Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
The Six Main Arcs in Storytelling
Goldiloppers And The Three Bearloders
Now, once a-polly tito. You may think that doesn't sound quite right.
But believe me, once a-polly tito it is, and in this case it was
Goldyloppers.
Goldyloppers trittly-how in the early mordy, and she
falolloped down the steps. Oh unfortunade for crackening of the eggers
and the sheebs and the buttery full-falollop and graze the
knee-clappers. So she had a vaselubrious, rub it on and a quick healy
huff and that was that. So off she went, and
she went trittly-how
down the garbage path, and at the left right-hand-side goal she passed a
[sniff] poo-pom, it was hillows a humus heapy in the garbage! But never
mind. Erm... she lost her wail.
Now this is a sadness, dear
childers, because in the slight misty haze which all forry, let me tell
you, in the ephemeral forry there's always a fairy control where the
misty risey huff there, and so she was completely lost it. Oh folly,
folly. There was a cotty; so she went up, all ready with the basket and
picked up the butter and all that with a little bit of birch she scrape
it off and rub it and down her clothesee. Mum would be cross but...
never mind. Clop clop on the door. This little cotty had a jar on the
door, so she went in. Nobody there. Three baseload of porry on the
tabloid, all slightly steamy huff, and nobody at. She called out: [as
though down a cardboard tube] "Anyone home?" Nobody. Folly, folly, and a
little hunger was with her, so she falolloped a taste out of the first
basel.This was the large baseload and too oversalty for the flabe
p't't't spitty-how. Oh dear! Now the middload was a middle flabe which
was not too oversalt and a sugar flabe on her saliva glam and it wasn't
course quite satisfactual; so she did a tasty most in the little
baseload there, and it was a joy. And oh [gulp] (pardlo!) as she
stuffled it down! Oho dear! Now this was great, but there was also a
little tiredness in the Goldyloppers and she sat on a three-lebber stool
and -- tock falolloper! -- all the lebbers floating across the corm,
sat on her bocus there, bruisey most.Well, still there was no one
around, so she went brrrrrr tock up the stairloaders. And she found a
large
bedding, not a caypack that eiderdown but stuffled with feathers, but
here and there a stalk, as you know is a big feathersy eaglode and it
stuckening in her back; and it was most uncomfortipold. So she saw the
cotty, and in this cot she did lay down: [snore, zzzzz] deep sleevers
under the eiderdobe. Well, while she was this thus sleepy and a deep
dream of peaks, then up came the bears into the cotty. Now the
fatherbold bear looking around and say: "Who's been tasting and suffling
my porry? Ho ho, dear!" And then the mother bear look it in her
baseload of porry and said: [tube voice
again] "Who been tasting my
porry? Oohhhh, a bedder pinger!" So the small bear came and said: "Who
touches my baseload and falolloping all down, mum! Huh-ha-ho dear, look
it and empty and not scratching on the bottom!" And there was a
general consternail uproar and complaint about the three-lebbed stool
bear, all the bits and floaty, and so they had a looking it around the
houseloader. [Brrrrrr tock] Big bear, [higher pitch: brrrrrr tock]
middle bear, [higher still: brrrrrr ss't't] they all went up the
stairloaders, and soon there was a dent discovery in mum and dad's
bedling
when the dirty footmark of where she did her trottly
over-and-how and then into the cops't'k. And the little bear said: "Oh
lookadee, mum! There's a lying of some Goldyloppers!" But at this mode,
she jumped up in the middle of her deep dream and sleep peacey, [snore,
whistle] out of the windload, slide it and huffalo-dowder the
drainpikers, and through the forry fast awail!
And they all looked such consternail through the windload, they hadn't time to say: "You naughty girlage!" Huh-huh-huh-huh!
