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Image: Seated Osiris-Anedjty, 285-246 B.C., the Metropolitan Museum of Art

My mother read to me each night of my childhood. She read books that I chose and books that she chose. She read her old favorites and she read faddish things and she read children’s books and books for adults. She read me Wind in the Willows and Animorphs and Ramona Quimby and A Christmas Carol and every word of The Lord of the Rings.

My mother worked at a magazine and we didn’t get to see each other during the day or immediately after school; our time with stories was our sacred time. Maybe this is why the language of stories has affected me so phenomenally—maybe this intensely happy association has taught me that stories are my mother and that I am stories, because of course I am my mother. Or maybe rather this easy learning-of-story-language, osmotic, gave me a means of expressing a self which preceded the means.

Whatever the case, I am fundamentally a story person, and recently I have had cause to consider what this means. It has long been plain to me that story people are not alike. That we like books gives us very little in common, less so than liking theater or paintings. There is an observation in Tolkien’s “On Fairy Stories” which altered me signficiantly when I read it:

Actually, the association of children and fairy-stories is an accident of our domestic history. Fairy-stories have in the modern lettered world been relegated to the “nursery”, as shabby or old-fashioned furniture is relegated to the play-room, primarily because the adults do not want it, and do not mind if it is misused. It is not the choice of the children which decides this. Children as a class—except in a common lack of experience they are not one—neither like fairy-stories more, nor undertand them better than adults do; and no more than they like many other things. They are young and growing, and normally have keen appetites, so the fairy-stories as a rule go down well enough. But in fact only some children, and some adults, have any special taste for them; and when they have it, it is not exclusive, nor even neccessarily dominant.

I read this essay at twelve or thirteen, and before that point I had not considered that the same thing I had enjoyed as a child was the thing I continued to enjoy as a young teen, nor that others may not enjoy this thing, or enjoy it by the same means. I’ve come hardly closer to understand what exactly that thing is. Recently, however, I’ve begun to develop an idea of how I was experiencing stories as a child, and how this differs from the experience of other story children. These are preliminary thoughts. At the moment, I identify three different methods of experiencing story. In my view, any of these may be applied to any form of story, and children typically read favoring one method strongly over the others. That is to say, children who read using the method of Novel tend to read all stories using the method of Novel.

Novel: involvement / escape / participation in alternate humanity in the lived world

Fairy Tale: a re-experience of the lived world with new, poetic terminology

Myth: a first / prime / original experience of the lived world as poetry

The child who reads using the method of Novel may, as far as I can understand it, be performing many actions with the lived world as she reads—she may be learning or refining feelings relating to lived events. She may be adopting a new habitat, rejecting her lived world. She may be experiencing others’ lived worlds with the intimacy of writing. The novel is a tremendous category of experience which I don’t fully understand and don’t wish to fully understand—I didn’t use Novel as a child and I don’t use Novel now as an artist of novels and stories. Altogether, I would term Novel a human action, something which has to do with a person’s experience of the lived world and the implications those experiences have had and will have on the person’s life in the world (this can refer to much more than her actual choices in and decisions about the lived world, of course; a person’s experience of the lived world may be one of transcendental human empathy).

The child who uses Fairy Tale re-experiences the lived world in new, poetic terms. Let me define my special use of “poetic”: poetic is that which uses language to divide the real thing from its appearance, historical actions, use or role in order to represent the thing or its meaning more accurately. The child who uses Fairy Tale re-experiences her own life and comes to understand the lived world as 1. a space which can be articulated and named 2. a place in which the identity of a thing may be understood both as its appearance in the lived world and as a translated thing in hypothetical events 3. as a place full of things which can be re-created (referred-to, if you like) and remain themselves. The Fairy Tale is a codifying action (the naming of things, research into things) and a mystical action (the thing becomes other than itself and remains itself; the thing can be considered outside the lived world although it is without doubt a thing inside the lived world). Tangentially, it is my opinion that codification is inherently mystical.

The child who uses Myth experiences the act of poetry before she experiences the lived world, or as a ground for her experience of the lived world. To use Myth is to experience the lived world as a story; to assume that every thing and sensation and event in the lived world must be interpreted in the moment of experience as being both real and unreal, literal and symbolic, bound in time and immortal.

To use Myth honestly—to use it as the Mythological Child uses it—you must believe that all things simulate and repeat themselves and that the act of simulation is a real thing being described by its inability to describe itself. That the thing cannot exist fully in any single state of being, and that it tries to remember itself and assert itself impossibly, that in fact the thing appears impossible, is the state of reality for the Mythological Child. Essentially, for the Mythological Child this state is both impossible and true. In a legitimately Mythological myth, we are meant to fully believe that a mummy dressing resurrected the literally real and literally dead Osiris, and also that these things did not happen and there is no such person. In the legitimate myth and in the method of Myth, reality cannot be described using the shapes of the lived world.

The action of Myth is religious—it is reverential and reflexive. It admires the thing and rediscovers the thing. If the Mythological Child becomes a Mythological Adult (and I believe we all do), she will spend her life explaining that “No, I mean it,” even as she says things which she can’t mean because these things are impossible, and to mean is to obscure the thing she perceives.

