A colleague had a child just last year. He’s an older guy, younger girlfriend, and has always been a very laid-back, surfer-type. We had been ribbing him for months about the drastic change in lifestyle that was about to occur. I think he took it in good fun, and maybe listened a bit, but you are never prepared for the change that a child brings. You could see it in his face in the months afterward – he was tired. Tired, but happy.
I have a love of historical fiction borne, I believe, of my affinity for Conan Doyle’s tales of Sherlock Holmes. I have read the anthology several times over, and sought out the various “estate-approved” modern tales, though some pale vastly in comparison to that which they are tying to emulate.
I remember using a typewriter. A lot of people don’t. Actually, I think a lot of people that used a typewriter don’t remember using one, either. I also remember writing letters. By hand. With a pen. In cursive. What happened? Not to the methods – but to the writing.
Facebook is great for some things – keeping up with family, friends and colleagues, seeing families and lives of people you otherwise would not, ignoring “friends” instead of de-friending because their political/food/OMGFML posts are too annoying for words, that kind of thing.
What it is not so great for is seeing how much other parents have different lives than you do.
I thought of this the other day and felt like I wanted to put it down. The memory came to me after my youngest smiled at me. It was that particular type of smile – not just happy, but happy to see you, happy to be doing whatever he was doing, just happy to be.
And when I saw this smile I felt something only a parent can feel, and every parent would have difficulty describing. It’s just a pure feeling, made entirely of love, affection and, as strange as it might sound, a desire to impress – impress Daddy with his nothing more than his happiness. Read more…
Apropos to my last post, I just today spoke via Facebook with an old friend, Arvi. He had posted a picture of himself and Ije Nwokorie, and then that sent us down an 18 year-old rabbit hole with other friends who all worked together in New York.
Mind blown. This is how social media is supposed to work.
I pride myself on my memory. On my brain. My recollection. But it fails me in one spectacular way.
I don’t remember much of my childhood, or even early adulthood. Everything before about 1998-1999 just sort of slips away from me. I know why, because that was the time of my life where I starting doing different things, and changed my outlook and path considerably.
I try not to be pensive and melodramatic anymore, but reaching this age, I felt like I needed to at least reflect on how I should feel at this point in my life. I should feel old, right? I should feel that, perhaps, more life is behind than ahead. I should feel like my best years are behind me. I should feel a lot of things you hear are what 40 means.
You know what I feel? Lucky.
I’ve raved (and ranted) before on here about games and the quality storytelling that is often overlooked when pundits wax philosophical about the violence our kids are exposed to. Unfortunately, conflict (and therefore violence of varying degrees) is an inherent part of storytelling. I challenge you to find a compelling, interesting story on TV, in books or movies, or any artistic, storytelling medium that does not involve conflict of some kind.
It can’t be done, because conflict is what defines storytelling.
I was really lucky to live in New York when the independent digital film boom hit. I got my hands on a copy of Final Cut Pro and a Mini DV camera, and set to work making stuff. Sometimes twice, just to figure out how to do it.