Nostalgic musing . . . and fluff
I don't remember much of my childhood, just snapshots intertwined with emotions and black holes. I do remember a longing, a dull desire for more, but I couldn't pin point what was missing. I grew up and discovered, with the help of a therapist and my sister, that it was a father I wished for most.
I have one vivid memory, where my mother sister AND FATHER, were outside in the front of our house on a sunny afternoon after school. I think I was 8 or 9 and my dad was playing catch with me and some of my friends, showing us different ways pitches (curve ball, slider, knuckleball, splitfinger fast ball and such). I can't remember how to do any of them now. The whole time he was out with us, I was aware of his every move, I was happy as he was normally very angry and sullen unless he was entertaining friends, but on that day it wasn't about him, it was about the family. I couldn't help being sad though. I knew it was an anomaly, I knew it wasn't reality so I held back how happy it could have made me to be spending time with my dad.
Since then, I've found it hard to live in the moment. I don't allow myself to believe I deserve or belong in happiness, yet I know full well that I make my own happiness. The battle of conscience and knowledge is constant for me.
I have this idea that all artistic people are confused, pained or abused somehow. The medium of art doesn't matter. Musicians, painters, writers you name it. The connotation applies to all, in my warped idea. I have never thought of myself as artistic. I can't draw a straight line and while I can sing, I am not accomplished in any instrument other than the drums, which I label as "rhythmic noise".
I have, however, always loved to write. I started short story writing when I was 10. My friend Bernie and I had dreams of writing novels and would make up adventures, with the 2 of us and our friend Mike as the heroes of course. We saw ourselves as "intellectuals", without the credentials or demeanor of other so called "book worms".
I never sent my stories off or had places to keep them, just odd bits of lined "college rule" paper that eventually were thrown away at the end of every school year. I wish I had more time for it, but the majority of my non-school life was spent thinking of how to make money. I did everything I could, I sold term papers, book reports, science papers and whatever else I could. I had several "jobs" by the age of 16 all with the main goal of "getting a buck".
At 17, 2 amazing things happened. I had an English teacher who both took me seriously and also harshly challenged me. I loved it. He didn't see me as the "math geek" most others thought, or the "wanna-be Rock Star" that many did. He found the writer in me and challenged me to develop it. Just at this time I had a girlfriend, Dori, who was lovely in every way and she gave me my first Journal. I am not sure why. It was a strange gift for a 17 year old boy/man, but I loved it. I filled it within a month and couldn't stop. Pages and pages of dribble and thoughts and stories. Together with my professor, I saw a glimpse of what could be ahead of me.
Why am I mentioning this? Who knows, I am just writing and my thoughts are pouring onto this screen, thankfully provided by JP Morgan . . haha. I am hoping that from this blog and reading all the wonderful other things from others, which I must say are amazing, that I'll find my voice.
I don't remember much of my childhood, just snapshots intertwined with emotions and black holes. I do remember a longing, a dull desire for more, but I couldn't pin point what was missing. I grew up and discovered, with the help of a therapist and my sister, that it was a father I wished for most.
I have one vivid memory, where my mother sister AND FATHER, were outside in the front of our house on a sunny afternoon after school. I think I was 8 or 9 and my dad was playing catch with me and some of my friends, showing us different ways pitches (curve ball, slider, knuckleball, splitfinger fast ball and such). I can't remember how to do any of them now. The whole time he was out with us, I was aware of his every move, I was happy as he was normally very angry and sullen unless he was entertaining friends, but on that day it wasn't about him, it was about the family. I couldn't help being sad though. I knew it was an anomaly, I knew it wasn't reality so I held back how happy it could have made me to be spending time with my dad.
Since then, I've found it hard to live in the moment. I don't allow myself to believe I deserve or belong in happiness, yet I know full well that I make my own happiness. The battle of conscience and knowledge is constant for me.
I have this idea that all artistic people are confused, pained or abused somehow. The medium of art doesn't matter. Musicians, painters, writers you name it. The connotation applies to all, in my warped idea. I have never thought of myself as artistic. I can't draw a straight line and while I can sing, I am not accomplished in any instrument other than the drums, which I label as "rhythmic noise".
I have, however, always loved to write. I started short story writing when I was 10. My friend Bernie and I had dreams of writing novels and would make up adventures, with the 2 of us and our friend Mike as the heroes of course. We saw ourselves as "intellectuals", without the credentials or demeanor of other so called "book worms".
I never sent my stories off or had places to keep them, just odd bits of lined "college rule" paper that eventually were thrown away at the end of every school year. I wish I had more time for it, but the majority of my non-school life was spent thinking of how to make money. I did everything I could, I sold term papers, book reports, science papers and whatever else I could. I had several "jobs" by the age of 16 all with the main goal of "getting a buck".
At 17, 2 amazing things happened. I had an English teacher who both took me seriously and also harshly challenged me. I loved it. He didn't see me as the "math geek" most others thought, or the "wanna-be Rock Star" that many did. He found the writer in me and challenged me to develop it. Just at this time I had a girlfriend, Dori, who was lovely in every way and she gave me my first Journal. I am not sure why. It was a strange gift for a 17 year old boy/man, but I loved it. I filled it within a month and couldn't stop. Pages and pages of dribble and thoughts and stories. Together with my professor, I saw a glimpse of what could be ahead of me.
Why am I mentioning this? Who knows, I am just writing and my thoughts are pouring onto this screen, thankfully provided by JP Morgan . . haha. I am hoping that from this blog and reading all the wonderful other things from others, which I must say are amazing, that I'll find my voice.
posted by Darrin at 3:07 PM
2 Comments:
Hi Darrin, Nat here... I really like your blog, i thought it was very open and honest and sharing. I keep having crises of confidence that mine is rubbish - i find it quite hard to share myself in fact, which is probably why i should keep on doing it.. Hope this finds you well, Natalie
Hey Darrin, welcome to the Land of Blog! i'll warn you now - it's gets very addictive :-) greats posts so far, and your kids are gorgeous... but who's that Kerry girl? lol
thanks for the kind comments you left me - as you get into the swing of blogging you might want to check out sundayscribblings.blogspot.com - they post a weekly writing prompt (hence me writing about the smoking this week for their topic of 'monsters') - could be just the ticket for getting your writerly inspiration flowing...
Sx
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