I am currently obsessed with the idea of story telling, in all it’s forms- TV, film, radio, comics, books, songs, poetry, comedy, books, newspapers, art, people. The centre of human existence are the stories we tell. Without them there is no craft, there is no art. Every moment we spend alive is a story we are telling ourselves. We are our stories. And we die twice; one time we stops telling ourselves a story. and the second when someone stops telling stories about us.
We begin, exist and end as stories.
This is why I do not want to by slipping in the bathroom and cracking my head open on a toilet bowl. My fear is that the way I die will be the last and clearly most memorable story of my life. My legacy will be some wise crack by a friend who will be like, oh at least she died near the things that she loved the most- shit and pot (but I wont be around to hear it so what eves)
It is a function of my skin color, my gender, my race, my caste, my class, my social capital, and plain dumb luck that I get to work as a professional story teller. But because I do, I am reminded and staggered everyday by the stories that never make it out, the ones that make it out but are misremembered, and misconstrued. It makes me protective over my own story-it’s agency, it’s form and it’s content.
And I REALLY don’t want to die after cracking my head open on a toilet bowl.