So, I’m convinced that there are stories all around us that we fail to notice.  I’m convinced for the same reasons that people write memoirs or tell bedtime stories to their children or play elaborate video games that tell stories between the action.  This tells me that either a) there are stories all around us, or b) we really, really want there to be stories around us, so we make them up and interact with them all the time.

Today, I didn’t do much of anything that could be considered “story-like.”  There were no dragons or Federal Agents circling my house.  I didn’t get into a huge fight with my wife; I didn’t uncover a conspiracy; I don’t even own a gun (which is probably a huge drawback if I were to be in some of these situations -- excluding the wife).  Actually, I’m in school right now which means that I spent most of my day reading and writing, and have talked to other human beings for about five minutes thus far.  

One of the most interesting things today has been our neighbor across the street.  He’s been at home all day, but comes outside every hour or so for a cigarette.  He’s probably in his low thirties, balding, heavying (we can say balding, but not heavying?  Or weighting?) and comes outside wearing different clothes every time.  He’s not extremely fashion-conscious, otherwise he’d probably be motivated to wear something other than shorts and a t-shirt, but he loves to change his clothes.  Maybe he has a rare skin disease and can’t wear the same shirt for longer than forty-five minutes, or he’s running some sort of low-scale industrial project out of his basement that soils his clothes constantly.  Occasionally, he has friends drop by and sometimes they exchange money.  Also, he could be a drug dealer.  

Why is it that we love stories?  That we want our days to have good stories in them?  That we can’t watch someone across the street without wanting to invent a story for him?  If there are stories all around us, what does that mean for our world, for the way we interpret events?  And if there aren’t, what does that mean for us, and for the way we desire them?

I have often thought of artists as the mirrors held up before the world. To some extent they are. They are the mirror on the wall you pass with haste and glance at, when you realize the booger hanging from your nose and bags under your eyes and coffee stain on your shirt from that morning. “What!?” you whisper to yourself as you disappear to the bathroom to clean up a bit, “Why didn’t anyone tell me about that?”

Kalamazoo, Michigan. On the campus of Western Michigan University. Student union:

Each Spring it is like this: hopeful. I begin to plan my schedule around Cubs' games. When I was in college, it was Cubs' Opening Day that signaled the end of my appearances in class. No matter what happened the season before by April I truly believe that the Cubs will win the World Series; that this is the year. Most sports fans want their team to win, and cheer for them to win, but every Spring I honestly believe, in my heart of hearts, that the Cubs will finally do it this year. And inevitably they do not. I cannot even tell you the pain and disappointment I feel at the end of the season when hope is gone. And this disappointment is not just with the Cubs, but with myself. I feel foolish and used, for ever believing such a stupid thing, based on no evidence that post-dates 1908.