Do we become the stories we tell about ourselves? Sure we do. But not all stories are plausible. Many narrators are unreliable. The line between invention and articulation is a tricky one to navigate; our doubts and fears and desires get in the way.

A classic example of this is the mid-life crisis sports car. No matter how much the protagonist invests in communicating the story of his virility and youth, the subtext is clear: this man is terrified by death. He is haunted by each strand of hair that his scalp sheds. He desires nothing more than to be desired. He is a sad figure. He is telling a story with his sports car, but not the one he thinks he is telling.

Luckily, not everyone leaves the storytelling to the darker side of their psyches. Many people strive to shed the fictions inside of them and make an attempt at an authentic life. This doesn't mean truth-seekers don't tell stories, but they might forgo telling them through consumer goods. Truth-seekers seem more likely to bristle under categorization: unlike the mid-life crisis sports car man, they expect no definition or articulation of self through the cars, homes, or computers that they buy. While they are sure to have preferences like any living thing, someone dedicated to an authentic life won't expect the type of car that they drive to say anything specific about them, other than the fact that they a.) are wealthy enough to own a functioning car and b.) know how to drive.

I'm picking on consumer goods because American-style capitalism thrives on the darker halves of our psyches, so the examples seem the most accessible. But examples could be found elsewhere: to what extent we are defined by our gender, our sexuality, and society's expectations of someone born to our race/class/and region. Finding your authentic story is tricky amidst all of this. Its hard to know which things we've convinced ourselves of are inventions and which are articulations. Sometimes the cross-over between the two is so frequent the whole thing gets too blurry and boring to navigate. After all, we don't want to live our whole life with our heads up our asses.

Stories are easy to find in others but they seem to hide away whenever we try to find them in ourselves. Perhaps they sense confrontation. In any event, I've only been able to nail down one that I'm sure is storytelling at work in me. It is a story that has had an impact in shaping me. It is a story that I like and am happy about.

Since my cousin and I were really small, we loved to proclaim: "We're WEIRD!" We'd do this without shame, with a smile on our faces. I think this was referencing our preference for Garbage Pail Kids over Cabbage Patch Dolls, our love of making satirical radio shows with the tape recorder ("I'm Bob Evans. And I'm Seven Eleven. And THIS is 20/20."), and our generally spastic games of make-believe (we liked to stage infomercials in which people died demonstrating various products). We knew that other little girls played dolls and house--both of which were UNFATHOMABLE to us. "We're WEIRD!" was a challenge to that idyllic little girl and to status quo in general. It was a recognition that we were different and a proclamation that we wanted to stay that way forever. And for the most part, we have.
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Do you have a story that you tell about yourself? Feel like sharing?

My brother Anthony and his girlfriend Taylor are on their way to Chicago this morning. I can't wait. I haven't really had  chance to hang out one-on-one with Anthony in a few years. A combination of oceans and teen angst kept us apart, leaving sibling-time exclusivly to Julian (the youngest) and I. But I miss Anthony. And I adore his girlfriend. And I was so very happy when he took me up on the invite.

I may have mentioned it before, but it is so weird to me that my brothers are young men. I moved away from home when I was 18 and my brothers were still boys. Skinny, dimple-cheeked little loves. I still see that in them, so tangibly, just beneath the surface of their man-suits. Julian is 16 now. Soon, Anthony and I will be able to go to the bar together.

Crazy.

Also crazy: I had a really good and unexpected night last night. After work, I went to the Village Cycle Center for a bike tune up. While my tune up was happening, I had a beer and read the paper in the next door pub. I read that there was a FREE Pitchfork Music Festival Preview happening that night in Millennium Park. So after my bike was ready, I cycled over, laid down on the lawn, and read my book while listening to fun live music. It was really great. I got turned on to a great new (to me) band: The Fleet Foxes. Really great. Ocean Color Scene meets The Jayhawks. Folk/Rock/Indie/Goodtimes.

After the concert (and a few chapters of me book), I biked home in the night. The moon was big and orange overhead. The lake lapped the shore. The night was soggy and Midwestern and fireflies flickered; fat floaty gems.

As I approached Foster Street Beach, I was happily surprised to hear the thumping beat of a drum circle. A group of fire dancers writhed in the middle of the circle: blazing hula hoops burned bright, poi balls were aglow. An assemblage of bi-standers danced fire-less on the outskirts. Traditional Indian horn music soared overhead.

And the drums. And the drums.

Apparently, every full moon an informal group of fire dancers gather near Foster street beach to revel in its crazy energy. It was really fun. I parked my bike and danced with strangers. I'll be back next moon. And hopefully I'll meet someone who will teach me how to hula fire.

Have a good weekend, ladies and gents. Happy full moon!

Oh yeah! Props to Grandpa Jaggers for the photo featured in my new Xanga lay-out. The mountain sunset is the view from their deck. Amazing!