I Was a Character in the Wrong Book

Thinking again about Himeji Castle as I rewrite the narrative of my life (my story selected for a reading by Interact Theatre-- a man in mid-life, a father who comes out of the closet). Like revising a novel. These passages were there all along, not repressed, never excised, but scattered without connection, and so, if not invisible, unnoticed. It was their relationship that was repressed. In my reading and writing of the novel-in-progress, and in my life. What we look for in analysis isn’t it? Not fragments of memory or dream—but their significance. Not recovering what we’ve forgotten, but understanding what we’ve known all along by stitching it together. Giving the disparate parts their true significance by revealing—or creating—their network of associations. I was miserable because I had the story wrong. I became a character out of character--who didn't belong in the novel I was writing. Sooner or later, the contradictions will kill you. Start over, or die. What you change isn't your 'self' ... but the story you live in.

Which of course, changes everything.