On the
journey of life, your vessel is your body and the world your ocean. Do not
drown in it.
What follows
is the hidden beginning of the author: this is the story of how the art of
chelonian complaining was mastered.
First, the
turtle was one among many. They all started out on the same beach, overseen by bizarre-looking
creatures that they would latter find out were called parents. These did not
get along well, competing for food, mates and coupons for shell glistening.
But this
being a colony of particularly self-interested parent turtles, these young
turtle-babies congregated among themselves. There were a lot of them gathered:
one would not believe that this species was in fact endangered.
It was
however, critically so, according to low-paid biologists, and it was perhaps
this sense of looming existential crisis that spurred the trendier and more
charismatic young turtles to get together, and form a collective. They formed a
committee, whose members were identical to the top seventeen in any reputable
popularity list polled among the wee turtles, and were also close friends.
Sensing that
something must be done, and that they couldn’t spend their remaining hundreds
of years of life milling aimlessly about, as they had spent the last three days
since they were born, they decided that they needed a cause and an occupation
and an organization.
Always keen
on fashionable terms, they decided that their organization would be a “University.” Having decided this, they all cheered and went
out for tea, which they had under pompous circumstances, congratulating each
other constantly. It was a major nuisance when a junior associate, not even
really that popular, pointed out that they had in fact, not decided on either a
cause or an occupation.
Sighing
universally, the committee quickly drafted a cause, being “The improvement and
advancement of the chelonian race and its obvious decency” which they all
agreed was great and laudatory and they all hurrahed in unison. And then,
considering the lack of any tools or other means of advancement, and the fact
that even their tea was just dirty water and some mites, they decided that the
occupation of all at the University, would be story-telling.
Though they
called it lying. It is the same, in most respects.
So the
turtle-babes, now three days and a half old, invented fiction. They made up
stories, and it didn’t matter if they were interesting or fun or sad or if they
were well-crafted or just a boring list of facts that had happened to the
speaker: they told them all equally.
And they
gathered in smaller groups and in the university as a whole, and told these
stories to their fellow turtles, and these stories were all applauded and the
teller was said to have done a “Ruddy good job”, and if the teller were popular
or handsome, they would be told that they had done a “Terrifically ruddy good
job” and the cheers would be even louder.
These were
the only comments made on stories by the turtles-babes on the southern beaches.
The author,
being counted amongst these turtles, was no exception. The author was neither
popular nor despised, nor much of anything really. They joined in with the fun
new game, and continues on applauding even when the game had stopped being fun.
The author
was not a go-getter, nor a great forward thinker. At heart, the author who would
one day become the kvetching turtle, was of a very conservative mindset.
Careful not to offend or stand out, the author was a born people-pleaser. Never
would they go against the group.
Sure, they
applauded stories where lone adventurers dared to oppose their authority
figures, but those were just stories. Those were just pleasant words strung
together to get the days to go by faster.
And then one
day, the author met a turtle who didn’t like the stories being offered.
This was
another one of the turtle babes, but this one was everything the author was
not. They were brave and polemic, and stood out with a flare. At the end of one
story, told by one of the popular turtles in the form more or less reminiscent
of a series of listed items not bound together by a plot or common thread, the mischievous
turtle did not clap.
“Why ever
didn’t she clap?” The other turtles asked her, and she lit up and said proudly.
“Because I
didn’t like that story. It was bad, and it was boring, and it didn’t do
anything worth listening to.”
And the
other turtles of the university, which then was all of these turtles, murmured
amongst themselves and asked if something ought to be done. And the popular and
merited turtles seemed perplexed to, and for a while it was a sport to go ask
the turtle if she’d liked your story. Sometimes she would say yes, and the
asker would get smug and proud, but more often she said no, and the asker would
feel vindicated.
The author
didn’t ask: the author felt that the Disliking Turtle was only doing it for the
attention. And sure enough, when the other turtles tired of that game, the
turtle who disliked stories sometimes took a look at the university, and
declared that she was seceding.
“How?” Asked
the other turtles.
“Quite
simple.” Said the Disliking Turtle. “I shall start my own University out by the
cliff, where we will sometimes like a story and sometimes dislike it.”
And so the
Disliking Turtle began her own institute of learning, by the Promontory. She
made herself chancellor and elector and professor and adjunct and custodian,
all in one, and various places on the cliffs were designated as Faculties of This
and That.
Some turtles
went to look at her new University, and even started calling the original
University the University of South Beach, where most of them kept to. But the
Promontory College wasn’t for all, and most returned. It had been very
difficult to understand, most of them explained it, and that had rather been
the point of it. Fine for some, but not for them.
The author
was not one to be curious: in fact, the whole incident made the author decide
that the Disliking Turtle, now also the Opposing Chancellor Turtle and the
Custodian Turtle, was to be their nemesis.
It was a
reasonable decision to make: she was everything the author was not. She had a
flare for attention, whereas the author shied away from it, she was critical of
anything she wanted, whereas the author applauded everything, even if it didn’t
make them feel a thing, and above all, she loved to be one against the world,
whereas the author loved to be one in the crowd.
So the
author decided, for their first major conflict, to make an enemy out of the
Critical Wonder of the Generation. The author travelled across the University
of South Beach, and spoke of how they’d arrived at this conclusion, and how the
other university was “all bad, all bad, all bad.”
The
turtle-babes were big fans of repetition.
Soon, the
committee of popular turtle-children, decided
that they too liked the idea of a nemesis, but not wanting to trample on the
future author’s webbed feet, they simply promoted the future author to an honored
lecturer at the University. This meant that a great deal more turtles came to
listen to the story, and that they author receive even wider applaud. This
pleased the author greatly, for they felt that they had gotten all they wanted.