Aqui
Storytelling / Fictional entities
Mais sobre Yuval Noah Harari
"Human rights, is just like heaven or like god. It's just a fictional story that we have invented and spread around. [...] Israel,
the US, are just stories. Very powerful stories. Stories we might want
to believe very much. But still they are just stories. [...] But
the most successful story of all, is probably the story of money. Which
is one of the main foundations of our economic system. ... But them
comes along one of the master storytellers: the bankers, the financial
ministers, the prime ministers, the presidents, and they tell a very
convincing story. [...] And money is the most successful story of all because it is the only story everybody believes. [...] The very survival of rivers and trees and lions and chimpanzees, today depends on the wishes and decisions of fictional entities like the US or like Google, or like the world bank.Entities that, in fact, exist only in our common imagination."
Yuval Noah Harari
storytelling
A wandering dervish arrived in a town where the natives didn't trust strangers. "Go away!" They shouted at him. "No one knows you here!"
The dervish calmly responded, "Yes, but I know myself, and believe me, it would have been much worse if it were the other way round."
Elif Shafak, in The Forty Rules of Love
StoryCorps
"Preserving the stories of everyday Americans. Since then, Isay has
amassed hundreds of thousands of recordings, most of previously unheard
or ignored voices, all speaking in their own words. The archives of
StoryCorps -- which Isay founded in 2003 -- are included at the Library
of Congress’ American Folklife Center, and now constitute the largest
single collection of recorded voices in history."
Link
‘We must be able to dream’
"We cannot live without mythology, it’s the way we reason, the
way we survive, the way we make sense of our world. It’s just that the
stories we’ve been using—mythic stories, fairy tales, legends—they’re
not working anymore. We need something new. What we long for is a
remythologization of reality.”
Armando Maggi, aqui
Era uma vez...
Getty Images
Era uma vez um menino que não tinha irmãos.
Os pais, por não terem a possibilidade de lhe dar um irmão ou uma irmã, sentiam-se muito tristes, e achavam que, se dessem sempre muita atenção ao menino, ele nunca havia de sentir a falta de uma companhia para brincar.
Acontece que o menino era feliz, assim, sem irmãos.
Gostava de brincar sozinho.
Aprendeu a criar o seu cantinho e a conversar com os seus bonecos.
Não sentia a falta de irmãos pois não sabia como era tê-los!
Mas os pais, aflitos, andavam sempre de roda dele, enchendo-o de cuidados, sugestões, prendas e... «olha vai lá para fora brincar com os outros meninos...», «olha, come mais um bocadinho para ficares forte como o Popeye...», «cuidado que está frio!», «veste a camisola, não te esqueças de pentear o cabelo...» «pareces tão sozinho!» «o que fazes com a porta fechada? anda para junto de nós!»
O menino gostava muito dos pais, mas, às vezes sentia-se, sufocado.
Eram tantos os desvelos que o menino foi criando uma terrível necessidade de ter o "SEU" cantinho.
Um espaço secreto onde ninguém pudesse entrar.
O que nem sempre era fácil, pois ele desejava transportá-lo para toda a parte. Ou seja: para onde quer que fosse...
Quando o menino se fez homem, ganhou o hábito de andar pela sombra, rente aos muros, por ruas pouco frequentadas, receando permanentemente pôr em risco o seu sossego.
Desenvolveu um gosto por locais escondidos, recatados, onde passasse pouca gente. Locais que não ficavam a caminho de nada. Sentia algum desconforto quando as pessoas gostavam de estar com ele e de conversar com ele. Desconfiava se a mesma pessoa lhe fazia duas perguntas seguidas ou insistia em convidá-lo para sair e para se divertirem.
Enfim, o menino transformara-se num homem solitário, que soubera assegurar a sua toca. Porém, a toca era feita exactamente à sua medida e, quando lhe apetecia convidar alguém para o visitar, sentia um enorme desconforto, porque lhe parecia que não cabiam duas pessoas, à vontade, no refúgio que construíra.
Então ficava triste, pensando que tinha conquistado um cantinho à sua medida mas, na verdade, nunca lhe tinha passado pela cabeça que a sua medida poderia e deveria chegar para partilhar momentos, alegrias e tormentos com os outros.
