Skip to main content

Clay Stories




Stories are like clay.  They can be manipulated and shaped, presented from one perspective then moulded to another. 

I was once a radio journalist, telling the same stories over and over, every half hour for hours on end.  The trick was to tell the news a different way each time, so that listeners would think something ‘new’ and had happened, even if it had not. Revising and editing, every time I left the booth, I took each story in my fist, crushed it into a ball and started over.  “Three children killed in house fire; two survive.”  “Two children survive housefire that killed three siblings.”  “Fire chief says smoke detectors would have saved three children …” And, so on and so on, so there’d be a “fresh” story for the top of the hour.  

In my second career as a government speechwriter, I found myself working with clay again.  I would create a verbal sculpture and then, over and over, other civil servants would suggest a tweak here, nuance there, moulding it to suit their agenda, agonizing over the deeper meanings of each word. “We can’t say ‘improved service’! That implies the service wasn’t good to begin with.  Please change to ‘enhanced’.” Each level of the approvals process, further manipulating the clay.  

It’s too bad people aren’t so malleable.  Oh sure, we tell each other different versions of our story, but we can’t demolish our true selves and fashion something new with a little water and a miniature spatula. 

The story I told my therapist was a comedy. She helped me see it’s tragic elements.  We all react to the buttons installed in childhood.  We yearn for respect and recognition from parents and older siblings.  We seek the teeth to match our wounds[1].

We are human, made of flesh, bone and electrical impulses. We are not made of clay, but we do spend our lives trying to reshape ourselves and the world around us.

We muddle through life partially-formed and half-baked.





















[1] Writer Kenneth Tynan as quoted by Peter Gabriel   

     Photo Credit Jeremy Mark Lane

Comments

  1. I enjoyed reading your story again afer hearing you read it . Keep up the great work .

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

In the Manger with Jesus

  Young children have a hard time understanding complex ideas and things they can’t see. This is why they say the darndest things as adults struggle to explain concepts like God, death, and the small microbes that live on their grubby little fingers which they should wash before supper. My nephew, we’ll call him Sebastien, was four years old when my father passed away. Dad had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and while he had trouble breathing and didn't have much energy, he always had time to read a story or share some red grapes with Sebastien. There were lots of naps in the big easy chair with Grampa. When Dad got sicker, the chair was moved out of the front room to make way for a hospital bed. Dad died on December 24, 2009, as my brother and I held his hands and my mother stroked his face.   At Sebastien’s house, his mother struggled to explain what had happened. Why there would be no more naps, stories or grapes with Grampa. “His get-better-bed didn’t work,” s...

Life in Scrabble

  Jump. J on t he triple letter for 28 points.  Great word, Betsy, you bitch. That was my spot. Don’t spoil my fun, Chelsea. You’re winning by 50 points. You’re my word idol— Woof! —And, speaking of vicarious thrills, has that guy from Frank’s gym called you yet? Frank? The one who couldn’t take his eyes off of you. He’s the Frank. And no, he hasn’t called. What about you? Woof! Woof!! Calm down, Thor. You just had walkies. Chelsea, I can’t flirt like you. It’s fun to watch, but I’m not built that way. We are built exactly the same. We may be similar in size, but you have discernable breasts and glowing, flaxen hair. You need that new shampoo and I need to make a word of vowels. There. Eight measly points. Ai is a word? It’s a three-toed, sloth. Look it up. You see Chels? You make the best with what you have – in Scrabble and life. You make a great word out of two vowels, and you point your breasts and flaxen hair at handsome men who own gyms...

Hazardous Guessing

“Well, if I had to hazard a guess…” Bobby let his sentence trail off without finishing. He’d heard his mom use that phrase and it sounded so smart. Hazzard a guess . Bobby wasn’t smart, but he was good at guessing. He figured that sooner or later he’d guess what it was these two men wanted him to say.   “Don’t guess, Bobby. Tell us what really happened,” Farbester said slowly. “Something relating to her head.” Bobby figured the question was important since the detective asked it so often and spoke so clearly and slowly. “Her head?” he asked. “Her head,” Farbester repeated while the other cop motioned to the back of his own head with his index finger cocked just behind the right ear. Bobby couldn’t remember the other cop’s name, but he stunk of aftershave. He looked at the clock. Five hours. Five hours he’d been in this room with these men, and it still reeked of shitty aftershave. “Bobby!”   Farbester shouted. “Focus! Her head. What happened to her head?” “I don’t kn...