Stories, Together

Dear Kate,

So much philosophizing, what's the use of it?

I suppose we can ask the same question about pretty much anything in life that we don't find useful or usable for the purpose of writing our own story.

Those who have no doubt about the direction they are going are the real doubters.  They see a hammer and worship its smashing power when they feel like smashing something.  They could articulate to pornographic details why this particular hammer is smashingly good for the smashing they have in mind, and, of course, how they have gotten it for a smashing good price on Prime Day.  But once the smashing is over, the deed done, the hammer will be placed somewhere, anywhere, left alone, close enough only to be retrievable for their next smashing project.  That's how things are used.  They are mere material in essence, a particular alignment of atoms coming together for my purpose, to write my story; otherwise, they are of dubious value to me.

How about a human being, not a hammer?  What difference does it make, if human beings are, also, mere material, "chemical scum"--or worse, "survival machine, robot vehicles blindly programmed" to work against me?  The doubter has good reason to deepen his doubts.

Storytelling (and listening) is probably the most explicit human acknowledgement of our togetherness.  What is the value of listening to your story if you and your life are, in essence, of no value?  And if you are of value but only when it is to me, then you are mere material until I decide to use you for my purpose.  Which is to say you are, to me, dispensable.  Like a hammer not fit for my job--not the next job I have in mind any way.  I will text you when I can use you for a nail again.

To listen quietly and attentively to a long, meandering story that is "wholly other" might be our loudest, most definitive assent to how "we are in this together."  Most of us do not do this, not enough of it or not at all, more of us everyday with another newer gadget on our hand.  Instead we take stories out of their context and use them for our purpose, even to claim it is for the storytellers' good.  We pick a hammer and get into action, to beat the plights out of the sorry shape of what we think we heard, into what fits our doctrines of how a human destiny should shape up to be.  There is always an agenda, a trailer to a movie, a promise of some payoffs, before we would lend our ears.  Knowing the listeners' expectations, the tellers shape their narratives accordingly to avoid the hammer.

"Togetherness" does not predicate on predictability, even less conformity, but discovery.  But how are we to do this when we are so busy acting on what we think we have already discovered about a person, a culture, a certain country with a certain disposition that we are so very certain about?

Thank you for lending me your ears.  I have inconvenienced you with many useless insights when a little hammer would have been a better gift for you to hammer out another day.  Why do I have to write this, and why do you have to read it?  It makes no difference; the world just hammers on, with a persistent, growing despondency.

Yours, Alex