Bill Felker's Blog
August 20, 2020
Story TIme
Time becomes human time to the extent that it is organized after the manner of a narrative.
Paul Ricoeur
A narrative, much like a clock, is a kind of gadget for marking time, for trying to make sense of the endless metamorphoses that give shape to our lives.
Paul Heubener
Philosophers of natural time suggest that humans interpret events-in-nature through stories that make those events comprehensible.
But what kind of stories might they be talking about? Some kinds of narratives about events in nature are simply linear associations with other events in nature, combined with memory, to create story.
For example, this week, when I noticed fully-formed black walnuts fallen to the ground, I remembered that black walnut leaves are some of the first to fall. I could have stayed in the past, but then I thought about all kinds of falling leaves, and then the about winter to come. I told myself that future story without really trying. It came and went in an instant.
Lateral, phenological associations from certain events in nature to other concurrent events in nature can tell different stories and, at least for a little while, provide some relief from the future or the past.
Instead of moving the plot of the black walnut story ahead to winter or back, I could look about and focus on events in the present: the August flowers of the black-eyed Susans and the tall goldenrod and bright purple ironweed and tall coneflowers and the giant cup plants of the fields, the boneset and Joe Pye weed of the swamps, the leafcup and touch-me-nots in the deep woods.
Or I could meditate on the black walnut in itself, allowing essence, the thing in itself, to become story of stasis. Or, I could call on some other cerebral space to remember autumn anniversaries or imagine fantastic events in nature, make stories that color recollection with desire, black walnut trees that tame the vicious side of humans and croon the land with love.
Human time is story time. We can tell time the way we saw it and see it and wish to see it.
Paul Ricoeur
A narrative, much like a clock, is a kind of gadget for marking time, for trying to make sense of the endless metamorphoses that give shape to our lives.
Paul Heubener
Philosophers of natural time suggest that humans interpret events-in-nature through stories that make those events comprehensible.
But what kind of stories might they be talking about? Some kinds of narratives about events in nature are simply linear associations with other events in nature, combined with memory, to create story.
For example, this week, when I noticed fully-formed black walnuts fallen to the ground, I remembered that black walnut leaves are some of the first to fall. I could have stayed in the past, but then I thought about all kinds of falling leaves, and then the about winter to come. I told myself that future story without really trying. It came and went in an instant.
Lateral, phenological associations from certain events in nature to other concurrent events in nature can tell different stories and, at least for a little while, provide some relief from the future or the past.
Instead of moving the plot of the black walnut story ahead to winter or back, I could look about and focus on events in the present: the August flowers of the black-eyed Susans and the tall goldenrod and bright purple ironweed and tall coneflowers and the giant cup plants of the fields, the boneset and Joe Pye weed of the swamps, the leafcup and touch-me-nots in the deep woods.
Or I could meditate on the black walnut in itself, allowing essence, the thing in itself, to become story of stasis. Or, I could call on some other cerebral space to remember autumn anniversaries or imagine fantastic events in nature, make stories that color recollection with desire, black walnut trees that tame the vicious side of humans and croon the land with love.
Human time is story time. We can tell time the way we saw it and see it and wish to see it.