The Critical
Turtle was also listening, as the Cliff was not really so far away that one
couldn’t listen in on loud stories, and the Critical Turtle was interested. So
she, being a creature with a flair for the dramatic, approached the future
author at the end of the story, and in public challenged them.
“If I am to
be your Nemesis, then come to my College and challenge me!” She declared.
The author
sputtered, the author blushed, and the author did not answer. They couldn’t:
this was no thing they were accustomed to, nothing they had imagined. As far as
the future author could conceive of, one chooses one’s nemesis, told the story
of why one had done such a thing, and that was the beginning and end of the
matter. One did not engage further!
As the
minutes passed, and the author continued to fail to deliver a response, the
Critical Turtle turned their back, and had they had a cape it would have
flapped, and walked back to her Cliff College.
The audience
too, was perplexed. What did this mean? Could such a thing be done?
What story
were they in?
This the Committee,
or The Governing Board, or the Informal Royalty, wondered too, as they hastily
convened around the future author, possibly trying to hide away her insecurity.
It would
seem that the Critical Turtle and the Turtle who was her Nemesis had just
engaged in the first battle of wits, as the turtles imagined such a thing would
go, and to the committee it seemed to have been a draw at best. Some more
daring members even considered if their Fellow hadn’t lost!
But that was
heresy, not because it was wrong think, but because it was outside of the
system of thought at the University of South Beach. They had never lost before,
so it seemed such a thing wasn’t worth being considered.
But they had
not won today, and in response, one excitable member of the Board decided that
the Turtle Who Couldn’t Answer a Challenge was to be promoted to the rank of
Visiting Lecturer, and would go on a scholarship to the Rival University at the
Cliff.
As this was
a story, and as it fit into the earlier narrative, and even promised a sequel,
the turtle-babes, now several weeks or months old, cheered, and it was decided.
So the very
next hour, after some deserved recuperation, the future author left the University
at South Beach and made the short yet arduous journey to the Cliff College.
The Critical
Turtle was glad to receive the author, and boasted proudly by the makeshift seaweed-entrance
that her stories would chock the author. The author, still queasy from all the
previous hour’s excitement, merely nodded in their assent.
Next, she
got to meet all the other Criticals, those hallowed fellows who also thought
stories deserved to be bashed sometimes. Some did it seldom, some did it almost
always, but the main creed of their order was that stories could be bad, and
should be called bad.
These were a
mixed bunch, all of course other turtle babes, but from that point on they all
differed. Some were mellow and apathetic, others were bold and manic. The future
author did not like any of them, for the simple fact that none of them were her
type: these were not people-pleasers, but people-agitators. They thrived off of
conflict and resentment, and for that the future author resented them and
wished to slap them.
But the
Critical Turtle was cordial, and after presenting the author to all her
fellows, she took the author out to the furthest point of the cliff and asked
if they’d had any further thoughts.
“No, I haven’t.”
Said the author. “I do not like this style of talking. It is much to negative.
I cannot understand why you all do this. Why not listen to stories just, and
not say they are bad?”
“Because we
must be allowed to say our say about them, good or bad.”
“If one
insists on such things, why not leave simply? Why say it was bad? It seems
rude.”
“We are
being Critical.” She said. “That means we say a thing, even if it is bad.”
“But why?
That is no better than just cheering: in fact, it is worse, because it is just
hating. No one here says any whys or hows, they just say that they hate our
best and greatest stories.”
“But how
will we know which are our best and greatest stories, if we are not allowed to
say which ones we liked less?”
And this the
future author had not thought about, and they were quiet for a short while.
“Tell me,
though, why you do this?”
“It is our
part of the story.” Said she simply. “We like to find out what is better, and
so we say what is bad. If this story of our two universities is one big story,
then we are what moves it forward. We make a story happen.”
And the
future author thought about this, and was silent. They did not feel like they
wanted a nemesis any more, but they were still confused.
The future author swam
out to the furthest part of the island, and sat there alone, thinking.
The South
Beach University wanted everyone to like things. The Cliff College wanted
turtles to start disliking some things, so other things would shine.
“But then,
you still won’t know how to get better!” Said the future author suddenly, as
night turned to morning.
This was
something, the author thought. To pretend or not care about if all stories were
equally good, would mean that one didn’t know how to make better stories. To
just say that one liked one and disliked another, would mean that one didn’t
explore what made them good.
A new
University must be founded, the future author thought to themselves. A
University where turtles tell stories, and talk about what was good and what
was bad, and why, and how that can be fixed. A University which sought to tell
stories better and better!
Had the
author been able to, they would have jumped for joy. As it was now, the author
simply swam back to the other side of the island, where they’d all been born
and educated.
But when she
returned, they found it deserted. No parents, no universities, no turtles. The
author scoured the Southern Beaches and searched through the Cliff, but there
were none of their kin left.
And when they
looked out into the ocean, they realized what had happened, because the author
felt their own longing for it come alive at that moment. As they stepped out, the
future author could feel the world beneath them, the world of stories and
adventures waiting. It must have happened to them all, overnight, and they had
left behind their universities and feuds and boards and gone adventuring.
As is
a turtle’s prerogative.
To tell
stories, with words or with deeds.
The author
swam out far, and dived.
But one day,
they author would meet with other turtles again, and then the author would
share their new secret thinking, and the author would tell stories with these
other turtles, and endeavor to raise their voice in applaud when it was needed,
and when that was needed, the author would rant as well.
The author
had learned the secret to whining: one mustn’t complain unless one wishes to improve
a thing. If one cannot learn to better the stories of the universe and the
turtles and the ocean, what was the point? None.
As the
author tasted the enormous ocean for the first time, the author decided it was
lonesome. They complained, for a while. Then they sought out companionship.
And that is
how the turtle learnt the art of kvetching.
As always,
A Kvetching Turtle.
