404.
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This morning the Sound was shrouded in fog and sprinkled with a slight drizzle. It was very quiet and the water was glassy and still. The islands, Bainbridge and Vashon, were doing their Avalon imitation and fading into the mists of time. For some reason, these mornings inspire my inner archeologist to come out and play. I generally feel that I am living in a culture/world that makes no sense to me so there’s always a bit of the archeologist peering from behind my eyes; the questions, “What is this?” and “Why did they do that?” are velveteen questions that I can’t help but consider.
This is what I found:
A single running shoe sitting alone on a bench – its mate nowhere to be found. I imagined the shoe to be heart broken, confused, wondering whether it’s mate left with another shoe or was tragically swept out to sea. It is the not knowing that is agonizing, the sudden purpose-less-ness that drove the shoe to this bench to stare into the foggy waters. Perhaps it drank too much and woke up alone on the bench and wonders silently to itself, “What the hell happened to me? What will become of me?”
A lime, whole and uncut, resting 6 inches from a child’s blue plastic sand shovel, broken, missing the handle. They seem to be staring at one another, curious, “Who will make the first move?” It is like a middle-school dance. The lime is playing hard-to-get. The shovel, hiding it’s lost handle, it’s missing piece, puts its best face forward hoping the lime will not notice or at least will have an open mind and give it a chance. So much yearning!
Eleven empty Corona beer bottles standing in a line on the sea wall (no where near the lime – of course, though the lime might have escaped the marauding Corona brothers and rolled into a budding love story); the bottles facing the sea. Knowing that bottles come in equal numbers raised the question, “Did the missing bottle run off with the missing shoe?” Or, perhaps the eleven bottles disposed of number 12 for a breach of the case code? They were certainly working hard to look innocent. They were too perfectly placed not to be up to something. I was suspicious but in no position to accuse.
A pile of cosmetics: eye shadow, lip liner, brushes, mascara, a pancake base, and other items laying in a pile on top of a concrete post. It was as if a purse ate too much make-up and vomited. Nothing else made sense. How many women do you know that dump their make-up on a pillar and walk away? It had to be a purse gone Roman, evidence of over indulgence.
This morning my inner archeologist was fired from his university post for excessive imposition of story on artifact. He couldn’t leave well enough alone and cataloguing did not seem nearly as fun as story-making. On his exit interview I asked what happened given all of his years of study and training. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m human.” What’s the point of all that data if not to tell a good story?
Filed under: Story, Truly Powerful People | 3 Comments »
The Direction of Intention 