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100 Years of Solitude
May. 20th, 2002 11:17 amI don't believe most of what is in the Bible. Although a lot of the early stuff does a decent job of paralelling history and the book of Job is a beautiful example of early existentialism, most Biblical wisdom is lost in a quagmire of folk tales, rife with innacuracies and questionable moral judgements. While I respect several definitive aspects of modern Christian religion, including nonviolence and love for all people, I question the sanity of anyone who takes its primary source literally.
Nevertheless, I believe in this phrase:
"In the beginning, there was the Word."
I am fully willing to accept that the entire universe began because of one word. I am also willing to believe that "Adam" gained dominion over the animals by naming them. Names have power. 50 years ago, sexual harrassment didn't exist. Neither did gay pride, or business casual, or date rape. I'm not saying that they didn't occur -- they did -- but without phrases for them, they could not be communicated or placed in a larger context. They could not be discussed, prosecuted, or lauded.
My family in particular has a great affection for naming and classification. It's why we like Shakespeare, Caroll, and Aristotle. My own name has several codes embedded in it; Arielle's has more. When Uncle Rex was in school he never got picked on, because bullies knew he could give them a nickname and make it stick. Permanently.
We name everything. Houses, hangouts, appliances, colors, trends, filing cabinets, moods, rooms, and friendships. As a result, we create our own worlds around us. Other people are pulled in the moment they start using our terminology.
A perfect example is Val. Val, as a human being, has never really existed outside the context of Romie. To be sure, The Lady Valancy has a completely seperate life, but it is quite impossible to say "Val" without adding the ancilliary "Romie's." Another example is Stretch, who is "Lori" to anyone who does not know the Rasor family.
We can go further than that; we can say that The Richardson Boys were nothing like the Round Table until I said they were -- although they certainly are now that I have. In fact, it might be argued that simply by my naming them "The Richardson Boys," they have been given a definition which they previously lacked.
Whether because I name things or because of the million other writerly aspects of my personality, I tend to mythologize the people around me. Weaknesses become dramatic flaws; random encounters become symbols. Even a simple video game becomes illustrative of old power plays.
Just before I met up with The Richardson Boys on Saturday, I pricked my finger on a needle -- quite by accident, while searching for a bobby pin.
I'm quite obsessed with them, both as a group and as individuals. (The Boys, not needles.) It goes much further than enjoying their company, or wanting to know them better. I want to deconstruct them, study them; immortalize them. If I am their bard, they are my adventurers. I want to write odes to every single one of them. I want to tell you how brilliant Merlin is -- how kind, how intelligent, how obsessed with old science fiction and indo-European groceries. I want to tell you how much like a satyr Chad looks when I see him in the corner of my eye, and how still he stands when he's searching for the right grammatical construction.
I want to tell you how one with his environment John is, to the extent that I sometimes forget that he's there. Only, of course, he is, and we are all trying to be our better selves out of deference to him. I want to tell you how handsome Will is when he forgets to think that he's an ugly hunchback, when he ducks his head and smiles.
There isn't really time for that, and very few of you would be interested. But yesterday, when I was shuttling Will from place to place, (his car, as per always, is in the garage while he tinkers with it,) having met him only twice before, two months ago, we had the following conversation1 in between Will Rants:
Will: I'm sorry; I'm kind of . . . there are some tensions between me and Ciro. It's making me nervy. You two close?
Romie: I met him last Wednesday, when he came over for Thanksgiving Dinner.
Will: Thanksgiving. . .
Romie: Look, don't worry. He hasn't poisoned me against you yet, and I will forever defend your honor.
Will: Good! That's good! It's just. . . We have some back history. Has he told you about. . .
Romie: The Jessica Fiasco2. (laughs) I have heard the story from every single member of the Richardson Boys except you3, often more than once.
Will: Oh God.
Romie: It's one of my favorite stories, actually. A fine example of oral tradition. It's like watching reruns that change a little every time you see them -- but you still know where all the best lines are.
Will: Oh God.
Romie: Actually, you're my favorite character.
Will: Oh. Okay.
Romie: Someday, when I can't sleep, I'll have to hear your version.
Will: Right.
So, like I said, I pricked my finger, and then I met Will. And whether he realizes it or not, he has agreed to tell me a bedtime story.
1 This is as close to verbatim as it is possible for me to get.
2 The Jessica Fiasco, in its most rudimentary form, goes something like "Ciro dates the girl Will loves who has somewhat vaguely turned Will down; Will tries to kill Ciro." This can be expanded ad infinitum and often includes my very favorite section in which Ciro is nearly hurled from a car doing at least 70 mph and Will's response to the crisis is to look irritated and say "you broke my door."
