The Stories We Tell Ourselves

A story, the very notion of a story, is a need as deeply embedded in human beings as the need for food and shelter. (Here I was initially tempted to use the word 'hard-wired' in place of 'embedded', but I found it disagreeable, too reductionist and mechanical, too de-humanizing; robots, the antithesis of humans are made of wires, and I find any language that voids humans of their humanity detestable. But embed… What is more human than the bed?). Stories, in all their myriad forms, have been with us since the very beginning of Time, since our headlong Fall into consciousness, our emergence into wakeful life. What then does the very word 'history' itself point at? Hitherto, all my life has not only been made of stories, but compelled by stories. My formal training is in English literature. The study of stories. This very journey began when I moved to Ireland to complete my Masters studies in Anglo-Irish Literature & Drama many years back to study stories even more thoroughly. I was very much a child then, in the purest, truest sense of the word. And so for these reasons I consider that country my intellectual birthplace. Were it not for that massive leap, from America to Ireland, I'd not be where I am today. I would not have been where I have been. I would not have found what I have found. I would not have my story. I would not have found myself standing at the edge, surveying the abyss. And I would not be here to tell you the bounties I found at its bottom. Indeed we've always used stories to navigate this world. From the Gilgamesh Epic to The Odyssey to The Bible to Ulysses, epics have played a central, centrifugal role. They are the holy centre around which we organise and conduct our lives, our culture, our humanity—the skeleton key that breaths life and coherence into an otherwise dead, incoherent, material world. And they still are—consider the success of Star Wars, Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. Consider the cinema itself. Is it not a modern cathedral, replete as it is with velvet curtains, a transfixing altar as its focal point, the air redolent with the incense-like aroma of popcorn, an unseen hand high up above turning on the projector, bringing the whole spectacle to life? We needn't only consider the popularity of epics, our appetite for simple stories themselves point towards this human hunger as well. Again something for you to consider: the popularity of the "stories" feature on Instagram.

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Here, to illustrate my point, let me tell you three of stories of my own. If I've caught your attention, I think I've made my point. Let's begin with my dog, Lady. Surely she deserves her own origin story. Surely you deserve to know how we came to be united, how we came to travel the world together. Surely the last several years of my life will have no context without such a story. And this is the story in three parts. **** I. Cappuccino

It was sometime in 2013, the second half of my first stint living in Albania. Knowing very little of the country other than what I encountered on a short backpacking trip through the country in 2011, I'd accepted a job at a private high school there in 2012, "teaching" the children of the country's wealthy elite–the children of politicians and the children of mafia men (and the overlap between the two was quite significant). I say "teaching" because that was only an illusion I was paid to create. The school merely served as a diploma mill for the wealthy elites to buy theirs kids' ways into even more elite Western schools, where again they would purchase their qualifications. My first impressions of the country were ones of confusion, curiosity and, at times, horror. At the time, this is what I wrote:

Lately I've caught myself thinking aloud.

Where the fuck am I? I muse in hushed-mumbles. I don't know where the fuck I am, I grumble and grumble.

So yes, I confess, I honestly admit. I am lost.

In every way possible.

Spatially. Historically. Temporally. Geographically.

Not a damn clue where I am. Not an iota.

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Have I rewound time, have I wandered haphazard into some forgotten past?

I wonder this when I pass the curbside merchants, hocking live hens and street-roasted cobs of corn. I wonder this when I pass the oak-faced Roma ladies, breast-feeding their sucklings as they demand pity and a pittance. I wonder this when I'm told of the inescapable Cult of Virginity, demanded by the Kanun -- that ancient Code of Albanian Honour that still prevails.

Yes, I wonder this when the chain-smoking seven year old hassles and hustles me for a dollar. And yes, I wonder this when that dollar buys me a beer.

Or have I landed in some decadent future, post-apocalyptic, anomic and cruel?

I wonder this as I watch the ragtag militias of street dogs snake through the mad-rush of Mercedes and Hummers and Land Rovers, flowing ceaseless, cruising careless and blaring Jay-Z. I wonder this as the street dogs prowl silent below the concrete pyramid, graffiti-smattered, tattered and shattered and forgotten, scavenging for supper and howling at God. I wonder this as I cross the Lanë river, slow-going and overflowing with urban detritus. I wonder this as I wander past the dome-capped, time-trapped bomb bunkers bubbling infinite from the Earth -- the pustular plague of Cold War paranoia. Indeed, I wonder this as the armed bank guards, their M15's slung slack over their shoulders, light another cigarette and squint under the Balkan sun. And indeed, I wonder this as the mountainside wildfires, manmade and untamed, burn and burn and burn.

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I am neither here nor there. Neither past nor present nor future. I am the subject of a language without tenses, I am the babble of an unspeakable tongue. 

