The Mind Betrays
Sometimes, the mind betrays it’s self. Sometimes something as simple as a sound, one which is common place, one which you might regularly hear on any given day and thus normally give no notice to, takes on an ominous and sinister tone when you are lying in your bed late at night, with all of the lights out, your mind freed from the tethers of normal waking consciousness as you drift towards slumber.
The groan of a tree branch on the far side of the house, in the wind, for example, becomes the unmistakable creak of a stair upon the case which ascends to a landing located just outside of your bedroom door, where no one or thing that would make such a noise has any right or reason to be.
Perhaps it is that self same branch, or one of a sufficiently similar nature, whose twig dragging slowly across the old tin roof refracts and echoes through the attic spaces above, its sound distorted in such a fashion that it becomes eerily similar to that of a sharpener being dragged slowly and purposefully across the blade of an axe or other instrument designed for the sole purpose of cutting or carving, coming from just outside your bedroom door.
Lying there face downward upon your bed, hands nestled comfortably beneath your soft cotton pillow, head turned to the right and facing opposite in direction to that of your bedroom door, your eyes suddenly flash open in alarm. Immediately you notice, with some perturbation, that you have failed to firmly latch in place the closet door, an affect that lingers from long gone days of childhood fears and anxieties, and one which you are usually so careful to double check before retiring to your bed for the night. This has led that door, either through some unevenness in the floor or else by the nature in which it was hung upon its hinges, to swing open just a crack. It is this, a mere crack, less than an inch in its width, providing only the most rudimentary glimpse of the darkness beyond, and through this glimpse intensifying the suggestion through its own obfuscation of the unknown and thus the possible terrors that lurk within, which makes it all the more disturbing to the mind.
This is not what is important in the moment, however. This is a problem which can be remedied later. Of immediate focus and concern are the sounds that seem to issue from just beyond your bedroom door; sounds which for all intents and purposes portend the approaching demise of your very existence at the hands of some axe-wielding maniac. And so it is that your mind attunes and attends to the sounds.
Given your current state of mind, it should come as no surprise, therefore, that the crackling ticks and pop of the central air system coming to life is interpreted as your bedroom door handle being turned. It is not beyond the realm of reason that the very first gush of air emanating from the vent in the baseboard is mistaken as it strikes the back of your head as a sure sign of the air pressure in your home realigning its self as your bedroom door is cracked open. You are certainly forgiven for when a simple piece of paper, resting upon your desk, when caught by this aforementioned gust of air, first flutters to the floor and then haphazardly scoots closer towards your bed each time that the breeze catches at its edge with a sufficient leverage of resistance to cause movement, is mistaken for the shuffling of feet towards your bed.
All of the while, while this scenario is being played out in your mind in real time, your body remains motionless, unwilling to provide any sign to your would-be intruder of your alert state of being or of your knowledge of its presence within the room. It is only when this impending figure of doom, at last, has drawn sufficiently close, and when you can be relatively certain of its positioning beside your bed, according to the movement of the sound, that you react with a singular and swift motion.
A hand snaps out, grasping the thick, heavy glass, still half filled with water, from the position where you had left it upon your bedside table, and turning, you bring the glass down hard upon the empty air where you were certain that the figure’s head would more or less be located. The glass its self, resolved to following the natural laws of motion, pries it self forcefully from your grip, where, continuing in a more or less downward motion, collides with the floorboards, shattering and producing a temporary arc of glass fragments and water cascading outward and away through the air from the original point of impact, before settling once more upon the floor with a disparate rattle.
Sitting up upon the side of your bed, careful so as not to place your feet upon any fragments of broken glass that may have found their way back towards you, you survey the floor in front of you, and you laugh.
It begins as a sort of grunt, a short vocalized exhalation of breath which feels more to do with an initial release of tension than with the ludicrousness of the situation its self. Once begun, however, it seizes control of the body. A twittering giggle becomes a series of deep guffaws, doubling you over with intensity.
What you do not notice is the figure now standing across the bed behind you, which has utilized the sound of your own laughter to mask its movement as it crept from its former hiding place within your bedroom closet. What you are not aware of is the shape as it slowly raises an axe above its head before bringing it down with swift determination.
A story, and what it is about, although each must by necessity and design inform the other, are two distinct and separate things. When someone asks you what your story is about, what they are usually actually asking for is the story. So you dutifully respond by giving them a brief description of the general narrative. If you were to respond instead that it is about the many and varied intricate aspects of inter-human relationships, and how our perceptions and preconceived notions can lead to misinterpretations and misunderstandings which must be overcome in order for rectification and reconciliation to occur, or else one must be doomed to be sucked forever into the vortex of a black-hole death spiral, while all of this may well be true, you are bound to get a few awkward stares to say the least. I would encourage you to do so.
To say that the story above is about an individual who may or may not be being hunted down by a killer in his or her own home, therefore, would be somewhat disingenuous. That may be the story, but that is not what it is actually about. The story is merely the hanger, the meat hook upon which the body has been ceremoniously hung in order that it may be carved into and devoured by the individual readership, each according to his or her own taste and appetite. This is not intended to minimize, in any way, shape or form, the importance of story its self, which is essential as a vehicle to carry the meaning, or its “aboutness”, forward. It is merely intended to designate story to its proper place and role within the greater process that is writing.
Context is essential as to the understanding, and meaning behind, any given story, If one were to read the story above in isolation, for instance, one might conclude that it is about how our perceptions can determine our own experience of events, and how we react to them, often undermining or betraying us in the process. While this all may be true on one level, it is only when we look at the story within its greater context, that as a part of this larger work which is about the nature of story, that we get a more accurate and complete understanding. It is about perceptions and preconceived notions, certainly. But it is also about writing (and reading). Therefore, and by placing it within this context, we can infer that it is about how through ones preconceived notions and expectations that the story its self is experienced. It is about how an author, with adequate observational skills, can predict within reason how the general audience will react with their preconceived notions and expectations, and utilize this understanding to either hide, or to elucidate certain information as it is deemed appropriate. This revelation of information is often performed slowly and over time, depending upon the size of the work in question, of course, through a subtle patterning by which each individual piece of that pattern may be ignored or go unrecognized as such, and it is only in aggregate that the information is digested and understood. Perhaps even more important than how the author utilizes the preconceived notions and expectations of his or her audience, however, is the revelation from this understanding that the reader is an active participant in, and therefore a fundamental element of, the story its self.
Probably the most well known example of these, do to the popularity of it at least within its own time and place, is in the film The Sixth Sense by M. Night Shyamalan. It is only upon reviewing the film that one sees the truth which was laid out clearly for everyone to see the whole time, and yet the individual allows him or herself through their own pre-conceived notions and expectations, to be a participant in recognizing the truth along with and at the same time as the main character himself.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. What would be erroneous, however, would be to pre-presume that the cigar is just a cigar without taking both its internal and external context, so far as it is available, into consideration. There well may be more information present than your own perceptions and preconceived notions will first allow you to see. It is only when you open up to the possibilities, and allow yourself to gaze upon it with fresh eyes, that you begin perceive them. That goes for this, or any other, piece of writing. While it is among the many and varied roles of the author, and especially when a non-traditional format is being utilized in order to tell that story, to provide an adequate means from within the context of that story for the reader to know how the story is to be read, it is ultimately up to the reader as a participant in the story him or herself, even if it be only at a subconscious level or as a vague or abstracted sense of notion, to recognize and to utilize, or not, the information which is being provided.
