The Telling Life: The observed world

I love people watching. I am a habitual eavesdropper. I'm that person in the cafe with a book in front of her staring out the window. One of my first posts in this blog was about just that, the art of keeking and many others have been my observations of the world. Most of my storyteller friends - heck, most of my friends - do this. We'll be out to lunch and one of us will suddenly get a far away look in their eye and inclines their head in a particular direction. We fall quiet and listen.

There are stories everywhere. When you view the world through the storyteller's lens everything changes.

The woman in the grocery store aisle looking intently at the paper towels? Maybe her father looked like the Brawny guy and she's remembering that time when she was a girl and they rode on a roller coaster for the first time.

I can't help but observe the world. I've always been like this. When I was a little girl my family encouraged observation. We would watch the sky for satellites and shooting stars. We went to museums and I was taught how to look at a painting though half the time I was watching the people watching the art.

The man who is tearing through traffic in the Subaru Brat like there's no tomorrow? Maybe for him there is no tomorrow. Maybe he just got bad news. Maybe he's on the run. Or maybe he's just a jerk.

My stories are populated by the things I see, the overheard conversations, the possibilities suggested by the stranger's stance. I can't tell you how many times I have overheard something that became a full-blown tale. The people I tell about are often real, just borrowed and placed in new situations.

The kid singing to himself? Maybe he's singing with a choir I can't hear. Maybe he's going to become the next great lyricist. Maybe he can't sing at home. Maybe he's calling the faeries. Maybe he is a faery. I don't know.

It's sometimes a problem. When I hear a conversation I can't bear to walk away from. When I walk behind someone for the extra block because they intrigue me. When I almost get caught, eavesdropping. I mean no harm. I'm just a storyteller looking for her next fix.

Storytellers of all kinds, be we performers, writers, poets, film makers or some other kind of narrative artist, have a world of possibility presented to us every day. Go out and observe.
Dream.
Imagine new possibilities.
Observation can be a kind of worship, honoring the way the world opens itself to us and we, by seeing it, make it real. It can be a great mystery, giving us riddles to solve. It can be the source of your next story.
It is our palette and playground.
Go play.
Then tell me, what do you see? And what else? And?

(c)2015 Laura S. Packer

Signs from the universe

I can't help it. I look for signs and portents everywhere, even though I know that the patterns I find are most likely inconsequential and random. Humans are exquisitely good at finding patterns, after all.  But I still look.

I make wishes when I blow out birthday candles, when the clock reads 11:11, when I see a shooting star. I ask questions of the universe and look for an answer in the sighs of the trees or overheard conversations. Come on, I know some of you do this too.

Even doing all of this, I know it's silly. I don't let it rule my life; I don't think of myself as a superstitious person. I don't check my horoscope and then hide inside if it says I'm going to have a bad day. I treat it as a game. But sometimes synchronicity is a joy to behold.

I was in a Chinese restaurant the other day, enjoying spicy soup and dumplings. I had a good book. I was happy. Next to me were two men, pouring over their plans for a new interactive game, I assume some kind of multi-player online game. For the most part they were discussing technical details and, while I listened occasionally (it is in my nature) I stuck to my book.

Then one of them said, "I just wish I liked our characters more. We need a better story." My ears perked up. And they went back to the technical details of the game.

As I finished my meal I thought I know a thing or two about story. Maybe I could help. Or would that be too intrusive? I opened my fortune cookie and it read, "An opportunity will be presented to you." Who am I to argue with a fortune cookie?

I leaned over and said, "Excuse me. If you still don't like your characters and story, maybe I can help. I'm a storyteller." I gave them a card. They looked perplexed. I bid them a good day and left, feeling exhilarated and awkward.

That night a good friend showed up unexpectedly with Chinese take out. Far be it from me to look a gift moo shu in the mouth; we ate together, then opened our fortune cookies. Mine read, "You have done an excellent job seizing a recent opportunity." I was stunned. How could this not be a sign?

I wish I could tell you they called the next day and I'm off to a new career as a game writer. That would be the movie-ending to this story. But this isn't a movie, so I have to admit that they haven't phoned. Still, it was a nice example of the universe tossing me a synchronicity bone. I enjoyed it and will keep looking for signs and portents, knowing that, while they not point me on the one true path, they certainly amuse me as I meander on my way.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

The walls have ears

A selection of the observed and overheard.

