Humans need stories. Stories inform, educate, celebrate, and bring about change. We define and redefine ourselves through the telling of stories. Without our story we would cease to exist. Stories give meaning to our name, who we are individually and collectively in society.
Human memory is not fact processed, but story processed. One part of our memory draws facts out of events, while the other part places them in their episodic sequence. It is the sequence, not the facts, per se, that allows our memory to establish purpose. Roger C. Schank, a pioneer in artificial intelligence, states, “We know them [stories], find them, reconsider them, manipulate them, use them to understand the world and to operate in the world, adapt them to new purposes, tell them in new ways. Our ability,” Schank says, “to utilize these stories in a novel way is the hallmark of what we consider to be intelligence.” Human memory, then, is subjective and needs stories to make sense of both who we are and of our world.
Stories can only be realized through storytelling, when they engage the audience. This is as much true if we are the sole audience to a story playing in our mind, or part of a larger audience, collectively listening to the storyteller. The form of the storytelling – narrative, film, music, etc. – makes no difference.
Good storytelling draws the audience into the story to collaborate, amplify, interrupt, even change it. Good storytelling moves us, changes us, and often brings about social change.
Just as humans need stories, stories need humans. Walter Isaacson, the CEO of Aspen Institute, reminds us that the great narratives of history were not narratives set in stone, but collective experiences transmitted orally; reinterpreted and embellished with each retelling. During the Elizabethan era, theatergoers didn’t passively observe plays, they rowdily engaged with the actors. Through the continuous retelling and embellishing these narratives became memes, forming culture, values, and life lessons.
The printing press changed all of this by, as Isaacson says, “freezing words.” When books became the vessel to carry the story, the story became static and lifeless. From the book, the lifeless story has carried over into almost all mediums of storytelling.. What would happen today if playgoers rowdily engaged the actors as they did during Shakespeare’s day? They would be quickly evicted from the theater, maybe even arrested. Today, according to Isaacson, the story can either deliver a clear and fixed message or contextually engage, but not do both.
The rise of interactive technologies has reopened the possibilities of storytelling. How these possibilities will emerge is not yet fully seen. As Urban Paradoxes documents the urban experience we will explore and seek to engage interactive technologies to tell the story of our collective urban experiences in such a way that they move us, change, and bring about social change.
Mythos: A belief by which we live
In my neighborhood every time the neighborhood gathers together, the tale of the rat in the toilet comes up. The story has been told and retold so many times that it has become a neighborhood legend of mythic proportions; sort of a localized urban myth. When I heard the story once again the other day, I got to thinking about how our neighborhood narratives – stories – not only flow from past events, but also shape the present experience. My thinking continued to flow from these thoughts to a more theoretical contemplation of the role of myth in the urban experience. You will see as my thoughts unfolds in this essay, I am not defining myth as fiction or make believe, but as a symbolic image of reality.
First the theoretical …
As I noted in the previous essay, we all need stories because we are stories. Human life itself is structured as a story. Each of us is a central character in the drama of life. Each of us knows, better perhaps than we know anything else:, life has a beginning, middle, and end.
Consider this question: Is there a difference between myth and modern news? Is not the news merely a contemporary retelling of ancient myths: the flood myth, the sacrificial victim myth, the regeneration/resurrection myth, hero myth, and so on?
Myths are populated; they are about beings, human and otherwise, for myths are a crucial part of being human. Myths do not live in the abstract. “We tell myths about things that are most important to us. We tell myths to define good and evil, to pass on memory of what we believe and what we cannot believe. We tell myths to give meaning to the meaningless and to explain what cannot be explained (Daily News, Eternal Stories: The Mythological Role of Journalism, Lule, Jack; NY: The Guilford Press, 2001; p.59.),” but the frame of reference is always human. That is why gods with human characteristics and heroes with supernatural characteristics populate myth. Without them myths have no meaning.
Studied alive, myth as we shall see, is not symbolic, but a direct expression of its subject matter. It is not an explanation in satisfaction of a scientific interest, but a narrative resurrection of a primeval reality, told in satisfaction of deep religious [read this as “spiritual,” ed.] wants, moral cravings, social submissions [and ambitions, ed.], even practical requirements. Myths fulfills in primitive culture [and ours ed.] an indispensable function; it expresses, enhances, and codifies belief; it safeguards and enforces morality; it vouches for the efficiency of ritual and contains practical rules for the guidance of man. Myth is this vital ingredient of human civilization; it is not an idle tale, but a hard-worked active force; it is not an intellectual explanation or an artistic imagery, but a pragmatic charter of faith and moral wisdom. (“Myth in Primitive Psychology” in Magic, Science and Religion; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1954; p.101.)
