Oh I want to shout and roar and stamp my feet, to shake my arse in the face of my enemies and kick them with my hind hooves. But no i won't i'll politely write a blog that says "i'm angry" and even that might draw pursed lips and reproving tuts from the people i most want to shout and roar at if they happened to read it which thankfully they won't. 
Anger is one those emotions we are supposed to suppress. Or if it must be given vent then let it be vented upon a chosen scapegoat. Heaven help us if the anger we feel is at those who deem themselves superior because they have a strong hold on their feelings. Why would having a strong hold on your feelings be a good thing. Maybe those who have a strong hold on their feelings are actually just people whose heart beat is a dreary plod, whose emotional range is slight. There is nothing wrong with dreary plod but why do those people censor those whose hearts race and stop, and jump and skip. Why is it that those people, too often pillars of the community, hold such store by the flattening of feeling. 
I can already feel myself self-censoring, ready to write some stuffed up tedious blog about feelings and how the middle road is best in the long run. Ack, whatever. And well yes, maybe, maybe we do all do that conform and give way, but should we ? Is that the right way or is it fear that stops us, binds us to that course, stops us from being the whole of ourselves, makes us more at ease with safe and dull than edge and light. 
Societal rules condemn us to behaving well, moderately, even when others are not. We commend people for coping in the face of adversity but why should we cope well, why shouldn't we crumple and fold, why shouldn't we walk away from commitments, why shouldn't we rage when we've been hurt or put upon or made to feel bad ? 
Each one of us is making those choices all the time. Stay within the perimeters given to us by our social group or defy the boundaries and risk being made an outcast. 
Manners. Manners are part of this code of conduct. Manners cost nothing. Manners smooth the way. Manners can smooth the way. But manners can also be a treacherous maze, one way leading to social acceptability and/or advancement and the other to dismissal and contempt. It's a game of politics whether you know it or not. 
Admitting to frustration feels quite exposing. Frustration isn't a pretty emotion. And rage is frankly scary. It needs to be scary, it's a last resort. I'm not really raging I'm just fed up but i think i may need to let loose some of that fed up some way, some how. I'm not really raging yet but the fed up needs to find a way out. I'm hoping i can turn it into something useful or beautiful. 

We have slipped into November and my fairy tale this month is Goldilocks and the Three Bears. I have a horrible feeling i will put some horrible adult spin on this story that makes Goldilocks more morally deviant than necessary and the bears more wild. But hey, maybe i won't, maybe this time i'll keep it simple. 
In the mean time I want to make some blog notes about The Tinder Box because i have really enjoyed inhabiting this world. 
Once upon a time a poor soldier was returning home from war. He was foot-sore and world weary and the soles on his boots were gone, so to gather strength, before heading to town, he took a little rest under the branches of a great oak that stood by the edge of the road. As he sat eating the last of his rations an old woman came by. She stood for a while quite quietly then asked what his plans were for the future, all the time admiring his mighty sword.
"Why to raise some money old mother" said he "for as you can see I'm down to stone broke"
"Well" says she "I'll give you some help if you will do one small favour for me"
"Fire away" says he "what is the help ? And what is the favour ?"
"Well" says she "you see this big tree that you are sat with your back to. If you climb up into it's branches you will see that it is hollow inside. Climb down into the hollow and you will find three caves with three dogs guarding all the gold, silver and copper your heart desires. If you take my apron and put it on the floor the dogs will lay upon it and you will able to help yourself to all the gold, silver and copper you want. All that i ask is that you bring me the tinder box that you will find in the cave. What say you soldier will you do as i say and ask ?"
"This" thinks he "is a no brainer" so he responds with a casual "sure, no problem old woman and thank you" 
She unties her apron and gives it to him and he climbs up to the top of the bole of the tree and sure enough there is a hollow that goes all the way down the centre of the trunk as is quite common in very old oaks. There's a rope tied fast to a branch hanging down, and so carefully he climbs down until he reaches solid ground. From there he can see that within the roots are three vast caves. He goes into one and there is a dog with eyes as big as saucers sat upon a great chest filled to over flowing with copper coins. He lays down the apron upon the floor and the dog sits itself on it while the soldier fills all his pockets with coins and his knapsack too. Then the soldier bids farewell and the dog gets up off the apron which the soldier picks up and takes into the second cave. What's in the second cave ? A dog with eyes as big as dinner plates sat upon a great chest filled to over flowing with silver. It's pretty scary but the soldier lays down the apron. And just as before the dog sits itself down while the soldiers empties his pockets and knapsack of copper coins and refills them with silver. Then as before he bids farewell, the dog gets up and he picks up the old woman's apron and goes into the last cave. In the last cave is a dog with eyes as big as wagon wheels sitting on a great chest overflowing with gold coins. And so the soldier repeats what he did in the second cave. Now with his pockets and knapsack filled with gold he goes to climb out, remembering just in time to look for the tinder box which he finds quite easily and slips into his top left pocket which is only one left with any room. Then with some effort he climbs up the hanging rope and down to where the old woman is waiting. 