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Some say this is where the East meets the West, where civilizations converge and merge and meld. A crossroads of sorts.

But I demur.

A roadside ravine perhaps, encircling that crossroads, collecting the run-off of the Occident and the Orient: Tube-tops and miniskirts, hijabs and burqas. Halal kebabs and Albanian Fried Chicken. Supermodels and shopping malls, donkey-drawn carriages and arranged marriages.  Missionaries and mafias, blood feuds and broadband internet. Pride and poverty. Consumerism and corruption.

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It's a strange world here, and never have I felt so out of touch, out of place, out of it.

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What happens to the man of irreverence when he's forced to live in world organised by Honour?

What happens to the outlaw when there are no more laws to live outside?

What happens to the hedonist when pleasure courts pain?

Does the man of irreverence mind his manners?

Does the outlaw arrest and try and imprison himself?

Does the hedonist turn to masochism?

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I will survive just as those before have me have survived, and just as those who will come after me shall too.

I shall clear my head and heart and soul, so that they may be hungrier than ever.

And, when the time is right, may that hunger lead me to a moveable feast.

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I am lost now, yes, but the forward march of time shall grab me and drag me to redemption. And again, I'll be delivered to the Mercy of the road.

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Until then, I sputter and flutter half-awake speechless, descending into endless ascetic madness.

In other words, I've wandered into the Unknown. A backwater Purgatory. And I've nary a clue what awaits me.

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Welcome to the Unknown.

Welcome to Hades.

Welcome to The Land of Eagles.

When I wrote this yet, I was still utterly blind to many of the horrors that were unfolding around me. And I hadn't yet witnessed the horrific abuse of the street dogs, encounters with which would eventually become a central part of my daily life in Tirana, that doomed capital. And they did.

I did what I could could to befriend the downtrodden street prowlers, often finding myself drunk in a gutter, cuddling and playing with them, inviting them with pieces of meat to join me at my table at outdoor restaurants, inviting them into my house for a bit of respite. I still remember the first street dog I befriended. She was shot dead not long after our first meeting by the police during a "clean up" of the city one night, shortly before the much heralded arrival of then-Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton. After that, I had to force myself to not make too much of an emotional connection with the street dogs, knowing the likelihood of them ceasing to exist at any moment, whether due to a governmental directive to make the city tidy for a foreign dignitary or just general, base human cruelty. Some months later I'd found another dog, a small one, perhaps three or four-months-old in a grassy patch in front of the pyramid structure in the centre. She looked much different than the other street dogs I'd encountered, her fur a more vibrant, rich brown and cream than was standard amongst the population. Drawn to her, I pet her, let her sit on my lap, gave her the attention and affection denied to her by a society that largely deemed dogs degenerate rodents. For was I not a degenerate rodent myself?

She spent the rest of the day following me around the city with the utmost loyalty, and the utmost courage. She survived a punt in the stomach from one burley man as we passed by. This was a common habit amongst Albanians–kicking street dogs as they passed by. And then, then I did not have the courage to confront these foreign peoples, these Albanians, as I would later grow to possess and wield, sometimes to my own detriment. But yet, she still followed me.

I desperately wanted to adopt her, but I did not plan on staying in the city for more than my contract demanded, and I did not know where I would be going, and it was a burden I couldn't conceive to bear. And so she remained condemned to the streets, devoid as Albania was of animal shelters or a robust animal adoption culture (especially at that time). However, there was a bar I used to frequent. By "frequent", I mean spend most of my days at, drinking myself into oblivion to cope with the barbarism happening around me. And one day, this same dog appeared at the gates of its terrace, perhaps smelling my drink-sodden presence and being lured in. The bar, mostly populated by likeminded animal lovers, immediately took to her, spoiling her with meats and treats and all things heavenly to a dog. Because of her vibrant, rich brown and cream colors, they named her "Cappuccino". She grew up there at that bar. And not only did she grow up there, she grew into a level of human-like consciousness I'd never before encountered in a dog. Every night, at closing time, she'd walk the patrons home, marching dutifully in front of them, wherever they were going, protecting them along the way from other, more vicious dogs on the street or people she perceived as having bad intentions. After successfully delivering a group of imbibers home safely, she'd promptly return to the bar, ready to escort another set.

Through kindness and grace, she developed something of an awareness, in the fullest sense of that word. She matured into a gentle yet fierce protector, equally as capable of rolling on her back for belly rubs or lying her head in your lap as she was unafraid at lunging at and fending off dogs twice her size or imposing humans that threatened the patrons along their paths home. Shortly after, I left Albania. I said goodbye to my fellow revelers at the bar. I said goodbye to Cappuccino, uncertain I'd ever see them again. But I knew she was in good hands. And I knew they were in good hands too. ****

In 2014, after an attempt to reassimilate into Dublin, a brief sojourn to Ukraine to report on the events at EuroMaidan and a detour to America to attend my sister's wedding, I returned to Tirana. Something inside me compelled me back–I missed some friends I'd made, humans and dogs alike. One of the first places I went was that bar. And sure enough, there was Cappuccino, sleeping on the terrace, now about 20 pounds fatter, still playing the part of faithful protector and guardian.

