It was in the reign of King George III that the aforesaid personages lived and quarreled; good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now. The Epilogue in Barry Lyndon, a film by Stanley Kubrick
Most of my childhood was spent in the fantasy of some bigger adventure. There was a giant stretch of undeveloped land, that seemed like several hundred miles as a young teen, separating my moms trailer on the edge of Thornton. My only companions on this adventure were generally a Huffy bicycle with gray paneling decorated in neon puff-paint and any sturdy stick that could double as a weapon in defense against evil. Often, Id befriend a local kid to explore with, or on a rare occasion, Id inspire friends I had moved away from to meet me somewhere in the middle. There was never a concern about time, though, as nightfall came hunger would ensue and the streets near any major complex would feel unwelcoming.
Even at home with my mom, in my pre-teens, I could create adventure. I was comfortable alone as much as I was in a large group. I had worlds created with action figures underneath my silk blanket which was often placed under the spill of summer window light in the living room. G.I. Joes became soldiers, heroes, brothers, villains and at times, a broken mess of rubber bands, torsos, legs and codpieces as their durability wore down. Legos by the thousands were sprawled out in endless combinations revolving around knight and castle sets, mixed with revolutionary war figures. If I was at my mothers, she would be watching an old movie, something we typically agreed on, like Raiders of the Lost Ark, which enhanced my imagination even more. The presence of a bold hero in Hollywood blockbusters somehow emboldened that boyish spirit and stirred the emotional pot generally brewed by the presence of a father.
As my teen years progressed, I grew more interested in keeping this fantasy alive. It never really stopped. My imagination would partake in any endeavor, as much as my awkward, shy, and somewhat negative self could let go. My cynicism grew exponential to my imagination. Perhaps it was the absence of a father, or the abandonment of friends, or the outcast feeling of a kid who moved too often. Eventually, I felt the need to clutch on to something where I belonged. When I got my first IBM computer [DOS based], I remember learning how to play and troubleshoot video games, or load various programs like a document maker. I was probably about 7 or 8-years old. Reading and writing had come naturally to me, though cursive took a bit longer. One early morning, I found myself sitting before a blank document screen, thinking of how to make any sort of creative mark. Then, I just started writing. I remember writing a 9 page script of a story, from start to finish, unconcerned about any sort of negative attention it might receive. I felt a sense of accomplishment. I showed my mom, and a few other people, but it was probably so poorly written that it was easily dismissible.
When high school came around, I had an even harder time finding myself. I remember copying just about every kids personality, depending on the group I was in, or trying to guess what style was so I didnt appear as an outsider. Most of my friends growing up had a lot more money than my mom, who divorced my father shortly after I was born. She taught me how to shave, though, that was never really a pressing problem. Somewhere in all of these moments, I lost any sense of purpose. I made some regular friends, as it was easy for me to do, but for some reason the disconnection between my immediate family always made it hard for me to feel like I was close to anyone else. This was also around the same time America Online had become a popular way to communicate with friends and random people.
One of my good friends had an account and I often visited him to play computer games. I had, through him, found a new outlet for make-believe and writing. I put countless hours into writing correspondence, generating large bodies of text to describe worlds, and role-playing a king. I did this for 4 years. It wasnt just a small break from life to play a video game, it was life. It was more home to me than any home in reality. I was playing a character from the Dark Ages and simultaneously it was as dark as my outlook on the world. For one full year of my life, I dedicated more time in front of the computer screen than I did under the sun.
There was always a sense of mystery and intrigue in this shapeless and faceless world. Back when online social networking rarely had the capability to transmit pictures it was left completely up to the minds artistry. My constant attention to this character who was a leader, who was a war hero, and who demanded attention from the world he bore, seemed more like a desperate call to a distant father. It had become more like the dream I had of who my grandfather was meant to see me grow into, had he been living. Of course, not in the sense that I would grow to be a king in the real world, but that in some sense of the word I would be worthy to be proud of.
