Speaker for the Dead

For those of you who have read Orson Scott Card's "Speaker for the Dead," which I hope to high Heaven you all have, this will all be easier to understand. If you haven't, however, that shouldn't matter too terribly much, except that for the love of all that's holy, you should immediately go out, buy that book, and read it.

I have always been fascinated by stories. My name is what started it, I think. As you probably know, my name is Avalon - spelled 'avallon' in Welsh, pronounced "afatlon." It's also known as Avallion, in some translations. It comes from the root word 'lava' ("lafa"), which means 'apple.' Avalon translates as "The Isle of Blessed Peace," and "The Isle of Apples." It is the Celtic version of the Garden of Eden (hence the apples. But it's also a little bit like Heaven.

Avalon is a real place, a small island in the middle of a lake in England that is most often shrouded by mist. When the Romans occupied Britain, Christians built a monastery there called Glastonbury Tor. That stone tower still stands. In legend, it was where King Arthur went to die - or be healed, depending which story you want to hear.

Anyway. Mom and I were wandering through Manitou today, and she told me that my name had fitted me all my life - that, like an island, people of all sorts had always flocked to me for peace and comfort. That makes very little sense to me, as I struggle for peace just as heartily as everyone else, but random people do tend to tell me their life stories and laundry list their problems with little or no provocation. I do seem to meet the strangest people.

Ancient cultures believed - knew - that names hold immense power. In the Bible, God changed the names of certain people when their old names ceased to be appropriate. I wonder if names mold us, or if we rise to them, or if they reflect us. For me, I think my name was meant for me, or perhaps that I was meant for it - that it directed me toward the path I am supposed to walk. My name was the first thing that got me interested in stories, and I haven't stopped since.

My love of stories evolved into my talent with words. I don't mean to sound prideful, but I know that what power I have lies with words. Words are my strength and my passion.

I learned today for the nth time that talents are not just hobbies, but responsibilities. It's not only my joy and my ability to wordsmith, but my job, my purpose.

Ha ha, I think the next four years of my life or so were planned out over lunch today, and I had very little say. I might not ever have had a say. I've been charged with ghostwriting the autobiography of a very interesting man. It's going to be...difficult, but it starts Sunday, so we'll see how it goes.

It's a responsibility I've been shying away from. Every time I see this man, we speak and I think, "Damn, he seriously needs to write an autobiography." But his memory isn't so good. He needs spurring to tell his stories, which are unrelentingly amazing. I've known for a long time that it's my job to write his story, but...so much responsibility. I'm frightened of it, and I'm frightened of not finishing it.

But his is not the only story I want so badly to tell. My grandfather died recently, and I heard some stories at his funeral and during my time in Florida that make me want to write his biography. I don't have the time or the money for the travel, but it's an offer with an expiration date, as not many of his war buddies are long for this world, exactly. I don't know what to do with that.

There are a couple of other people I know whose stories deserve the telling, and I don't honestly believe I have the ability to capture them in words. This one guy I know...I know him so well, and yet he never ceases to surprise or amaze me. I'm not sure language is adequate for describing his soul, and yet his story cannot go untold, you know?

I must know the people that I do for a very specific purpose. I don't know how much good or ill I've done in the world, but I don't believe in coincidences or accidents. Everything happens for a reason, and that includes relationships. Remember me then, as you remember Othello, perhaps - one who loved not always wisely, but too well. I worry about throwing myself into the field of writing other people's stories. I worry about losing myself to it, sacrificing my own story. though perhaps the telling is my story.

Most legends around the world have a set of stock characters - an old wise man, a hero, a parent, etc. And a rememberer. A recorder, the one who lives, who tells the story after everyone else is gone. To make sure that the world remembers what happened, so it can learn and grow. I always thought my role was as the old wise man, but maybe I'm the rememberer. Maybe I encounter such interesting people because I'm supposed to tell their stories. That's a heavy charge. I don't know that I can do that. I'm no Ender, no Speaker for the Dead. (Here is where those of you who have read that book know what on Earth I'm talking about.)