1. "We're all interchangeable pawns." Overheard in the corridors of a tech company.
2. Bartender 1: That's white of him.
   Bartender 2: What did you day?
   Bartender 1: I said, that's white of him.
   Bartender 1, laughing: You gotta love the South.
   Over heard in a bar in North Carolina. I was initially stunned then cringed at the stereotype.
   
3. Overheard, while walking across street, "No death for us!" My first thought: ever? How boring!
4. Earlier this week I had the pleasure of spreading a conversational meme. I was talking with an acquaintance about the relative merits of twitter and facebook. Within a few minutes I heard one conversation near me about facebook, then another about twitter. I guess I'm not the only one who eavesdrops...

Hear anything good this week?

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Watch what you say!

This was a good week for keeking.

- A one way dialogue between two women in a shopping mall lot. One woman said to the other, without pausing for breath, "Do you know what's hard? I'll tell you what's hard. What's hard is..." Sadly, I never got to hear what was hard. I'm hoping she said, "...granite."

- Out for a walk in a wealthy suburban town, I saw a mom and her children walking a goat and three kids on leashes.

- In a large, chain hardware store with orange branding. One associate talking with another.

"Man, working here sucks."

"It's a job and it's better than sitting at home."

"Whaddya mean?"

"You get paid to pretend you can fix shit here. At home I gotta pretend for free."

- Three little girls running through a park with their arms spread, blowing raspberries. I think they were airplanes. This made me grin for days.

What have you seen or overheard lately?

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

The observed world

As you know by now, I'm blogging daily throughout September. To make this a sustainable practice I've come up with a structure for posts. Thus far it is:

Tuesdays - A ramble. An essay of some sort or another, the kind of thing I've been doing all along.

Wednesdays - Work by others that I find inspirational. Poetry, visual arts, music, etc.

Thursdays - Feeding the muse. Creativity boosters and challenges.

Fridays (that would be today) - The observed world. The overheard and seen a.k.a. my life as a voyeur. Not the creepy kind.

I've written before about how much I love keeking (if this makes no sense to you read this). Observing the world, of it but not quite in it, is where I try to live. I love liminal places, where I can linger and pretend I'm watching the best movie ever.

* * *

Walking through a local shopping district this week, I overheard the following exchange between a middle-aged woman and a somewhat younger man. Both were white, missing some teeth and dressed casually in clean clothing.

She: I'm not saying do it for me because I'm your mother -

He: I'm not living large here!

She: You have a kid! You have to take care of her!

He: I'm going nuts with this shit everyday.

She: Oh, you have it so hard, shrimp every night, you come over and clean out the fridge -

He: Fuck you!

She: Would you say that to your kid?

Later on that same walk I saw two older black women, well dressed in neat, out-of-fashion, well cared for dresses. One was much taller than the other and very thin. She had a beatific expression on her face that may have been because she was wearing a truly glorious, large hat. She and her friend were walking slowly through the crowds of the homeless, of the iPod wearing oblivious, of the harried commuters. They were holding hands.

Who have you seen today? What did you hear?

Tomorrow, Saturdays, are for original creative work. Come back for a surprising glimpse into my strange, skewed world.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

The overheard

I'll start with this. I wrote about keeking a long time ago, that fine art of taking a little peek in on something, a glance. I do this with listening too - you might call it eavesdropping, I would call it... research. Or maybe a way of life.

Take this example. Last weekend Kevin and I were having breakfast at a pleasant little restaurant. It was really crowded, cheek to jowl. A couple of young guys were near us and had a conversation something like this:

"So how was it last night?"
"Oh, man, it was sweet! There were only, like, two or three fights. Though this one girl took it really hard on the head and was holding herself up on a pole afterwards. It really wasn't that bad."

Within another sentence or two they were talking about if they should start a housecleaning business or stick with their jobs for another six months because, "The work is like, balls, but it's at least a steady income and until I'm ready to do something on my own I really can't complain."

I'm just grateful they didn't look over and notice me jotting all this down. Being 40 and invisible does have its advantages I guess, though that could be another post.

