Humor

A man walks into a bar with a chunk of asphalt under his arm. He says to the bartender: "I'll have one drink for me and one for the road."

Here is today's story, straight from my source: Uncle Bouqui and Little Malice. What really struck me about it was how funny it was. It takes a lot, I think, for something written in a book to be really funny, especially when that thing was originally told as a story. I'm sure someone telling the story of Uncle Bouqui and Little Malice well could have his audience rolling with laughter pretty much the whole time. It's a very special gift, this particular aspect of good storytelling, and it's one I'd really like to nurture in myself.

I was riding home with some friends tonight from a very somber play (Sleep No More if your interested - in a league of its own regarding storytelling), and we spent most of the time telling each other really terrible jokes. Sure, we were all exhausted, so that helped, but a lot of the fun of it came from how we were telling them. A stupid joke told poorly is no fun. A stupid joke told well is hilarious, or at least worth a groan, even if the audience has heard it thousands of times before. I was reminded of a kind of Japanese theater called Rakugo that seems to work on the same principle. Unfortunately English examples of it are sparse, but what I've seen of it suggests that it's all in the storytelling. The performers use a very few props, and act out different characters in silly ways, all leading up to one very simple, often predictable punchline, but it's hysterical if done well.

My drawing professor is asking us to examine the role that humor can play in our work this week, so I think I'll be focusing on it for a little while here as well. It feels a bit strange to be taking on this topic when, I'll admit, I haven't been very happy lately. Yes, plenty is going well for me, and I'm very very grateful to be surrounded by people I love, but there's been a lot of bad news in my life lately, for myself and people I care deeply about. That being said, I've always been of the opinion that a good sense of humor has its place in even the most dire of times, or when dealing with difficult subjects, and maybe even especially then. Some people insist that there are some things that shouldn't ever be the subjects of jokes, and I respect that opinion, but on the other hand I would insist that humor is often the healthiest way to deal with unfortunate but inevitable truths. If something makes me uncomfortable or, frankly, scares the hell out of me, I joke about it. I make fun of it. It takes away the power of a fear and makes me feel in control and less confined by what scares me.

The Juniper Tree

The Juniper Tree - AT Type 720 (Mother Killed Me, Father Ate Me)

The Juniper Tree is another one of my favorite fairy tales, decidedly morbid though it may be. I read it today because of the similarities I noticed between it and The Magic Orange Tree from Haiti. Namely, they both feature dead mothers who protect or save their children in the form of a tree.

What leads adults to tell stories like these to children? I think we feel their need for us, their dependence and the shelter they seek in our arms, and we fear our own inadequacy. How can we possibly measure up to such love, and such demand for love in return? I've met children who would rush happily into my arms moments after they met me, trusting me completely. Somewhere along the transition from child to adult, we lose the capacity to love unconditionally, unquestioningly. We shut ourselves off for fear that our love won't be returned, or we learn that our trust should not be so freely given. It is this that leads adults to tell children stories like these.

In these stories, the trusted mothers do not abandon their children. They do not fail, they do not die. They live forever and love forever, persisting in magical form as a provider of shelter and nourishment, persisting despite their shortcomings to nurture their children even after death. Only a fear of one's own inadequacy could produce these stories. If you have ever looked into a child's trusting eyes, you have known that fear. How could you tell them you have to leave? How could you explain why? How could you ever explain how much their trust means to you? You can't, you can't. And so you tell them stories, you tell them you'll be back, you tell them everything will work out in the end. And they learn.

Greatest Fear

The Story of a Boy Who Went Forth to Learn Fear - AT 326

Tonight I wish to present you with a poem. As with all of these entries, it is a largely spontaneous work, far from what I would consider a cohesive finished product. I hope you will keep that in mind, as it could be particularly distracting when it occurs in poetic format, as the meter and rhyme have not really been hammered out as well as they could be. As always, I encourage your feedback as to how I may improve my work.

One day a little boy went out to see what he could learn of fear
This feeling he had never felt but heard of quite a bit.
"What could it be," he thought aloud, "that captivates so many minds?"
"How stupid I must be to have such little grasp of it!"

So out he went into the land, through hours and weeks, through months and years
While asking everyone he met what thing they feared the most.
Some mentioned death, and others sin, some injury or grave disease.
Still other spoke of demons, or of monsters, or of ghosts.

But none of these could fright the boy, he knew them to be myths, or worse,
The specters of a sullen mind, excuses not to live with mirth.

The boy lamented that his quest had been so fruitless all these years.
While passing through a quiet town on one still, moonlit night
A local overheard his sighs and told him of a haunted place
Where he might pass three evenings and bring all his fears to light.

And so the boy took up this challenge, staying in the house alone
But for three nights he witnessed nothing, though he checked in every nook
Until the final night, when seaching in the cellar there he found
A silver, polished mirror into which he dared to look.

What he saw was strange to him, a cheerful life of peace and love,
Surrounded by a family and a host of caring friends.
A smile crossed his face, because he knew what he could have,
But unfortunate for him, that is not where the story ends.

For you see, this blessed mirror was reflecting only lies,
And in a moment it had changed before the child's weary eyes.

When the shining surface showed the truth, he saw he was no boy, at last,
But just an old and tired man whose dreams would never come to pass.

He'd spent his life in searching and had never really lived,
Nor had ever learned the value of the love he had to give.