Stéphane Dreyfus
Bio
Melanchoholic.
Struggling to obey the forgotten rules.
Achievements (1)
Stories (44)
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Actions on the Border of Decency
I arrived home very late last night after a great deal of travel. My life is increasingly shifting into the stage where it is us, the children, taking care of the parents. Both places to which I traveled involved such activities. Everyone is getting older. Infirmity is endemic, though it expresses itself to different degrees in the varied constitutions of the collected grandparents. Still, being of service to them, making efforts to be kind and supportive, seems to have helped my disposition towards practice.
By Stéphane Dreyfus2 years ago in Journal
Also sprach das Selbst
Like all children, I was born as a being of curiosity and joy. Though perhaps I had too much kindness and silence in me. Nature called to me. And like all children I had what some thing of as a secret need for love. Perhaps mine was greater than others, as I was never fed quite enough. Thus solitude and sadness lurked at the edges from a young age.
By Stéphane Dreyfus3 years ago in Beat
Past Lives In No Particular Order
It seems like we met in college. Not long after it felt like we had met earlier. Many times. Despite our outer differences, despite my judgemental rage and your unflappable calm and kindness, we could sit together and talk. Endlessly. It bothers me when people say they are old souls, because souls have no beginning. It makes more sense to postulate that we may be old friends. Very old. In the endless span of things, none of us started out as friends, and so it is an incalculably valuable gift to run into someone you have seen before, been a friend to before, even if no one in this world can point to easy evidence of such a past. How extraordinary to share a bond that has survived countless deaths. Countless births.
By Stéphane Dreyfus3 years ago in Humans
Past Lives In No Particular Order
I am closely acquainted with a northern European woman. She is much older than me. She has a female partner. They care for each other a great deal. Her English is minimal but functional. My knowledge of her language is non-existent. Every time we see each other, we mostly just reflect in each other’s gaze. I have to say it’s something more than visual, though the eyes are involved. We exist in proximity and each observes the whole with the whole. It is as if we know each other. We do know each other, but something sounds in the background, gently ringing the chimes of memory, even though we don’t have a past together. In this life. The pealing bell of this memory vibrates from beyond the mundane.
By Stéphane Dreyfus3 years ago in Humans
Initiate Transfer
At night, inside a stretch limo, a driver contemplates the sounds of rich people having a party. He can hear it dimly through his slightly open window. He loves the sounds: clear voices, but words indistinct. Every now and then a woman’s laugh or exclamation. He loves it when people are having fun, but he allows himself an odd thought: how much fun are people really having at a political fundraising dinner?
By Stéphane Dreyfus3 years ago in Fiction
