Published January 28th by Mythik Press first published December 14th More Details Myths and Legends of Our Own Land 7. Other Editions 4. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Average rating 3.
Rating details. All Languages. More filters. Sort order. Fuzz rated it really liked it Jan 03, Stacy rated it liked it Jan 18, Brittnie rated it really liked it Dec 16, Coty rated it liked it Oct 07, Kaylin rated it liked it May 11, Jacinto Bowks rated it liked it Feb 03, Phillip coen marked it as to-read Apr 15, For thousands of years, a solid oral tradition has depended, in many cases, first of all, on having a close-knit and related group to tell stories to. There must also be a time and place to tell the stories, including special times to tell certain stories—such as, in my foster father's Hungarian farm-village, where love stories with a certain erotic flavor to them were told in latest winter.
This was to encourage babies to be made then and, it was hoped, to be delivered before the hard work of first harvest came in the late summer. Elena and Nicolae Ceaus. The two dictators said they were "modernizing" the peasants—but, in reality, they were killing them. Many dear souls I spoke to in Bucharest had been literally forced from their farmhouses by their own government.
Bucharest was once called "the Paris of. The despots destroyed over seven thousand villas, homes, churches, monasteries, synagogues, and a hospital, in order to put up their dead garden of gray concrete. I met wild artists, and gracious young and old people, who were still deeply scarred after the nightmare tyranny of the Ceaus. But the people were still filled with guarded hope. One group of old women told me that there in the city, the young girls no longer knew the love stories traditionally used to draw the interest of suitors. Though the lovely young girls' physical beauty surely would attract them, how would any suitor determine whether a girl knew anything about deep life if she did not know the stories about all the beauties and dead ends of life"?
If she were naive about the challenging themes revealed in stories, how would the girl therefore be able to withstand the ups and downs of marriage? How did the young girls lose their stories? They normally would have learned them at the river, where village women of all ages washed clothes together.
Now that their lands had been confiscated and their villages plowed under and replaced by huge and largely inept "state-run" agricultural cooperatives, now that the villagers had been "removed" to the city, each tiny urban apartment had one small sink.
Myths – Page 5 – The BS Historian
This is where the women were to wash their family's ctothes evermore. There was no river in the projects. No river: no gathering place. No gathering place: no stories. Yet, since time out of mind, for those souls no longer able or allowed to live the integral village life, it has been amazing how faithfully these people have found other ways to "dig" psychic rivers wherever they are, so that the stories can still flow on.
The need for stories —to engender relationships, and creativity, and to grow the souls of all—does not ever cease. This mysterious drive to have the succor of stories remains, even in the midst of crises. The former farm-women now living in the big Romanian city no longer had the village river, so they made a story circle in the. Her living room became the river. The old women put out the word that all the other women should all bring their daughters; that they would make them clothesmodern ones, like those displayed in the store windows.
The excellent old seamstresses thus sewed and talked and told the old stories of love and life and death; and the girls, taking delight in their new clothes and in gratitude for the hands that made them, were taught, at last, the needed stories. It was a different river than before, that is true. But the women still knew where in the heart the headwaters lay—the river that ran through their hearts, uniting them, was still as deep and clear as it had ever been. One of the most remarkable developments that criss-cross the world, no matter how urbanized a people may become, no matter how far they are living from family, or how many generations away they are born from a tight-knit heritage group—people everywhere nonetheless will form and re-form "talking story" groups.
There appears to be a strong drive in the psyche to be nourished and taught, but also to nourish and teach the psyches of as many others as possible, with the best and deepest stories that can be found. For those who are able to read, perhaps the hunger for stories may be partially met through the daily reading of a newspaper, especially those rare kind of heroic stories to be found in longer feature articles. These allow the reader to "be with" the story, to follow the leitmotifs patiently, to give consideration to each part, to allow thoughts and feeling to arise, and so to speak, to flood the fertile psychic delta.