3 Technically untrue, since I haven't heard the story from Brian or Dan, and I can't definitively remember whether I've heard it from John. Also, I've read bits of the account in Will's old journal. Still, it was nearly accurate.
Nevertheless, I believe in this phrase:
"In the beginning, there was the Word."
I am fully willing to accept that the entire universe began because of one word. I am also willing to believe that "Adam" gained dominion over the animals by naming them. Names have power. 50 years ago, sexual harrassment didn't exist. Neither did gay pride, or business casual, or date rape. I'm not saying that they didn't occur -- they did -- but without phrases for them, they could not be communicated or placed in a larger context. They could not be discussed, prosecuted, or lauded.
My family in particular has a great affection for naming and classification. It's why we like Shakespeare, Caroll, and Aristotle. My own name has several codes embedded in it; Arielle's has more. When Uncle Rex was in school he never got picked on, because bullies knew he could give them a nickname and make it stick. Permanently.
We name everything. Houses, hangouts, appliances, colors, trends, filing cabinets, moods, rooms, and friendships. As a result, we create our own worlds around us. Other people are pulled in the moment they start using our terminology.
A perfect example is Val. Val, as a human being, has never really existed outside the context of Romie. To be sure, The Lady Valancy has a completely seperate life, but it is quite impossible to say "Val" without adding the ancilliary "Romie's." Another example is Stretch, who is "Lori" to anyone who does not know the Rasor family.
We can go further than that; we can say that The Richardson Boys were nothing like the Round Table until I said they were -- although they certainly are now that I have. In fact, it might be argued that simply by my naming them "The Richardson Boys," they have been given a definition which they previously lacked.
Whether because I name things or because of the million other writerly aspects of my personality, I tend to mythologize the people around me. Weaknesses become dramatic flaws; random encounters become symbols. Even a simple video game becomes illustrative of old power plays.
Just before I met up with The Richardson Boys on Saturday, I pricked my finger on a needle -- quite by accident, while searching for a bobby pin.
I'm quite obsessed with them, both as a group and as individuals. (The Boys, not needles.) It goes much further than enjoying their company, or wanting to know them better. I want to deconstruct them, study them; immortalize them. If I am their bard, they are my adventurers. I want to write odes to every single one of them. I want to tell you how brilliant Merlin is -- how kind, how intelligent, how obsessed with old science fiction and indo-European groceries. I want to tell you how much like a satyr Chad looks when I see him in the corner of my eye, and how still he stands when he's searching for the right grammatical construction.
I want to tell you how one with his environment John is, to the extent that I sometimes forget that he's there. Only, of course, he is, and we are all trying to be our better selves out of deference to him. I want to tell you how handsome Will is when he forgets to think that he's an ugly hunchback, when he ducks his head and smiles.
There isn't really time for that, and very few of you would be interested. But yesterday, when I was shuttling Will from place to place, (his car, as per always, is in the garage while he tinkers with it,) having met him only twice before, two months ago, we had the following conversation1 in between Will Rants:
Will: I'm sorry; I'm kind of . . . there are some tensions between me and Ciro. It's making me nervy. You two close?
Romie: I met him last Wednesday, when he came over for Thanksgiving Dinner.
Will: Thanksgiving. . .
Romie: Look, don't worry. He hasn't poisoned me against you yet, and I will forever defend your honor.
Will: Good! That's good! It's just. . . We have some back history. Has he told you about. . .
Romie: The Jessica Fiasco2. (laughs) I have heard the story from every single member of the Richardson Boys except you3, often more than once.
Will: Oh God.
Romie: It's one of my favorite stories, actually. A fine example of oral tradition. It's like watching reruns that change a little every time you see them -- but you still know where all the best lines are.
Will: Oh God.
Romie: Actually, you're my favorite character.
Will: Oh. Okay.
Romie: Someday, when I can't sleep, I'll have to hear your version.
Will: Right.
So, like I said, I pricked my finger, and then I met Will. And whether he realizes it or not, he has agreed to tell me a bedtime story.
1 This is as close to verbatim as it is possible for me to get.
2 The Jessica Fiasco, in its most rudimentary form, goes something like "Ciro dates the girl Will loves who has somewhat vaguely turned Will down; Will tries to kill Ciro." This can be expanded ad infinitum and often includes my very favorite section in which Ciro is nearly hurled from a car doing at least 70 mph and Will's response to the crisis is to look irritated and say "you broke my door."
3 Technically untrue, since I haven't heard the story from Brian or Dan, and I can't definitively remember whether I've heard it from John. Also, I've read bits of the account in Will's old journal. Still, it was nearly accurate.
