Regarding the Mythcon Keynote Address..
It was not really prepared beforehand, certainly not in the manner of my Co-GoH, Diana Glyer (that's DOCTOR Glyer to you), and not even to the extent of the papers that were presented. I've gotten accustomed enough to speaking during school visits that at signings, I don't even do an actual speech - I ask the audience for questions, then wing it from there.
However, Mythcon was different: I was considered a guest-scholar in the company of scholars, delivering an address on scholars, and so I did (mostly) as scholars do, and prepared a few pages beforehand, to give my speech clarity and structure. At some point, I'll write it up comprehensively, so that it can be reprinted. At the moment though, I simply want to recount the story which was the denoument of the address, and which has been widely commented on already.
It's a true story, and one I have shared publicly, if infrequently. And it seemed to make an impression on the attendees of Mythcon - you could have heard a pin drop in the banquet hall.
The thrust of my address was seeking those moments of Transcendent Joy that we encounter in our lives: those moments of rare magic when the universe opens itself up to us to reveal something extraordinary. Tolkien and Lewis found them often, and I contended that Charles Williams found them everywhere. I brought up examples from my own life, and then said I wanted to conclude with a very personal story.
*****
A woman who was raised by my father (after he left my mother), with whom I became friends as an adult (a story in and of itself) came by the studio and gave me something she'd discovered.
It was an audiocassette, made the day my mother brought my sister home after the delivery. It contains the first recording of my voice, age two, from three and a half decades ago.
I talked to my mother; my father; and my infant sister. And then, quietly, in a corner apart from my family, I simply began talking to the recorder.
My mother interrupted me, asking who I was talking to. My response was 'Big Jamey'.
"What are you telling him?" she asked.
"How to fly," I said.
"Can you fly?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, "but he can't remember how. So I'm telling him."
My father asked (in the background) who 'Big Jamey' was.
I said I was Big Jamey. He asked how I knew Big Jamey could hear me.
"Because he just can," I said. "He's listening to me right now."
*****
With a few additional comments, that was how I concluded my keynote address. The fact that it seemed to be a living example of Charles Williams' concept of Co-inherence was remarked upon by many of the attendees - but what none of them knew was that there was a second part to this story. I'm posting this for you, dear Sherwood. Pass it along at will. ;)
*****
It wasn't until I first shared the story above, and people began to respond, that I realized I'd never listened to the other side of the audiocassette.
So, in the midst of working, and doing various Studio tasks, I put it on.
There was more of the same - parents talking to me and my baby sister; a neighbor dropping by; and voices I think may be my grandparents in the background, bringing over groceries and baby supplies.
They're both dead, and it was a slight shock to hear them, and I realized I was leaning closer, hoping they said more, but they didn't.
Then, my parents moved into the next room, and left me with the recorder. And I continued to talk to Big Jamey, mixed in with comments from my parents, and non sequiturs I can't quite make out. But I did say things meant to be secret. And then the two year old voice drops to a whisper, and asks:
"You won't tell, will you? It's a secret. You won't tell. Will you Jamey?"
A long pause.
"Will you?"
And then nothing.
The tape had stopped playing. The player was still operating - the 'play' button was still engaged - but it wasn't moving.
I stopped it, and tried to rewind. No dice. Same with fast forward, and again with play. Nothing.
I took out the tape (thinking it was broken, or stuck together), but it was in mid-tape, plenty of room, and no breaks. And I could manually turn the spool.
Then a thought occurred to me... I replaced the tape in the player, and pressed record. And it started to turn.
So, I replied. Just in case he's listening. And I told him the things I hoped he might need to know. After all, it's only fair.
He did the same for me.
However, Mythcon was different: I was considered a guest-scholar in the company of scholars, delivering an address on scholars, and so I did (mostly) as scholars do, and prepared a few pages beforehand, to give my speech clarity and structure. At some point, I'll write it up comprehensively, so that it can be reprinted. At the moment though, I simply want to recount the story which was the denoument of the address, and which has been widely commented on already.
It's a true story, and one I have shared publicly, if infrequently. And it seemed to make an impression on the attendees of Mythcon - you could have heard a pin drop in the banquet hall.
The thrust of my address was seeking those moments of Transcendent Joy that we encounter in our lives: those moments of rare magic when the universe opens itself up to us to reveal something extraordinary. Tolkien and Lewis found them often, and I contended that Charles Williams found them everywhere. I brought up examples from my own life, and then said I wanted to conclude with a very personal story.
*****
A woman who was raised by my father (after he left my mother), with whom I became friends as an adult (a story in and of itself) came by the studio and gave me something she'd discovered.
It was an audiocassette, made the day my mother brought my sister home after the delivery. It contains the first recording of my voice, age two, from three and a half decades ago.
I talked to my mother; my father; and my infant sister. And then, quietly, in a corner apart from my family, I simply began talking to the recorder.
My mother interrupted me, asking who I was talking to. My response was 'Big Jamey'.
"What are you telling him?" she asked.
"How to fly," I said.
"Can you fly?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, "but he can't remember how. So I'm telling him."
My father asked (in the background) who 'Big Jamey' was.
I said I was Big Jamey. He asked how I knew Big Jamey could hear me.
"Because he just can," I said. "He's listening to me right now."
*****
With a few additional comments, that was how I concluded my keynote address. The fact that it seemed to be a living example of Charles Williams' concept of Co-inherence was remarked upon by many of the attendees - but what none of them knew was that there was a second part to this story. I'm posting this for you, dear Sherwood. Pass it along at will. ;)
*****
It wasn't until I first shared the story above, and people began to respond, that I realized I'd never listened to the other side of the audiocassette.
So, in the midst of working, and doing various Studio tasks, I put it on.
There was more of the same - parents talking to me and my baby sister; a neighbor dropping by; and voices I think may be my grandparents in the background, bringing over groceries and baby supplies.
They're both dead, and it was a slight shock to hear them, and I realized I was leaning closer, hoping they said more, but they didn't.
Then, my parents moved into the next room, and left me with the recorder. And I continued to talk to Big Jamey, mixed in with comments from my parents, and non sequiturs I can't quite make out. But I did say things meant to be secret. And then the two year old voice drops to a whisper, and asks:
"You won't tell, will you? It's a secret. You won't tell. Will you Jamey?"
A long pause.
"Will you?"
And then nothing.
The tape had stopped playing. The player was still operating - the 'play' button was still engaged - but it wasn't moving.
I stopped it, and tried to rewind. No dice. Same with fast forward, and again with play. Nothing.
I took out the tape (thinking it was broken, or stuck together), but it was in mid-tape, plenty of room, and no breaks. And I could manually turn the spool.
Then a thought occurred to me... I replaced the tape in the player, and pressed record. And it started to turn.
So, I replied. Just in case he's listening. And I told him the things I hoped he might need to know. After all, it's only fair.
He did the same for me.