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jmfargoWhen I was a child, I taught myself chess. I was about ten years old, and good enough to bring my father to a stalemate. Not great, not a genius, and definitely not an amazing feat for me to learn the game. Unremarkable, even, except for one major factor:
I learned from a man long dead.
I didn't read books, I didn't ask other people how to play. I taught myself, in my room, by playing with someone who wasn't there. We sat on the floor, because I didn't have a table. I sat with my legs folded underneath me as small children often do, and he sat cross-legged on the other side of the board. He taught me how all the pieces moved. When he tried to explain "castling," I looked it up.
I don't remember much about him. He was a middle-aged man, and while I want to say he wore overalls, I can tell that that's just my now-brain putting details that I don't actually remember into the scene. I don't remember hearing him speak, but I remember him saying things to me, like his words were just there, and I plucked them from the aether. He was real, even though I could see through him. He had a name; I don't remember it.
I write this while grimacing. I've never actually told anybody this story before, for a lot of reasons. I wear a frown because while I write it I know that if someone were to tell the story to me, if I were to read it somewhere else, I'd nod politely and secretly place them in the category of "crazy people." I can't help it. I watch shows like Ghost Hunters, and point out how everything's faked. I listen to stories, and think the person must be lying, or crazy.
I know, for a fact, that ghosts exist. I remember, clearly, interacting with them. I was scared of many, intrigued by others. One saved my life.
At the same time, I know that ghosts can't exist. Everyone in my childhood told me I was either seeing things or making things up. They couldn't see what was right there with them, they didn't believe me, stopped listening. They told me I had an active imagination, and that someday I'd stop having imaginary friends.
They were right. It stopped.
My rational mind, the one that was trained to be what it is today through experience, refuses to see ghosts, to believe ghost stories, and doubts its own memories of seeing them. It tells me that spiritual creatures, ghosts, spooks, haunts, demons, don't exist. Can't.
And then I remember playing chess; being passed condiments at the lunch table when nobody else was in the house; a toy in the playroom rolling across the 10 foot gap between me and it, coming to a rest next to me; a boy standing over me, telling me to hold on, that it wasn't my time; seeing people that couldn't be there because, well, they were dead.
So tell me your ghost stories. I'll be intrigued. I'll want to know more. I'll even ask to hear more. I'll just think you're crazy.
Then I'll tell you my stories.
It's okay. You can think I'm crazy. I understand. I think I am.
I learned from a man long dead.
I didn't read books, I didn't ask other people how to play. I taught myself, in my room, by playing with someone who wasn't there. We sat on the floor, because I didn't have a table. I sat with my legs folded underneath me as small children often do, and he sat cross-legged on the other side of the board. He taught me how all the pieces moved. When he tried to explain "castling," I looked it up.
I don't remember much about him. He was a middle-aged man, and while I want to say he wore overalls, I can tell that that's just my now-brain putting details that I don't actually remember into the scene. I don't remember hearing him speak, but I remember him saying things to me, like his words were just there, and I plucked them from the aether. He was real, even though I could see through him. He had a name; I don't remember it.
I write this while grimacing. I've never actually told anybody this story before, for a lot of reasons. I wear a frown because while I write it I know that if someone were to tell the story to me, if I were to read it somewhere else, I'd nod politely and secretly place them in the category of "crazy people." I can't help it. I watch shows like Ghost Hunters, and point out how everything's faked. I listen to stories, and think the person must be lying, or crazy.
I know, for a fact, that ghosts exist. I remember, clearly, interacting with them. I was scared of many, intrigued by others. One saved my life.
At the same time, I know that ghosts can't exist. Everyone in my childhood told me I was either seeing things or making things up. They couldn't see what was right there with them, they didn't believe me, stopped listening. They told me I had an active imagination, and that someday I'd stop having imaginary friends.
They were right. It stopped.
My rational mind, the one that was trained to be what it is today through experience, refuses to see ghosts, to believe ghost stories, and doubts its own memories of seeing them. It tells me that spiritual creatures, ghosts, spooks, haunts, demons, don't exist. Can't.
And then I remember playing chess; being passed condiments at the lunch table when nobody else was in the house; a toy in the playroom rolling across the 10 foot gap between me and it, coming to a rest next to me; a boy standing over me, telling me to hold on, that it wasn't my time; seeing people that couldn't be there because, well, they were dead.
So tell me your ghost stories. I'll be intrigued. I'll want to know more. I'll even ask to hear more. I'll just think you're crazy.
Then I'll tell you my stories.
It's okay. You can think I'm crazy. I understand. I think I am.
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no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 05:03 pm (UTC)An LJ friend of mine has a similar problem with many of the ghost-hunter / paranormal programmes on TV over here. He attributes it to the fact that the programme makers are under pressure to produce something TV-worthy, and that, much like wildlife programmes, you can't expect spirits to perform on demand.
The temptation to fake something that you know to be true when you're under that sort of pressure must be quite intense.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 05:05 pm (UTC)And yes, I imagine the pressure is high to show some kind of proof. I think since Season 1 they've gotten a LOT better about not just faking everything, but it's definitely still there.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 05:19 pm (UTC)I wonder where the pressure is coming from. Early seasons pulled good ratings, and they were hesitant to call places haunted. I wonder if they feel pressures now from the places they are investigating. The majority of the places are businesses, and substantiating their claims of hauntings would be good business for them.
Personally, I watch the show because I like watching the investigators interact. Maybe that's why it is called Ghost Hunters...the show is more about the people doing the hunting than it is the entities being hunted.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 05:24 pm (UTC)But maybe I'm remembering wrong. That's very possible.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 06:10 pm (UTC)Now every episode has Jay and Grant saying "did you see that? A shadow just walked over there!" And in the reveal they'll say "based on our personal experiences, we think it is haunted."
In past episodes, personal experiences alone were never enough for them to call a place haunted. Even if the evidence was fabricated, they at least had evidence. I fear Ghost Hunters is heading the way of Most Haunted.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 06:24 pm (UTC)The worst offender out of any of the shows, however, is the spin-off: Ghost Hunters International. Have you watched that? I feel it honestly gives ghost hunters a bad name.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 06:30 pm (UTC)Worst. Show. Ever.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 06:34 pm (UTC)I do still watch it from time to time on Hulu, but more because I'm interested in learning the local legends. Once they start getting into the actual hunting part I go to something else. Is that weird?
no subject
Date: 2008-10-31 06:38 pm (UTC)Not particularly, no. The hunters aren't the least bit interesting, and are bordering on annoying.