I have been collecting a whole heap of "sortae" autobiographical stories but the nature of memory being what it is I am sure there is much in the way of false or inaccurate or "misrecalled" memories there. I guess that means that I should not call it autobiography.
Calling something "autobiography" commits one to the verifiable truth (or does it?) as I see it. On the other hand I believe all our lives are works of art in progress, the stories of which we are free to embellish and change and improve and justify ourselves.
"Why spoil a good story by sticking to the truth" is a true saying and one I most associate with my friend Alec Green (the Doyen of Scottish Tin Whistle players). The ornamenting of our stories is like the ornamenting in a traditional tune. Individual to each player.
Alec Green grew up as the son of a Miller. In an accident with the mill when a young child he lost the tips of several fingers. This made Alec's musical ornamentation of tunes on his preferred Tin Whistle idiosyncratic and clearly recognisable. He found his own voice.
Just like a musician, the composition and performance of our lives, just as much as the playing of any tune, needs ornamentation. The great fiddle composer James Scott Skinner described the notes on the page as a mere skeleton. It was up to the player to provide the ornament , feeling and embellishment that brought the tune to life.
As different types of tunes bring about different ornaments, so our different lives call on us to augment and embellish the bare notes on the page to add and compose the stories of our lives. Hopefully we will leave stories behind us.
Playing with our memories (the same verb is used in most Germanic languages) allows us to relive and change and improve and hear the music of our existence replayed at a distance. I love the use of the verb play. It's what children do to enjoy and learn. I love that the same verb is used to describe using a musical instrument to make sound.
Spanish on the other hand uses the verb "Tocar" (to touch) to describe what in English is called the playing of a musical instrument. This is also a fine image to consider.
Returning to my collection of stories. Which of them have an empirically verifiable truth? Which of them have an element of embellishment? I am sure that I am not best placed to tell. Who will see a truth? Who will denounce me as an unreliable witness to my life? Yet how can this be?
For those who would call me a liar, what rewards do they reap? I have seldom felt the thrill of moral superiority. By and large I consider myself a fallible and flawed man. Hopefully this makes it difficult for me to adopt a moral high ground. I have so many skeletons in my own cupboard that it would ill behove me to be overly critical of the moral conduct of others.
And yet I never ever feel myself as lacking a moral compass. I have a developed ethical system which allows me to commit and sanction certain acts and avoid and shun other conduct. This in the absence of a religious context. I am a lifelong atheist. I am always amused by people who believe that only with faith and presumably the fear of hell (the hangmans's whip tae haud the wretch in order as Robert Burns said). If I only acted morally because I feared damnation I should think myself a pretty poor moralist.
So I claim the right to the remembering and recollection of my life. I claim the right to embellish and ornament my tune in the way I please.
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