Illusions

This is not San Francisco, it is a reproduction of a photo of San Francisco painted on the side of a truck parked at The Embarcadero.

There can be no replication of what we see around us. Photos are not real, though we easily forget that.


This is not Stockholm. It is a photo of Stockholm reproduced on a wall in the East Palo Alto Ikea store.

Are dreams real?

Are feelings real?

Did entire sequences of apparently verifiable experiences actually exist, or did we imagine them?

Are there ghosts? Angels? Why do people just show up sometimes? Why do others disappear?

How can everything about our lives be transformed in an instant, utterly beyond our control?

Who are we, anyway?

Most of us can say our name, list a profession, introduce those around us, identify our relatives. When we look in a mirror, we can recognize "ourselves." But in my experience and observation, those among us most certain of themselves ultimately are the least certain.

So much is unknowable. Hell, I consider myself a storyteller, but I cannot even say where my stories come from. They are true, I think, at least in an emotional sense.

Then again, like, a photograph, a story has to have structure. It needs a beginning, a pace, and it most desperately needs an ending.

So a story is like life. When it's alive, it has a beating heart, but when it's over, there is nothing left to say.

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