One evening as I walked to the bar, I encountered Cappuccino lying on a footpath nearby. Excited to see me, she rolled over on her back as she was wont do, tacitly demanding belly rubs to which I happily obliged. As this happened, a man approached. A strange man. A stranger. He reached down to touch her. To give her belly rubs as well, I thought. But no. He began inserting his fingers into her exposed vagina. I froze. I was paralyzed. I thought my eyes were deceiving me. I could not utter a word. Aphasia. I was a ghost watching a horror unfold in front of me and was helpless by virtue of being voided of motion and word. I did not exist. The world in front me was grotesque, nightmarish, unreal, clownish. Voided of humanity. A pit of despair. There in that moment was a confrontation between the Ghost and the Carnival. And suddenly, I became reanimated. I smacked the man's hand away. I shouted and cursed and barked and shoved. I grabbed Cappuccino and brought her to the bar with me, brought her to safety. I tried to confide in others what I'd seen, what I'd witnessed, but they did not believe. Or did not care. And so I let it go. That encounter shook me to the core. It has haunted me through the years. It haunts me to this day. It was my first such encounter with Carnival, but certainly would not be the last. **** II. Lady and the Tramp

In 2015, I again returned to Tirana, for reasons I'll go into in a later post. Suffice to say, the death drive is strong. To earn my keep, this time I'd decided to start my own business–a gimmicky "vintage" barbershop. They were all the rage in Europe at the time, and as Tirana was lacking one, I thought there was a niche I might fill. While the shop was under construction, my days were empty, vast expanses of time to fill. Or kill. Or both. One day I decided to buy a large sack of dog food and go to the artificial lake, located just behind the bar I used to frequent, the one Cappuccino would guard. There, at the artificial lake, often large groups of street dogs would congregate. To get away from the turmoil of a chaotic, polluted, violent, brutal city. To relax. I'd simply go feed them, play with them, enjoy the closest thing to human connection I believed I was capable of, and go home.

Or so I thought.

In the distance, I spied who I believed to be Cappuccino, sitting regally amongst a flock of other dogs, big and small, young and old. I approached and indeed, it was her. And this time it seemed she'd added yet another twenty pounds. And again, there was a strange man, a stranger lurking closely. I approached and began feeding Cappuccino and the others, suspicious of the stranger's presence. Cappuccino, having had her fill, waddled off, overweight as she was by then. But the man, the stranger, he tried speaking to me. His English was broken, limited, incommunicable. And my Albanian was paltry. Despite our lack of communication, it seemed to me he was unwell. Physically and mentally. It seemed to me he was deeply sick. Whatever the case, I divined he wanted my attention. Which I reluctantly gave. There was a dog there, frail, emaciated, ribs ripping through her skin, suffering a disease of the coat, rendering her hair sparse and brittle and patchy and dry. The stranger removed a lighter from him pocket and set a patch of hair on fire.

I jumped up and patted out the flames. I attempted to yell at him but he could not comprehend. He thought it was funny. I did not. Again he tried the same stunt but this time my howl and my scowl were stern enough to deliver my point without my words being fully understood. He left the emaciated dog alone. I fed the emaciated dog. I began feeding the others. Then, our stranger set his sights on a litter of puppies, some two or three months old, I'd just finished feeding. He began smacking one around, smacking it in the face, laughing. Again I yelled at him. Again he demurred. But I knew then, if I stayed there, in his vicinity with these dogs, things would eventually get ugly. So with what food I had left in the sack, I enticed the dogs to follow me to another part of the lake, away from this man, this sadistic stranger. They followed. When I felt I had brought them to a secure spot, where he would not find them, I turned to go home. And as I turned to walk away, there I saw him again, the stranger, stalking in our direction.

Knowing I could not spend all day, all night there at the park admonishing, tussling with this stranger, I did what my instincts told me to do and I did it without thought: I grabbed one of the puppies from the litter, the one that he had smacked about, I picked her up into my arms and brought her home with me.

I got home and then did I realize what I'd gotten myself into.

I named her Lady. ****

Some weeks later I was walking Lady through town. As we passed a cinema–that modern attempt at a cathedral–a man sitting out front stopped me. He asked me where I had got this dog. Was it from the artificial lake? "Yes, how did you know?" I asked. "I found this dog with her bothers and sisters in a rubbish bin near my house a couple months ago," he told me. "They were a few weeks old and crying and I plucked them out. I would have brought them home, but my wife wouldn't let me have another dog. So I brought them to the lake because I live nearby. This way I could go feed them." "You are a saint. Thank you," I said. "I'm happy you adopted her. I went to go feed her brothers and sisters yesterday and they were all dead," he informed me.