The philosopher Ernst Cassirer argues that the images of myths “are not known as images. They are not regarded as symbols, but as realities (He notes that “the myth-maker does not invent the facts; he interprets facts that are already a given in the culture to which he belongs.” Myth’s “success as a practical argument” he argues, “depends on its being accepted as true, and it is generally accepted as true if it explains the experiences to whom it is addressed (The Myth of the State; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1946; p.57.).”
Northop Frye, in his book, The Educated Imagination (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1964) compares poetry, and by extension, myth, to history by noting:
The historian makes specific and particular statements such as, “The Battle of Hastings was fought in 1066.” Consequently he’s judged by the truth or falsehood of what he says—either there was such a battle or there wasn’t, and if there was, he’s got the date either right or wrong. But the poet, Aristotle says, never makes any real statement at all, certainly no particular or specific ones. The poet’s job is not to tell you what happened, but what happens [emphasis added]; not what did not take place, but the kinds of thing that always does take place (p.63).
It is the difference between history and myth that turns the experience into prose worth recording. If, for example, a tour is merely a rendering of historic fact – on such and such a date, such and such happened here – or a tour of significant buildings, architecture, or places, it is nothing more than a recording of data. It is when the events become transformed into dynamic experiences – that is, stories that they become real and meaningful.
The Role of our Stories (myth)
[Please remember that our working definition of “myth” as used in these essays is that it is the “narrative by which we live.” It makes no difference whether we are speaking of a religious framework, our family, or of our neighborhood “story.”]
We began with the premise that human history is not fact-processed, but story-processed. Human memory is one part fact and one part story. It is the sequence, not the facts, per-se, that allows our memory to establish purpose. This is as much true whether we are telling stories of our distant past or telling the stories of our neighborhoods.
If we examine myth, that is, our stories, as “human memory sequentially arranged,” we will see that myth is neither objective nor embedded history. That myth is not objective reality ought to be obvious. Myth contains too much imagination (like embellished tale of the rat in the previous essay) to be objective fact. That myth is not embedded history is less obvious. In fact, anthropologists have long held that we can learn about primitive society via the truth in their myths. However, this has the effect of making that which remains after the embedded truth – or facts – is removed, un-true, thus, non-real. But, is that which is left truly non-real?
I suggest that it is not.
The problem with the anthropological approach is that it fails, for example, to do justice to the reality of the myth in the lives of ancient peoples, who functioned totally within the framework of their myth. To understand the people of antiquity and their culture, to give reality to their history, we must do so within the full context of their myth. I suggest that to give reality to the our experience we must do so within the full context of the experience as it is being lived out.
Let me give an example: In Cleveland, and her suburbs, much is made of the so-called “divide” between the East Side and the West Side. Now, there is a literal geographical reason for this divide, the Cuyahoga River. There are also a number of factual east-west events and differences that add to the historical fact. However, what has happened is that these events and differences have created a mythos that has become a reality in practice and imagination of those who call Greater Cleveland home. Today the historical facts have little to do with the imagined reality that makes the divide real in our minds.
History, according to Levi-Strauss in Structural Anthropology, studies societies that are other than we live in.This makes history by its very nature objective. Unfortunately, given human nature, as we have seen in the example from Cleveland, this is an impossible construct. There is no way that we can look objectively at the past, no matter how hard we try. It is impossible for the historian to enter into the context of another time. The historian always examines from a time removed. Likewise, it is impossible for us who document the urban experience and/or live it, to be free from the criteria of our own day and context. And those myths – stories – by which we live show that. History is but one facet of the same reality within which the actual event took place, the chronicler recorded it, and within which we live as we study it.
I would suggest then, that as we document the narratives of our experience we do not do so from the perspective of merely recording historical facts, but do so in a way that make particular historical experiences “open-up” experientially into the present context of the ever-evolving narrative.
If the narratives – myths – of our urban experiences are not embedded history, what are they? How are we to view these narratives to make them meaningful to our lives, our reality? Strauss states that we should view myth as history in its totality, but do so subjectively. Myths – our stories – afford a knowledge of reality by giving rise to the “phenomena of reality within us.” Our stories are able to do this because they subjectively encapsulate history and work it and rework in such a way as that places our subjective perception in an episodic historical context that stimulates us with a knowledge of reality.
Quite a mouthful of theory.
