ABSTRACT
Story is a holy land. It is where we go for the medicine that will allow us to continue the one-night-jig. We do. We tell of the doing, and we tell of the telling. As with Scheherazade of The Arabian Nights, telling means living (Anonymous, 1946). We on the living side; we fill the narrative space around the thing with our presentations, our representations. We prefer the story and hurry through each day that we might tell of it. Our eyes are the exclamation marks of the storied air, our hand the designer of out-of-body telling space, our ears the catchers of dreams and souls. With the likeness of story 116comes the tribal memory and hope of a holy land, the narrative herb that will cure us each of oblivion. With the telling of story comes antidote to the consumptive maw of self. With story comes the holy land, the first star, the storyteller’s night.