But my name is an old one, a meaningful one. I'm not exactly sure of the relationship between names and the people who carry them, but whether or not people rise to their names, grow into them, or reflect them - my name is not quite done with me yet. Sunday will tell, I suppose. We'll see, as I sit down to write that man's amazing story.

-Avalon

The Rabbit Apocaplyspe (or, the Long-Eared End is Nigh)

April is an odd month for me.

First, there's Easter. Now, I love Easter. It brings back a lot of memories from my childhood, and is one of those like eleven or twelve times a year I go to church. But those of you who know me well know that I'm effing terrified of rabbits. Yeah, it's an odd phobia, I know. I can't help it; should probably get some help with that. I'm not exactly proud of it, but bunnies are not an okay creature for me. I do not find them cute. They are not adorable. They are not cuddly. They are sleeper cells of Satan, evil little beady-eyed demon spawn in the guise of an innocent childhood pet. In other words, Easter wreaks a little bit of havoc on my psyche. All the rabbit decorations make me nervous. Twitchy.

That is not the only reason April is an off month for me. Next week is the two-year anniversary of when I was hit by a truck, so I tend to think about a lot of things this time of year, especially the nature of life. In particular, how quickly it can be cut short. Now, don't get me wrong, that car accident wasn't too bad. Not nearly as bad as it could have been. I didn't break anything, just a few fractures and concussions and some blood. No permanent damage. So really, I'm just bitching philosophically here. But, you know me. That's kinda my thing.

So anyway. I was walking and suddenly there was this truck. One of those obnoxious big-ass trucks that makes your heart hurt a little bit for Mother Earth when they're not hauling large pieces of equipment in their beds. It was all I could see, and I only had time to think with just a tint of incredulity, "That truck is really close. God, it might hit me." I woke up a little later on the asphalt and my first words where, "What the hell was that?" I remember that I felt bad for saying "hell," even though I was groggy and seeing stars. That was back before I cursed like a sailor on leave, of course.

I was fine (obviously) but it gave me some interesting perspective. I'd had plans that day. I never expected it. It makes me think about how quickly life can end. How moments might be all we have. I barely had time for a quick, half-formed reactionary thought. After all the hours I've spent just thinking, processing things time and time again, running mental laps - it seems almost mocking. It makes me think about what's important in life. Not all those hours of thought, though they provide me with a foundation upon which to live the rest of my days, however many they may be - but rather, the people that I love. I spent an evening with a friend recently, and that was important. I helped a stranger. That was important. I made dinner and cleaned the kitchen with my parents, and that was important. Right now, my cat is attempting to monopolize my attention by cutting of the circulation in my arms and preventing my reach to the keyboard, and I'm sure that's somehow important, even though I had to correct the rampant spelling errors in this sentence when I could see the screen again. Love is what's important. But so is purpose. What we're meant to do - that's how we should be spending our days.

If you died now, right now, this very instant, would you be content with the life you lived?

Would you?

Because life can end so fast. So unexpectedly. I was guarded from the damage that should have occurred when I was struck by that car. My work is not yet done, I guess. But had I died then, I don't think I could have been satisfied with my life. I'd made a lot of mistakes in the recent past of that time. I hadn't yet atoned for them. I still haven't, I guess. But I've come to terms. If I died right now, there would only be a couple things I would regret. Not finishing my book. Not sharing everything I know with someone who needs it. Not visiting my grandma and making amends. I guess that means those are things that I should do. But other than those things? I'm pretty damn happy. I've lived, and loved, and laughed, and hoped, and helped and healed. That's enough for me.

Not that I'm planning on dying any time soon. Those are just the kinds of thoughts that run through my head this time of year. Don't let me get you down. It's only castles burning. :) (Ten points if you know that quote.)

Despite the skewed view I bring to April showers, life is oh so good. I am blessed and fulfilled. My family and I are close, as families go. They are dear to me. My friends know I love them. And I am loved, in spite of all my neuroticies. No, that's not a word, but it sounds like it should be, no? Like combobulated. That should most definitely be a word. If I ran Webster's, things would be different.