That Song by Brandi Carlile, or, Plotlines

Tell me a story, riddle me this.


Tell me a story with a happy ending.


Tell me a story I'll believe.


Tell me a story I'll want to listen to.


Tell me a compelling lie.

*****

I follow a lot of stories lately.  On Twitter I follow the stories of baseball games, usually involving the casts of men from San Francisco, Oakland, Tampa Bay, D.C., and Texas.  I follow the journey of a young gay poet from Harlem who recently sold his possessions and is traveling the world.  I follow the success of a Oregonian who walked for three months straight in 1995 and lived to write about it.

On Google Reader I follow the continued adventures of a baseball fan who has found a delightful amount of fantasy in the California flora.

On Facebook I follow the uplifting adventures of a fellow artist from way back as she bench-presses.  Dead-lift?  She brings it to life.  I follow the continuing story of one of my favorite authors as he leaves the City we both love and lets go, goes on.  I follow a friend I met twice who lives on the other side of the world, the land of this year's Olympians, and takes photos of rings without color, giving them clarity.  I follow a former teacher as he writes the final sentence in a chapter of his life.

I'm from Missouri.  You've got to "Show Me."

And they do.  Stories like this are my lifeline, the bubbles back into what is at times my own flat soda.  I follow them for so many reasons the character motivation becomes murky, at best, but primarily they keep me afloat.  They are not stories with happy endings.  They have no ending at all, bless 'em.  As to happy...bittersweet.  Bittersweet is better, bittersweet is easier to believe, bittersweet shows me that they are human instead of "perfect."  I am wary of "perfect."  Bittersweet has a rounded flavor, a richness..."Your cat exploded?  Make good art," says Neil Gaiman, a bittersweet statement if there ever was one.  Every one of these people has a setback or challenge to get past, whether it takes up an hour, a day, or years.  The poet from Twitter is afraid of the Phoenix airport.  The Giants have two struggling pitchers.  The Nats have a nark.  The hiker wants us to be brave, regardless.

The triffids may get us all someday, but wouldn't it be better to walk on the wild side?

Ah, sweet friends...tell me a story.

Tell it well.  Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is the inspiration by today's installment of Life For Rent.  "Lines across my face," lines across my palm, same thing.