With a smile he thanks her and goes to take her leave. 
"But wait" she says "where is my tinderbox ?" 
Whereupon he takes his sword and chops off her head. Leaving her there he walks on into town. When he reaches the town he goes into an inn and asks for the best rooms the innkeeper has. He looks a bit shabby and rough but the colour of his money speaks for him and so the innkeeper gives him the finest suite and from there the soldier heads out to buy himself new boots and beautiful clothes and proceeds to become quite the most popular man about town. 
All's well for a while, until his money runs out. Then when it does he finds himself forced to take residence in less salubrious lodgings and his new found friends drift away. 
One night as he is sitting in the dark and cold he picks up the old tinderbox that he found in the tree. Just for something to do he strikes it and as the spark catches the wick of the candle stub sat on his bare table, the dog with eyes as big as saucers appears and asks what his master wishes for.
Now, for a long time, the soldier has been thinking about the beautiful princess who lives locked behind dark walls in the centre of town. Her beauty is legend and he would like to see the princess so he asks the dog to bring her to him so that he may look upon her. And thus it happens. The dog goes to the palace and brings the sleeping princess on his back to the soldiers lowly garret. And yes she is as beautiful as legend has it. The soldier plants a tender kiss upon her lips, she stirs but doesn't wake and the dog takes her back to bed safe and unharmed. 
In the morning at breakfast the princess sleepily relates a dream she had in the night to her royal parents. 
"I dreamed i was atop a great dog and the dog took me to a room where a man was waiting. He kissed me but he did not speak and then the dog brought me home" 
The queen was suspicious. She spoke to the princess' nurse. 
"Tonight please keep awake and watch the princess while she sleeps i think something is afoot"
And so the nurse stays awake. And the next night the soldier inflamed by the thought of the princess strikes the tinderbox again and the dog with eyes as big as dinner plates appears and asks what his master wishes for. And the soldier asks that the dog bring him the princess so he might look on her again. And so it happens. But this time the nurse follows the dog and marks the door of the house in which the soldier lives with a red cross. Then she goes home to sleep. The soldier once again kisses the princess and this time she opens her eyes just for a moment before the dog returns her to her chambers. After which he marks each door in every street across the town with a red cross. So it is that when the next day the queen sends out her soldiers to arrest the young man the soldiers are unable to find him because all of the doors are marked. 
The queen's lips purse. The soldier dreams of one more glimpse of the beautiful princess. And the princess wonders who the handsome man she has dreamed of for two nights in a row is. 
And so it goes that on the third night when the soldier strikes the tinderbox and the dog with eyes as big as wagon wheels turns up and asks him his wish the queen has filled the princess' pockets with flour, which gently trickles out of the holes that the queen has made and so a trail is left and the dog doesn't notice and so the soldier is found even tho' the princess is returned safe and unharmed just as before. 
Safe and unharmed but not unaware for this time she had woken and they had spoken for some time and gazed into each other's eyes and fallen in love. 
But that's as it goes for the soldier is in gaol and sentenced to hang. But still he has hope for his prison is just below street level and as a young butcher boy passes he calls him to come and for a coin to get the tinderbox from his lodgings which the butcher boy does. And so it happens that as he stands at the gallows with a great crowd watching the king asks him if he has any one last request. And the soldier ask for a pipe and a smoke and as he lights the tobacco with one, two, three, sparks from the tinder box the three dogs appear and tear down the gallows and gobble up the king and queen and all the high and mighty which means that the princess and soldier who love each other madly can live happily ever after together without interference or judgement. 
And that is the story of The Tinder Box. Or my rough re-telling. The Tinder Box is a Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale. Every time a story is retold it changes a little. A story is a living thing. It meets the teller and listener and belongs to them in a way that is particular to them. When I read a story i can inhabit every body and every thing within the story. So in this, I am the soldier, the old woman, the dogs, the princess. I am the innkeeper, the friends, the royal parents, the nurse, the butcher boy, the crowd. I am the walls of the town, the bark of the tree, I am the wind that shakes the branches of the tree, and the stars that look down on land and sea and bear witness to the goings on from before they were visible to human eye, and i am the soldiers boots, the old woman's apron, i am the tinderbox and i am the spark. 
