Part of My Job
Oct. 9th, 2009 06:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thisnewdayI think I've known for some time that kids are the best tellers of their personal stories. So it follows that any adult who wants to tell a kid's story will preserve whatever words are said within his hearing, as well as a bit about the circumstances surrounding them.
Which means you've got to be listening, you've got to recognize the significance of what's being said, and you've got to respond by immediately writing things down. Because how many times have we awakened from a dream and thought, "Man, this is some rare shit. I've gotta write this down." And then hit the snooze button and lost everything except the vague recollection that there had been such a moment.
Which is how it seems to have been with me, lately, something for which I have no excuse or explanation. I mean, I've had these "Kodak moments" all but handed to me in antique, leather-bound albums. Things more precious, even, than the barrister's bookcase that my ninety-four year old father inherited from his grandmother and last year passed on to me. Except that, for whatever reason, I've been letting them slip through my fingers and losing my grandson's history that way.
It's like I've been in a coma, hearing the words, rousing a bit as their significance penetrates the haze, but then falling back against the pillows. And that just isn't me. I've always been the one to say, "Wait a minute, were you really listening, did you actually hear what s/he just said?" And then going ahead and commiting to paper whatever insight might otherwise have been lost.
Somehow, I need to experience the sort of personal reawakening that'll keep this from happening. Because the preservation of these things has always been part of my job...
Which means you've got to be listening, you've got to recognize the significance of what's being said, and you've got to respond by immediately writing things down. Because how many times have we awakened from a dream and thought, "Man, this is some rare shit. I've gotta write this down." And then hit the snooze button and lost everything except the vague recollection that there had been such a moment.
Which is how it seems to have been with me, lately, something for which I have no excuse or explanation. I mean, I've had these "Kodak moments" all but handed to me in antique, leather-bound albums. Things more precious, even, than the barrister's bookcase that my ninety-four year old father inherited from his grandmother and last year passed on to me. Except that, for whatever reason, I've been letting them slip through my fingers and losing my grandson's history that way.
It's like I've been in a coma, hearing the words, rousing a bit as their significance penetrates the haze, but then falling back against the pillows. And that just isn't me. I've always been the one to say, "Wait a minute, were you really listening, did you actually hear what s/he just said?" And then going ahead and commiting to paper whatever insight might otherwise have been lost.
Somehow, I need to experience the sort of personal reawakening that'll keep this from happening. Because the preservation of these things has always been part of my job...
