Yesterday I had the main character from one of my stories start writing me a letter in which I hope he reveals his unreachable dream and what he'd give up to realize it. So far, I've found out that he's extremely detail-oriented; he once panicked over a spelling test in 2nd grade - not because he wasn't a good speller but because his 2nd grade teacher, Ms. Phyllis, would always give them a list of 30 words to study and only use 10 of those words on the actual test. Gerald, this character, started freaking out in his quiet fashion when he realized that he had no surefire prediction for which 10 words Ms. Phyllis would choose. After his Mom asked him if worrying about what words would be on the test would change what words would be on the test, Gerald had a 2nd grade epiphany:
"Details come and go, and I notice more of them than most, I've noticed. But you can't force these details to fall into place - they're already in place, and worrying disrupts this game, obscures the details' true placement."
Gerald figured out Ms. Phyllis' spelling test method soon after letting go (She would always choose the 10 longest words, and if there were more than 10 words of equal length, then she'd invariably choose the ones with more vowels. Personally, I think that was a crappy trick to be playing on 2nd graders, but Gerald is more forgiving). Let's stop being Gerald for now and surf through some other details whose placement isn't isolated to his personal experience.
Such details may be found in the game of truth and dare, which Gerald had sadly never played. Think about the progression of this game from double-dog dares with a dash of truth on the playground to drinking games that let us choose among a question, a dare, or a beer that needed finishing should the first two prove too daunting. These games were all really just about truth: what would be said and what would be left unsaid - what we could bring ourselves to do in the presence of others.
And behind these truths were always stories of what may have been done before, what we thought of what was done before, and what these dealings said about us before, now, and after.
Now the blank of who I once was earlier this morning hasn't yet been filled, so let's expand these details from one game to all play. Why do we play? How is our play any different from dolphins blowing air rings or members of a wolf pack wrestling each other into submission? Research done on these species and many other mammals implies that play may be a low-risk way to try out new behaviors and explore possible social connections.
As humans, we have the ability to pretend play - a banana becomes a pistol in the game cops and robbers, empty tea cups are filled and dolls become flesh and blood in the game of house. Perhaps we have such a wide range of possible behaviors and social connections that our play has to take place on imaginary levels.
We never stop playing, and we are compulsive storytellers - stories can also be a type of play. We can be what we are not while remaining who we are. We can weave lies that reveal truth, with the best-told lies functioning like sonar, bouncing off terribly strange and beautiful shapes previously hidden.
As I fill in the last of my blank for the day, I'm reminded of Gerald and his details already in place. Forcing these details to form a picture hasn't worked for me in the past, but luring these details in with a story - well it reminds me of a riddle that involves two doors where one leads to Hell and one leads to Heaven. You can ask only one question for safe passage and these doors are guarded by fiction and reality - how will you choose? I'll offer a possible answer tomorrow. Play wisely, and be yourself today if that's whom you choose to be.
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