therefore, begin to give these presences and absences a literal place. If a story has been made up, then this new fabrication, this new presence, has replaced an absence that was formerly "up," and the presence has come from below.

We do not think of stories as having come from below us, but from within us, and so to take too literally the notion that the story has come "up" might make the concept too abstract. By tempering, however, the notion of below with the more acceptable (and perhaps logical) notion of a story coming from within, then we are left with a new location in which to place the story before it is "made up:" the bottoms within us, the depths of ourselves. To "make up" a story, then, is not simply a matter of creation, but of literally digging within to pull from inside a small bit of ourselves (the image of regurgitation is both too unpleasant and sadly too accurate here) and with this small piece, beginning to expel the absences and voids of reality.

It is for this reason that I do not believe that my stories, however made up, are deceptive in any way; I see them more as a personal crusade against the emptiness of reality. Nevertheless, many people cannot help but feel deceived when they find out that a story they have taken for reality is actually fiction, and they dismiss the story as simply not true.

I propose that a story's truth is not in any way related to whether or not it is real. The act of "making up," of expunging the absences of reality, creates more than a story: it creates emotion, it fills voids not just in reality but within ourselves. The resulting laughter, tears, anger, and catharsis might just happen to be the only truth in this world. Even "reality" is not burdened by the constraints of "truth;" we understand reality only through our five senses, which can be deceived. The only things we can rely upon without constant questioning are our own laughter and tears; they are the only things we know are true.

A Titular Note...

I am hopelessly enamored with nouns of assemblage, otherwise known as collective nouns. No, let us back up: I'm hopelessly enamored with language—especially quirky, idiosyncratic, or otherwise plain silly language.

To return to nouns of assemblage: I cannot fathom where "a storytelling of ravens" came from, but it is the technically correct method of identifying a group or congregation of ravens. Cows stand around in herds, lions roam in prides, wolves hunt in packs, and ravens come together in a storytelling.

The word "storytelling" most immediately suggests images and concepts quite far removed from ravens. Storytelling continues to be the principle method of the transportation of ideas for humans for millennia; it is intimate, transformative, evocative. Our lives, our memories, are simply a series of stories, and we define ourselves in the telling.

The word "ravens" carries nearly opposite connotations. Whereas "storytelling" is a word full of life, memories, and the definition of our very identities, "ravens" is a word pock-marked with death. Ravens are carrion-eaters: they literally consume death for nourishment. Storytelling is an act of intimacy; ravens are flighty and distant. Storytelling creates light, life, and images; ravens wing the night robed in black.

And yet, when ravens gather, it is a storytelling. To consider "storytelling" not as an act but as a noun of congregation, we find heavily shamanistic undertones. To come together in a storytelling evokes images of humans—be they travellers or villagers—meeting in a location with the specific intention of experiencing the power of story. This reliance, dependence, or focus on the magnitude of words and their telling quite organically invokes notions of rituals, spells, curses, and invocations. What rituals have the ravens? What spells might they cast? How do their images, the negative of ours, better define who we are? What stories might they tell us?

The work to be herein contained is not a celebration of ravens, nor do I have the answers to these questions. Rather, this is a celebration of stories, and I offer these questions up not for their answers, but for the stories into which they may breathe life.