Meanwhile, the couple on the other side was having a heartfelt discussion about literature, the future of their relationship, and the cost of gas.

I love those overheard gems. They help me remember that we aren't really so different from one another, that we all have largely the same cares and concerns. I can't say that an evening with only two or three fights would be my idea of a good time, but I can identify with his excitement and energy and the thrill of just being alive. All the while the other couple was so very much a chick-flick one moment and then real-world every-day the next. And I live that life too, the one of operatic concerns and mundanities.

Any of this material would seem very cinema-verite, but it doesn't need the cinema part. Just by listening I have a greater connection to the real life that happens all around me. And this is just passive listening, simply by being in an environment and extending my ears. I get to absorb stories, process them and my world becomes a bigger place. How cool is that?

So by just listening I learn about the secrets and truths in the human heart. I learn about the threads that connect us. I gather material for characters and stories. And I get to remember that I am one of many and just as easily overheard. How wonderful! Someday I might show up on someone else's blog.

So the other day I overheard this woman talking to her friend and she said...

Unexpected angels

This is a true story.

He was one of those people that can be a little scary. He was ragged, smelled bad, and was, worst of all, talking to himself while glaring at the ground and gesturing at things I couldn’t see. In the parlance of my family, he was a crazy. He was following me.

I was 13 or 14, coming into my woman’s body but still with some of the scent of girlhood around me. It was winter and I was in downtown Philadelphia to do a little Christmas shopping. Even though my family was secular Jewish, I had plenty of friends to shop for and loved the hustle and bustle of the city at this time of year. I loved the lights and sounds and the way the old department stores (Wanamaker's in particular) seemed so vast and elegant while the smaller shops were cozy and seemed to have secrets they were just dying to tell. I felt grown up as I wandered from store to store, mulling over my choices.

Then I saw him. I don’t know how long he’d been following me, but I first noticed him huddled by the doorway as I walked out of one store. I’m sure I thought something like I hope he isn’t too cold, as if being a little cold was okay.

Then I noticed him again as I left the next shop. And the next. When I looked around as I walked to the next store he was right there, just a pace behind me, mumbling to himself and glancing up at me every few steps. There was no doubt, he was following me.

I didn’t know what to do. This was the late 1970s in Philadelphia, I didn’t look upon the police as friends. There were hundreds of people streaming by, but I knew none of them and had neither reason to believe they would help nor hope that he wouldn't react badly if I asked for help within his hearing. He wasn’t following me into stores, just waiting for me outside, so I clutched my bags a little tighter and went into the next shop – these buildings were old and all backed into alleys, maybe I could escape that way.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the counter. Remembering her now, I can see she was barely older than I was. “Someone is following me and standing outside of the store. Do you mind if I leave by your back door?”

She glanced out the window quickly, then back at me. “We don’t have a back door. Sorry.” To this day I think she was lying. I think she couldn’t see him and thought I was a crazy, that at best I wanted to steal something, at worst, who knows.

That was the only moment that I remember being afraid. I didn’t know why he was following me or what he wanted. He was a crazy. And he was outside waiting for me.

I stood in the doorway of that shop, feeling her looking at me from behind the counter. I can only imagine her hand was on the phone, poised to dial the police. I took a deep breath and stepped outside, hoping he had gone away.

Of course, he hadn’t. He was still there, still looking at the ground, mumbling and gesturing. His glance flickered to me and I saw his balance shift, ready to move when I moved.

I looked across the street, pretended I was trying to decide what store to go into next, while I wondered if I should run. As I stood there, I heard what he was saying.

“You gotta be careful, you can’t let anyone get too close. You don’t know what will happen, you have to have someone around to keep you safe. You need to look out for yourself, you know. You have to be careful these days, it’s not like the old days. You gotta be careful.”

He might be a crazy, but maybe he wasn't out to get me. I looked at him. He glanced up at me again and kept telling me to be careful.

I took one step closer to him and he glanced at me again, still talking, but a little slower.

“I’ll be okay,” I said. “I promise to be careful.”

This time he didn’t look away. “You gotta be careful. You don’t know who’s out there.”

“I promise. I’ll be careful.”

We looked at each other for what felt like an hour but I’m sure was only a few seconds.

“Okay,” he said.