Minotaur One


Picasso, Minotaur Caressing the Hand of a Sleeping Girl with his Snout, 1933

Its vegetarian mouth is open. In films little diamonds tilt from velvet pouches. Fingers manicured for close-ups raise the little diamonds and light shows the diamonds’ white grids. Light makes each facet oblique. Diamonds seem to sparkle because they are serially made blank by light, and their relief into transparency as they wheel out of light seems like glitter.

The minotaur weighs over the woman. The hairs of the hide along the bridge of its nose meet at the center. The bull’s head is larger than a man’s but the bull’s head is full of round and flat teeth made for pulling the white-rooted, wet-rooted stalks from the field and mashing them in the mouth like a warm grinding mill.

The minotaur has hands like a man. The head of a man, the head of a bull, the hands of a man, the minotaur’s hands … the ridiculous size of masculine bodies, their hardness packed in flesh and hair, like a truck engine wrapped in a sweater …

The minotaur’s curled head is made of edgy shapes, trapezoids and rough hair which at the limits of the head can be seen-through as the minotaur moves: between the black point or black curve and the slope of the animal head is the wallpaper, the moonlight on the wallpaper, the minotaur’s shoulder.



I taught English and History to the girl in the mountains. Her devoted parents had constructed a dreamhouse schoolroom in the high attic. The house stood along the bouncing heights of the canyon, topped and shouldered by live oaks and chaparral and lavender and sage and olive trees and and horned cactus and cactus whose paddle-leaves were the texture of expensive bags.

Out the northern windows the far heights, houses and community buildings small and infrequent. Throughout the day the land around the buildings would rise from blue to green like a happy face flushing.

The schoolroom was painted teal and sneaker-white. The big-lipped, sloe-eyed fashion doll on its stand beside the computer. The precious saddle, huge as an octopus, on its rack in the alcove.

Out the west-facing windows the staircase, the oak leaves level with our eyes, the wall of land and the slope of the hill which had been partially cleared and leveled for the chicken coops. The corner of land where the wall, its balancing trees and thick herbs, met the slope. When the drought broke that spring, a little waterfall stood there like a melting gray candle.

The portion of the hill which had been customized was a series of blonde, fence-straitened grades, dusty, flat to build on and simpler to climb than the natural hill. At breaktime the girl let herself down the ladderish staircase and took out her goose, carefully embraced it, and filled its kiddie-pool. It splashed and smacked as we learnt about Julius crossing the Rubicon.

One day I came in and the girl took me to the western windows and lifted her phone. She showed me a video she had taken from this vantage the afternoon prior: there was a lynx, its baroque sleeves crossed at the wrist, relaxing on th  grade above the chicken coops. It was an easy downward jump from their roofs but made no gesture toward them.

“My God,” I said. “Are the animals okay?”

“Yes. The cages were locked.”

The lynx’s muscular body, dog-sized but weighty and fat as a chain of train cars.

“She’s so calm.”

“She knows I’m filming.”

The lynx turned its face without anxiety, its pronounced, human nose, its black lips.

“Did she even try to get into the chicken coops?”

“No. She just left after a while.” The girl hesitated. “I kind of wanted to see her jump. Just to see it. Just to see what would happen.”

The girl and I looked up from the phone, into each other’s faces, and met there in a moment of perfect understanding.


airport hotel notebook

In the foreign country I take the train to the northern city and I take the bus to the airport and I take the shuttle to the airport hotel.

I leave the old city in the rain. On the bridge over the river the rain stands suddenly up, palms flat to the tabletop, chair banging down, and the brown river vibrates entirely—full-body gooseflesh rises across it. I am pulling my suitcases over the bridge and I am as wet on the surface of my body, the limits of my body, as I am inside my body, inside my skin. The raindrops hitting and squeezing my eyelashes; water pouring over my cheeks and into my mouth through my closed lips. Beauty like a big tree or snow on a mountain.

In the station my clothing is wetted to transparency and a young punk woman turns onto her hip beside me where we sit on the floor and she tells me she is worried about the way the men look at me. I can’t imagine there is any serious danger of rape but the twenty-something pornographer with a camera asks if he can take my photograph—“I’m a journalist.” I change my shirt in the bathroom. The anxiety of the women rattles me more than the men, whatever the men mean and whatever they are capable of.

I am alone on the bus to the airport and by this time the night soaks into the air out of the ground. The bus slopes over the highways which are mostly empty. The land and sky go black then glow green in the desolation of airportplace, a zone for miles around every airport. Waiting in the bus in the parking lot at the station I cry effortless tears, like water out of turf when the boot presses it. Without tension or real sadness. It is only that I am very tired. On the highway the black and the green like the orange of fireplace pokers—my eyes pointed into it and being inside it, surrounded by it—it gives me the old frisson, the frisson of the prairie. Not the equilibrium of water and water but a fearful depth-on-field, a stone made into a missile, a running fox, the spot of a flashlight. Naturally, a joyful frisson. And alongside this rolling-of-the-skin, beside it like the next thing, I desire warmth, loving comfort, to be childed by a body much bigger than mine.

The airport, and the little airport shuttle with other passengers in the dim, and then the airport hotel, an orange upright stone. Its silent chapel, its glacier-plain grounds in the black.