on repeating stories

A phenomenon has caught my interest: that of repeating stories. I was reminded of it recently while having some after-work beers with a friend, when in order to back up a point he was making he began to recount a story from his past, one I had heard from him more than once before. He told the story in nearly the exact manner he had told it the first and second times, pausing for emphasis at the same spots and drawing the same conclusions he'd drawn during its initial recounting.

This vague example, however, is tame compared to the seemingly endless loop-cycle that some stories seem to enjoy. Following an unscientific and completely subjective analysis of such stories as I hear repeated by friends and family, I have concluded that people use narrative repetition to convince themselves of the validity of certain statements or memories, and that they tell certain stories over and over again in order to blur within their own minds the distinctions between fact and fiction. Some stories, I surmise, are repeated in order to protect the ego from feeling as if it were anything less than stellar; others, I take, are repeated to remember past wrongs and to keep hatred for and discontentment with the wrong-doer alive; and still others, it appears, are repeated in order to travel back in time – if only briefly – to exciting scenes long since passed, to tender loves long since lost, to sudden glory long since faded. Among the persons most likely to repeat a particular tale are middle-aged housewives so obsessed with the details of their own lives that they have forgotten about the great flourishing of danger and excitement that occurs beyond their comfortable walls; I have found it counter-productive, however, to point out to a woman that she is repeating herself, for she will with near certainty become deeply offended and spend the rest of the day sniping and backstabbing.

Upon examining this phenomenon of narrative repetition, I find myself engaging in it fairly regularly, at least when it comes to certain stories told at certain times: upon making a platonic acquaintance, I'll give a prepared summary of my life, the words bubbling out nearly subconsciously; upon meeting a potential mate, I'll present a different set of stories tailored to the young lady's apparent interests in hopes of piquing her fancy; and when discussing politics or issues of similar weight I find myself resorting to a specific cache of stories in order to back myself up, stories I use to convince myself of the validity of my own opinions or to cast doubt upon the opinions held by others. I will often not remember having previously told a story until I am halfway through it and my listeners start showing signs of restlessness (because they have obviously heard me tell it before). It is becoming clear to me that my experiences are so few that they can be summed up using only a handful of worn, old tales, yawn-inducing stories best kept quiet; I am becoming resigned to the fact that my brains so poorly remember the past that they cannot even keep track of the most simple of things, such as the worthlessness of my personal opinions and whether or not I have breached a certain topic with a certain individual. It is strange, and beautiful, sometimes, being alive and so forgetful. Mahalo.

© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)