“Merry Christmas,” I replied, “Thank you for looking out for me.” I walked away. He didn’t follow me, though I could see him watching when I caught his reflection in the store window.

I kept my promise. But I have to wonder, who was I for him? Did I remind him of someone who wasn’t careful enough? Was he protecting me from a threat I couldn’t see?

I don’t know. Nor do I know why, in that moment, I stopped to listen. I can only be grateful that I did. It has made all the difference - not the being careful. The listening and the wonder and the moment of connection.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

The tales we tell

It's funny how things come together sometimes. I'm finding myself in one of those confluences of life and art where I'm forced to notice the world clearing its throat at me, telling me to pay attention.

I'm writing like a wildwoman for NaNoWriMo, almost 24000 words in 12 days. This is more than I've ever written in one burst before. I'm enjoying it and the process is making me acutely aware of how fiction is culled from our own lives. This is no surprise, of course, but the intensity of this writing, thousands of words every day, is stripping any pretense away from the process. Portions of this book, episodes here and there or various character traits, are pulled from my life, from the lives of those around me and integrated into my characters. If I had more time or if I end up rewriting with an eye towards publication I'll file off the serial numbers, but for now, it's pretty transparent. As I'm writing I keep finding myself writing about the time when I... or the story my father told me about... or the way my mother... and so on.

At the same time I've been thinking about the way we tell the stories of our lives and the way those stories are often fictions. We don't mean to lie - we aren't lying - but we are the epicenters of our own lives and the stories are constructed so that particular telling, that truth, is told such that we are the heroes or at least the protagonists. And if the stories get embellished a little, so the stories are more interesting, who else will know? The arguments are a little fiercer, our responses are a little wittier, we are a little kinder or learn a more poignant message. However it works out, we are still at the center of the story that would, were it told by someone else, probably be a very different tale but no less true. We are all telling the true fiction of our lives all the time.

When I perform a piece of fiction it is no less true than an autobiographical piece. In fact, it may be more honest, because it has no pretense of not being filtered through my own lens of bias, hopes and ideals, hence the name of this blog.

All of this thinking was crystallized when I started reading The Thirteenth Tale in which a writer of fantastical fiction decides it's time to finally tell her true story, something she has never done before. I know my personal stories are no more true than my recounting of Eve or the djinni's story. Likewise they are no less true. And this novel I'm writing as a crash course in creative fiction? There is truth there too.

When you tell someone a story about your life don't worry too much about the details. Don't worry if you fudge the dates or enhance your role a little. We all do it. Take it from me, a professional liar, the truth of a story may have very little to do with how factual it is. Go ahead. Be a hero. I'll be listening, but I won't tell.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

Keeking

One of my favorite words is keek. It's a Scots Gaelic word that means a quick look, a peep. I do this all the time, take a quick glance into places that are not part of my world.

I love keeking. I love the stories that are suggested by the places I see, the intimacies I inadvertently glimpse, the mysteries that are conjured up by my imagination with just these little peeks.

I go for walks at night through my neighborhood. You know how your parents always told you to close the binds? That was because of people like me. I don't care if I see you naked. I'm more interested in the glancing vision of your room as I walk by. What do you have on your walls? What music or conversation drifts out of those open windows? What did you cook for dinner dinner tonight? I don't pry, I never stop and stare (that would be a good way to attract notice) I just walk slowly by and savor the moment. And I notice.

It's my job. I'm a writer and storyteller, and these are the details that feed my creative engine.

From these details I can construct a whole world. A picture of a house tacked to a wall becomes a long lost childhood home. A door half open with clothing tumbling out becomes a hiding place for a sprite. The blue flickery light of a television set with the volume turned off becomes a silent lullaby. Who knows what else?

Come on, I know you keek too. You look to see what the person next to you on the subway is reading, you strain to read the diary of the boy in the cafe, you listen to overheard conversations. It's human nature, we want to be connected to world around us, and just assume we're unnoticed while we spy on others.

I see you seeing. Don't worry, I won't tell. Just walk by when you see me, glance over my shoulder at what I'm typing and I'll only slow down a little when I hear you talking. For what it's worth, we're all in this together, and these little bits of connection are usually better than none at all.

(c) 2007 Laura Packer