There is inherent power in telling a story. It matters not if the story is good or bad, fiction or a someone’s living truth. What matters to many is the outcome – namely how the reader or listener feels or responds after absorbing the words. What matters to me mostly is how a story is told. Therein lies the truest command of a teller of tales.
I’m not sure about you, but my social media feeds began the week thick with cancel culture attacks. Proverbial wands are flailing about and despite the Ministry of Magic decree to never utter the words, “Imperio!” and “Crucio!” are being shouted all willy-nilly as the offended take aim at J.K.Rowling. This isn’t the first time that the public has positioned Ms. Rowling as one of the fictional dementors she’s scribed; but to many her real life words overshadow the positive messages in the stories she’s penned to paper.
I spent the entire long Labor Day weekend in my favorite sweat pants and a cotton t-shirt with cut-off sleeves and socks. It really doesn’t matter that my shirt sleeves were gone but their absence did create a bit of balance with the long pants I wore despite the weather being plenty warm enough to wear shorts. Since most of my interaction with nature in recent days has been through glass windows and brick walls I opted for comfort over sensible in my wardrobe choices.
A few days ago, as I checked most of my self-assigned coronavirus projects off my list I took advantage of a free offer to watch a documentary for which I’d neglected making time to see in the theaters last year. As much as I knew I needed to see it and wanted to see it, I also thought it would be a difficult 95 minutes of viewing. I can’t remember any other film that I ever had the same hesitation. Watching it at home seemed a better plan since I could pause the show whenever I wanted.
On April 7 we lost John Prine to the COVID-19 virus. I don’t usually pay much attention to celebrities when they die, and truth be told, he never really felt like a celebrity in the sense that most others do. He was a brilliant writer. His voice fit him. He had the best voice for the words he penned. But first and foremost, to me he was the consummate poet. In his lyrics he spoke volumes. There won’t be another John Prine.