Ive always thought of life as a film. This partly explains why I feel so distant when it comes to connecting with other people. Ive always felt like the viewer, the entire audience, while everyone else is living the parts. I didnt cry at my grandfather or fathers funeral. If you can believe, I cried more at the ending of the Lord of the Rings trilogy in the theatre than I ever have for any real life event. Movies strike me. I rarely leave the theatre without feeling inspired in some way and typically I cant contain it. Even the trailer for the Tree of Life had me in tears with its epic display of lifes immeasurable beauty, set to a complimentary score.
Coming from a large Italian family (mothers side), as an only child (until I was 8), it wasnt very clear to me where I was supposed to fit in. My mother was single for most of my childhood and as such had to leave me in the care of either my fathers parents or hers while she worked. If I was at her parents, it was Frank Sinatra, home-made lasagna and sauce, the goofiness of an Irish grandmother, and the law of my Italian grandfather. If I was at my fathers parents, the Hildreths, my grandma would be playing Grand Ol Opery nightly, tapping into her and my grandfathers Carolina influences; the smell of grilled steak and hand-cut fries would fill the house, and I had the constant attention of my grandfather.
I spent hours at either place pretending I was somewhere else. There were countless times spent watching Nickelodeon cartoons, building lego castles, constructing epic GI Joe battles, or playing pretend as a random profession with my little cousin. I was never there no matter where I was. I constantly checked out of reality. I was never checked into myself.
My fathers dad, Charles E. Hildreth II, gave me all of his attention and love. He taught me basic reading skills by the time I was 3. I was eventually checking out books in elementary school like The Rise and Fall of Adolf Hitler, or tackling larger projects like The Hobbit. There was even a point where I was attending special, hour long meetings with two other students, because we were extraordinarily smart. One of those students is now working on his doctorate at Harvard in the medical field. My grandmother would remind me regularly that my grandfather always said he wished he could watch me grow up to be a doctor. To his dismay, seeing an open chest cavity makes me sick.
Somewhere during all this growing up, traveling from one residence to the next, lost in various fantasy worlds in my head, I forgot to check back in. Every place had different toys; different amounts of attention.
Then it changed.
I was playing with a friend in my mom and Is apartment complex when she got a call. My grandfather passed away in his sleep. I was 7. I dont even think I really processed it entirely. The thought of it just now brought a small amount of pain in my chest. I refused to go to the funeral, but I remember viewing him in his casket. Lifeless. Sleeping. Painless. [If you remember, a few blogs back, I mentioned his constant health worry.] He was nothing in this world anymore but memories by those who knew him.
Many people gathered at my grandmothers home to take care of her, and be with her in this loss. She lost her husband of 40-some years. She cooked, cleaned, went to church, and lived to be an ideal housewife. His death sent her into a miserable cycle of despair. His death disconnected me from the world, and made getting to know my father even harder, I feel. Everyone was always telling me Your grandfather loved you so much or Your grandmother loves you so much or Your dad loves you, you know that right, Charlie?
People say they love me. Important people say it. I am afraid to say it to people willingly. Sometimes it becomes a courtesy, a requirement. Movies make it grand. Movies make it seem easy. Music really sells it. I feel it then. I am overwhelmed. I cry.
Some days I feel like itd be a good thing for me to do. To purge. To quit judging myself for letting emotion show. One of my friends told me this week: Ive never seen you cry. You keep this wall up with your closest friends.
Ive known him for 11 years.
Ive come to accept as of today, my heart is in my photographs. My emotional investment is in these genuine, real moments I capture with people. They do not make me cry, but I do feel like I can express myself and find a connection back into this world, showing people how beautiful I think they are. One day, I hope I can look back to these memories and let them roll through like a film I never shot, giving people a taste of the story of Charles Hildreth.
Coming from a large Italian family (mothers side), as an only child (until I was 8), it wasnt very clear to me where I was supposed to fit in. My mother was single for most of my childhood and as such had to leave me in the care of either my fathers parents or hers while she worked. If I was at her parents, it was Frank Sinatra, home-made lasagna and sauce, the goofiness of an Irish grandmother, and the law of my Italian grandfather. If I was at my fathers parents, the Hildreths, my grandma would be playing Grand Ol Opery nightly, tapping into her and my grandfathers Carolina influences; the smell of grilled steak and hand-cut fries would fill the house, and I had the constant attention of my grandfather.
I spent hours at either place pretending I was somewhere else. There were countless times spent watching Nickelodeon cartoons, building lego castles, constructing epic GI Joe battles, or playing pretend as a random profession with my little cousin. I was never there no matter where I was. I constantly checked out of reality. I was never checked into myself.
My fathers dad, Charles E. Hildreth II, gave me all of his attention and love. He taught me basic reading skills by the time I was 3. I was eventually checking out books in elementary school like The Rise and Fall of Adolf Hitler, or tackling larger projects like The Hobbit. There was even a point where I was attending special, hour long meetings with two other students, because we were extraordinarily smart. One of those students is now working on his doctorate at Harvard in the medical field. My grandmother would remind me regularly that my grandfather always said he wished he could watch me grow up to be a doctor. To his dismay, seeing an open chest cavity makes me sick.
Somewhere during all this growing up, traveling from one residence to the next, lost in various fantasy worlds in my head, I forgot to check back in. Every place had different toys; different amounts of attention.
Then it changed.
I was playing with a friend in my mom and Is apartment complex when she got a call. My grandfather passed away in his sleep. I was 7. I dont even think I really processed it entirely. The thought of it just now brought a small amount of pain in my chest. I refused to go to the funeral, but I remember viewing him in his casket. Lifeless. Sleeping. Painless. [If you remember, a few blogs back, I mentioned his constant health worry.] He was nothing in this world anymore but memories by those who knew him.
Many people gathered at my grandmothers home to take care of her, and be with her in this loss. She lost her husband of 40-some years. She cooked, cleaned, went to church, and lived to be an ideal housewife. His death sent her into a miserable cycle of despair. His death disconnected me from the world, and made getting to know my father even harder, I feel. Everyone was always telling me Your grandfather loved you so much or Your grandmother loves you so much or Your dad loves you, you know that right, Charlie?
People say they love me. Important people say it. I am afraid to say it to people willingly. Sometimes it becomes a courtesy, a requirement. Movies make it grand. Movies make it seem easy. Music really sells it. I feel it then. I am overwhelmed. I cry.
Some days I feel like itd be a good thing for me to do. To purge. To quit judging myself for letting emotion show. One of my friends told me this week: Ive never seen you cry. You keep this wall up with your closest friends.
Ive known him for 11 years.
Ive come to accept as of today, my heart is in my photographs. My emotional investment is in these genuine, real moments I capture with people. They do not make me cry, but I do feel like I can express myself and find a connection back into this world, showing people how beautiful I think they are. One day, I hope I can look back to these memories and let them roll through like a film I never shot, giving people a taste of the story of Charles Hildreth.
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I wish you a happy birthday! I hope it's a good one.