It was a harsh winter. ****

III. Lady Goes Missing

Raising Lady was no easy task. The first few weeks I had her, she was terrified of the world outside—the noise, the commotion, the barbarians. She refused to walk on the streets, immediately collapsing and freezing with terror the second she left the apartment. As though she were an infant baby, I had to carry her in my arms everywhere I went. Eventually, though, she came into her own. She overcome her fears. She was ready to confront the world. And once she learned to walk, she wanted to explore. Explore everything. On her own.

Like dogfather, like dog, I suppose. One day, while at the barbershop, she managed to escape out the front door. And she ran. And she ran and ran and ran. I tried chasing her but it was of no use. She was too quick, too agile, too spritely, twisting and turn down back alleys and between buildings. I could not catch her.

I closed the shop and spent the day stalking the streets of Tirana trying to find her, calling out her name around every corner in vain. Eventually I was aided by a friend, a Croatian by the name of Josip, and his girlfriend, who offered to take me by car and drive around the city looking for her. We scoured every corner of the place, cruising by all her favorite spots in the city (most of which where near barbecue grills). Even with the aid of a car and three sets of eyes, we could not locate Lady. The sun began to sun and I began to give up hope. If I could not find her before nightfall, there was no chance of finding her that day. Or perhaps ever again, given the brutal nature of the city towards dogs. But then Josip had an idea: "Have you checked the lake?" "I haven't," I said. I'd never considered the lake, given the circumstances of my and Lady's initial meeting. "Let's check the lake," Josip said. And so we went. Walking along the shore, we did not find Lady. We called her name, but there was no response.

But we did find Cappuccino, now fatter than ever, barely able to move so great was her girth. A wise old soothsaying sage now. She was sleeping beneath a tree. Josip did not know Cappuccino, did not know the story behind Cappuccino as you now know. Josip did not know Cappuccino was there when I first found Lady. So imagine his confusion when I shrieked "Cappuccino!". Cappuccino awoke. She looked at me. She wagged her tail. In jest, speaking the kind of joke one makes when they've been so thoroughly shackled by the chains of hopelessness and futility, I asked, "Cappuccino, where is Lady?". Cappuccino, suddenly unencumbered by her kilos, jumped to her feet and ran away, disappearing towards the far end of the lake. I resigned. But then. Then who comes running back towards me? And who is running behind her, acting as a shepherd? It is Lady. And it is Cappuccino. I scoop Lady up into my arms. She is happy to see me again. She is shook. I believe she's seen some things she cannot tell me about. And Cappuccino? She lies down and promptly goes back to sleep, her duties fulfilled.

Could communication between human and human ever be so simple and true? What is the necessary ingredient? If you asked Cappucino, I imagine she’d say “awareness”. "I'd never believe this story if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes," Josip said. But he did see it with his own eyes. And he did believe. **** These stories are all true. I may have omitted insignificant details–noise–but they are all literal, honest, authentic and true to the events that transpired. Do you see now the power of stories? And their powers to reveal? Do you see now the narrative's power of divine revelation? Do you see the centrality of the story? **** Imagine then my disappointment when during my Masters studies in Ireland I was taught such concepts as "The Death of the Author"–that there is no one, no man, no divinity behind the text. Imagine my disappointment then when I was taught that, because all interpretations of stories are equally valid, stories are ultimately meaningless, pointing at nothing Real. For there is no Real according to the prophets of postmodernity. There is only noise and individual interpretation. And only the fool would search for meaning. Imagine my disappointment when I was taught that literature, stories, life-giving narratives are either the result of an interplay of material conditions, or worse, attempts at a power play, or at its most grotesque, mere cultural artifacts. I'd initially entered university thinking of it as a Holy Temple of Truth and Wisdom, hoping to continue on to my PhD and become a professor–which is to say something of a priest. But my disappointment derailed those plans. I could not dwell in a temple that denied the divinity of stories. I had to go find my own divine story. And so I forsook my PhD and I set forth on the road instead. **** If you've gone to Hades, if you've gone to hell–if you've galavanted the world with a street dog named Lady meeting monsters and saints, if you've woken up in the gutter with a contusion on your brain and soul and an angel on your shoulder––sooner or later, you'll begin to ask questions, perhaps even "foolish" ones according to the academia-ordained naysayers of Meaning. And foremost amongst those questions, these will be: Is there something deeper compelling us towards narratives beautiful and complete? Is this world, with its characters, with it heroes and villains, anything but a story? And is its author really dead?

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