When I teach journalists, writers, and filmmakers about authentic story, its archetypal parts and powers, and how a story may become compelling, or may fail to be —I encourage them to be brave by taking time to tell the whole story, not just story. A longer piece, with archetypal themes intact, invites the psyche to enter the story, to immerse in the undergirdings and nuances of another human being's wild fate.
When stories are shortened to "bytes," all the most profound symbolic language and themes —and thereby the deeper meanings and nourishments—are left out.
The too-short or superficial story colludes in supporting a mad culture that insists that human beings remaining frazzled, ever on the run —rather than inviting them, by the telling of a compelling story at some length, to slow down, to know that it is alright to sit down now, that it is good to take rest, and to listen with one's inner hearing to something that is energizing, engaging, instructive, and nourishing in one way or another. To supplement the written word, or as an alternative to it, many people who are "un-villaged" recreate villages wherever they go.
Thus they gather with others at a crossroads, or at a certain cafe, the gyros shop, the bakery, the breakfast-place, at the curb, or on the street corners—all to "jape and jaw," that is, to talk long-windedly and jokingly with peers about each one's latest exploits.
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And in between the exploits, they tell all the old personal and mythic stories each can remember. These are all reassertions of tribal story gatherings. Sometimes, too, people gather with others around the "central hearth" of a book, and thereby draw strength and guidance from it and from each other. Parks across the world are filled every day with adults and teenagers who share the mundane stories of their days with one another.
The themes of great love, and no love, and new love that they have lived firsthand, form the center of many of the stories they tell each other. Even when people no longer remember the old stories, they can pick up the great heroic themes again, as they study their own and other people's lives. Many of the true stories of human love-life are but echoes of the themes found in the heroic legends of Abelard and Heloise lovers who were driven apart by others , or Eros and Psyche the big misstep in love , or Medea and Jason the jealousy, envy, and revenge of insanely possessive love.
In restaurants, there are many chairs reserved in perpetuity for "The Ladies Club," or "The Outrageous Older Women's Club," and many other coteries, covens, and circles —the whole point of which is to tell, trade, make stories. Around the world, at any given time, there are legions of old men walking to gather together at their designated story place.
It is a pub, a bench outside or inside a store or arcade, a table—often outdoors, under trees. My elderly and vital father-in-law, a former estimator and installer of burglar-alarms for American District Telegraph, meets his cronies religiously. Several times a week they gather at Mickey-D's, which is what MacDonatd's chain of restaurant is called by "da guys" in Chicago. They are a group that includes many grizzled and handsome old union truck- and tanker-drivers.
Their clan ritual is to bring up every serious, foolish, and noble story they have heard on the news or read in the newspaper. They discuss the world's terrible woes in detail then, and suggest theoretical—but always heroic—solutions. They agree that "If only everyone would just take our good advice, the world would be a much better place by tomorrow morning. There are pods of drinking "regulars," civic meetings, church fellowships, celebrations, sanctifications, homecomings, reunions, birthday parties, holiday gatherings, high holy days, porch-stoop sittin's, readers' groups, therapy groups, news meetings, planning sessions, and other occasions are used to call people to be together.
The point of it all certainly includes the stated reason the gathering was called, but, underlying it, it is about stories—the ones that will be traded, hooted out, acted out, suppressed, reveled in, approached, interpreted, and laughed over—wherever likeminded people come together. And after such meetings, though gifts might have been exchanged or door prizes given out, though arguments might have taken place, alliances begun, ended, or strengthened, learnings achieved or delayed, what is remembered most—and told over xxxvii.
Thus one more link of story-associations is forged so that the group can be bound together. As the matriarch of my family, it is my job to lead in many ways. Thus, I often say to my fissioning, active family, "We have to go somewhere together soon now. We have to make new memories together now. For everyone, from war veterans to families, from co-workers to classmates, from survivors to activists, religious and artists, and more, the stories they share together bind them more faithfully, through the heart and soul, to each other and to the spirit, than almost any other bond.
These often resemble ex-votos that describe an episode in life or death, and these are often smuggled from cell to cell. People learn how to tell brief stories of success and failure by merely letting their eyes do the telling as they pass by each other.