I am the spark. And you are the spark. And each one of us will be our own version of whatever we imagine ourselves to be. And whilst we are what we imagine we are also ourselves, flesh and blood, our concrete being, real, substantial, not-imaginary. But that's the way it goes with stories we slip into them, swim naked into thoughts and feelings borrowed from another mind, another's once upon a time. And our own story, our own life, is that too, a river flowing, a story being told.
Here with The Tinder Box it seems to me, from research combined with my own being, that it is a coming of age story. It's a shock when the soldier cuts off the old woman's head. But one source i found suggested that the old woman represents the mother. Her decapitation is a decisive move towards adult independence and freedom from a parental tie. If the old woman is the mother then my reading is that he has been to war, come home to rest and recoup, goes down into the family tree, is given resources that allow him to make a life of his own. The layers of connecting tissue that flesh out the bones of a story are subject to individual interpretation. To me it figures that, if the old woman is his mother, the apron she lends him might be good manners and grace, that the dogs, who feel to me like untamed drives and power, need to be offered courtesy and respect if we want them to serve us and give us what we need. 
And there is so much more. The fair-weather friends, the princess, even bit parts like the butcher's boy and the innkeeper, each character offers a new insight because each one would tell the tale differently. Each one meets the soldier from their own unique perspective and so it is in life.
My fairy tale a month project that i began as way to keep myself upright at the beginning of this year has been a great gift because fairy tales have been one of my go-to sources since i was a child and investing time, thought and activity in knowing a single story means that those i have chosen are now a part of me, the colour of them is embroidered onto my skin and  the tone and timbre is set now in the beat of my heart. 
I am using waft-y language. I feel a bit waft-y today. Giving myself a fairy tale is, i guess, a light form of escapism. There are more harmful ways to escape. On saturday I was drawing with my granddaughter. We were talking about drawing unicorns and i asked her what kind of tail she thought unicorns have, this is a question that vexes me very slightly. We also talked about what colour unicorns are, i thought they were white, but she said "oh no, lots of colours". Then i said something and she gave me a stern look and said that our drawings wouldn't look realistic. We were quiet for a moment. And then she looked at me and i looked at her and we smiled because we knew that however we saw unicorns was going to be imaginary because neither of us had actually seen a unicorn that wasn't out of someone's imagination. It was a special moment. 
The border between real and imaginary is pretty clear but it isn't solid and one person's real can be another's madness. When I say I am the wind in the trees or the stars in the sky i know that I am in reality, just me, Becca, but as it happens just-me-Becca can also stretch out of my solid self to imagine how it is to be a star or the wind or another person or a bird or creature or whatever. My imagination is the starting point for empathy. The word empathy stems from the greek em - in, and pathos - feeling. When we empathise with another it means we are allowing ourselves to meet their feelings, to momentarily merge so as to know what is happening for them, in them. 
The merging thing is disconcerting. It happens in crowds. It happens often between lovers and good friends. It happens in friendship groups and families too. And when we pick up a book or watch a film or play a video game. It is why we might bond over iconic figures they represent a part of ourselves and when we meet someone who also relates to that figure we meet ourselves in them. Which Harry Potter character are you for instance, see how you instantly like the people who choose the same body to inhabit or who are friends with our chosen form ? Is this what binds Trump's supporters ? Is his obvious isolation and grand deflection of pain something that his followers recognise and feel fellowship with ? My imagination veers away from trying to understand, or empathise with, him and the greater body of his fan-base. 
Aversion is an alternative form of empathy perhaps. Something in another body (singular or plural) is unattractive. Generally unless the thing or being is in your face the response is to not see, not know, to refuse to witness. It is perhaps why being born witness to is such powerful medicine. And perhaps why, as a species that has done spectacularly well, we have become more and more narcissistic and needy, see me, hear me, know me, I am important, I am worthy of attention, it is hard in a crowd to attract attention perhaps it is enough to be part of the crowd. But crowds are dangerous, they demand a conformity sticking out in a crowd is not safe, it invites rejection. As someone who has misfitted since forever i have learned to err away from crowds and cliques now. My belonging is more often met in solitude than company. And loneliness is harder to bear in a crowd than alone. 
None of this really has anything to do with The Tinder Box story. But then again maybe it does. The Tinder Box is a very ordinary human journey in many ways. And it is that human journey that i pondered on during October. My journey, and the journeys of others both known and loved, and not known, or not loved. All of us are travelling from one fixed point, birth, to another, death. And how we get to our end point is not always going to be easy. The gift of empathy from others will make it easier, will smooth our path.    
What am I getting at ? I don't know. I suppose i am extolling the virtues of imagination and wishing  for imagination to be given more love and respect, because my experience is that it is those with the greatest imaginations who are often most kind, most likely to show compassion. And hell knows we could do with a little more kindness and compassion in this world at the moment.