To put it another way, our stories ignore, twist, and add to the truth (“objectivity of facts”) by recognizing that there is far more to life than absolute objectivity. It is as if our stories suggest that perhaps objective thinking is the least important of all of our psychological functions; that there are questions that are beyond objective answers. Our stories provide us with subjective answers that need not be absolute, or more accurately, our stories provide us with subjective questions that defy absolute answers, and therefore may not need to be answered at all.
A little segue by way of example: the ancient Celts believed that the question, and the asking of it, was more important than the answer. I have always been intrigued by the Grail Quest legend in that when the Quester finally asks the Grail King, “Why do you suffer?” the land is immediately healed, but the answer is never given.
Our stories, or myths if you will, help us distinguish between “real” and “truth.” The “real” is what exists. “Truth” is our judgment about what exists, even to the point of denying its existence.
While “truth” appears to be objective, it is always subject to our perceptions and contexts. In Euclidean math, for example, 1+1=2, absolutely. Yet, there are other mathematical constructs where, according to their logical perceptions, 1+1=2 absolutely does not necessarily equal two. Here we are faced with two conflicting absolutes. Which one is correct? Which one is the truth? The answer is, only the one which applies to the contextual perceptions we are working with. Thus, what is absolute for one person is not necessarily so for another. Our perception of “truth” always varies according to our circumstances and the criteria that form the basis of our immediate culture.
The “real” on the other hand, while appearing subjective, is absolute, in that it exists and is therefore, objective. Our stories, by presenting the objective absolute – reality – subjectively opens up history for us by relating us to the other than of history. Facts in themselves can never constitute reality. What constitutes reality is our experience, our story.
Using myth, or our stories, in our pursuit of finding reality also forces us to differentiate between “real” and “imaginary.” There are two alternative ways to go about this. The first is one of absolute opposition. The “real” is everything that is, the absolute. The “imaginary” then becomes everything that is not, thus non-real, and ultimately, un-real. This, of course, is the classic dictionary definition. The problem with this approach is that it limits the “imaginary” to our imagination – our “un-real” mind-thoughts – and nothing more. The alternative way to differentiate is to accept that the “imaginary” is built upon perfectly real foundations – not the “un-real” of our mind-thoughts – and from a relative subjectivity that turns it into a reality as it is processed.
The word “imaginary” has its etymological roots in the Old French imago, which at its core means, “to give birth to a reality.” In other words, to give “reality” to our thoughts. It is the forming of thoughts, even those of the imagination, into solid images, and subsequently stories, that creates our sense of reality. Thus, the “imaginary” is how we sequentially arrange episodic events in our mind to arrive at our stories. Without the ability to give expression to our imagination in a way that functionally corresponds with our experience, we would become insane.
When we allow our stories, our myths, to function in our lives as intended, the stories are no longer about our past, or even about our future, they are about the now, the “what is happening” as we experience life. Stories, functioning as our mythos, open up a particular historical experience and incorporate s it into our present experience, and thus, our here and now understanding.
History is always about the “then,” the past. Thus, it serves no real satisfactory or lasting purpose to interpret our stories from the basis of our history. Stories, in a real sense, become our quest, both individually and corporately (when they are shared narratives) become our quest to realize who we are as individuals and a people. It is better, then, to let our stories illuminate our quest for identity than to force our quest upon our stories. We need to let our stories speak for themselves.
Stories are first and foremost histological, always part of a larger web. While there is subjective personal reality to be found in our own individual stories, it is the collective, often cross-culture, melding and interweaving of our stories that give meaning to the collective reality, or specifically, for our purposes, the collective experience.
It is this interweaving that makes our stories kinetic and fluid, ever-evolving and ever-changing in both interpretation and application.
Which brings us to our final point: the embedded universal motifs in our stories.
Stories, as we noted in the very first essay are populated, otherwise there is no story. Several scholars have advanced various universal motifs represented by those characters who populate our stories. They can be condensed in seven motifs, or themes. As you read each one, think about how this character populates your story.
The seven are:
The Hero (The Hero is often grotesque at first appearance, but not always)
The Mother— Terrible (and/or) Good
The Trickster (The tricksters role is that of a mixed bag. Sometimes the trickster is crud and stupid, other times a deceiver, and yet other times, sets corrective barriers along the hero’s path)
The Other World (or The Place Other Than Here)
The Deluge (calamities and disasters)
We will see, as we explore and document our experiences many of the seven, if not all, reappearing over and over again in our narrative.
Frank A. Mills
Round Rock, TX
[© 2008, 2016, Orginally posted on the “old” Flâneur blog as a series between March 24 and April 16, 2008.]