Now, both of my grandfathers and my father have passed on, and any thought of them is generated completely through imagination. Two days ago, I was watching Barry Lyndon, and after watching nearly 3 hours of 18th-century aristocracy, it reminded me that I have no one above me now. There is no king to inherit the throne from; if there ever was one, it was handed down long ago. Im the master of a new way of the Hildreth lineage must continue. I am suddenly in charge of creating new purpose for my children, providing for them a semblance of purpose, Ive been unable to find internally.
As I continue to explore the world through photography, my imagination is being shaped and molded. The way I think about the universe is changing. The way I engage people. The way I write. It feels timeless. Some days I feel like the notion that all time is happening at once, makes sense. Other moments, I drift off into the theory of coming from one small particle in the universe, and how my consciousness is shared with everyone else. It feels as though if I dislike someone, Im essentially disliking myself, as my only difference to them is the perception Im capable of based on my existence.
It still seems feasible to think that this is all just a dream. Maybe everything is and has always been in my imagination, even reality.
What if humans only appear as human because thats my interpretation?
Most of my childhood was spent in the fantasy of some bigger adventure. There was a giant stretch of undeveloped land, that seemed like several hundred miles as a young teen, separating my moms trailer on the edge of Thornton. My only companions on this adventure were generally a Huffy bicycle with gray paneling decorated in neon puff-paint and any sturdy stick that could double as a weapon in defense against evil. Often, Id befriend a local kid to explore with, or on a rare occasion, Id inspire friends I had moved away from to meet me somewhere in the middle. There was never a concern about time, though, as nightfall came hunger would ensue and the streets near any major complex would feel unwelcoming.
Even at home with my mom, in my pre-teens, I could create adventure. I was comfortable alone as much as I was in a large group. I had worlds created with action figures underneath my silk blanket which was often placed under the spill of summer window light in the living room. G.I. Joes became soldiers, heroes, brothers, villains and at times, a broken mess of rubber bands, torsos, legs and codpieces as their durability wore down. Legos by the thousands were sprawled out in endless combinations revolving around knight and castle sets, mixed with revolutionary war figures. If I was at my mothers, she would be watching an old movie, something we typically agreed on, like Raiders of the Lost Ark, which enhanced my imagination even more. The presence of a bold hero in Hollywood blockbusters somehow emboldened that boyish spirit and stirred the emotional pot generally brewed by the presence of a father.
As my teen years progressed, I grew more interested in keeping this fantasy alive. It never really stopped. My imagination would partake in any endeavor, as much as my awkward, shy, and somewhat negative self could let go. My cynicism grew exponential to my imagination. Perhaps it was the absence of a father, or the abandonment of friends, or the outcast feeling of a kid who moved too often. Eventually, I felt the need to clutch on to something where I belonged. When I got my first IBM computer [DOS based], I remember learning how to play and troubleshoot video games, or load various programs like a document maker. I was probably about 7 or 8-years old. Reading and writing had come naturally to me, though cursive took a bit longer. One early morning, I found myself sitting before a blank document screen, thinking of how to make any sort of creative mark. Then, I just started writing. I remember writing a 9 page script of a story, from start to finish, unconcerned about any sort of negative attention it might receive. I felt a sense of accomplishment. I showed my mom, and a few other people, but it was probably so poorly written that it was easily dismissible.
When high school came around, I had an even harder time finding myself. I remember copying just about every kids personality, depending on the group I was in, or trying to guess what style was so I didnt appear as an outsider. Most of my friends growing up had a lot more money than my mom, who divorced my father shortly after I was born. She taught me how to shave, though, that was never really a pressing problem. Somewhere in all of these moments, I lost any sense of purpose. I made some regular friends, as it was easy for me to do, but for some reason the disconnection between my immediate family always made it hard for me to feel like I was close to anyone else. This was also around the same time America Online had become a popular way to communicate with friends and random people.
One of my good friends had an account and I often visited him to play computer games. I had, through him, found a new outlet for make-believe and writing. I put countless hours into writing correspondence, generating large bodies of text to describe worlds, and role-playing a king. I did this for 4 years. It wasnt just a small break from life to play a video game, it was life. It was more home to me than any home in reality. I was playing a character from the Dark Ages and simultaneously it was as dark as my outlook on the world. For one full year of my life, I dedicated more time in front of the computer screen than I did under the sun.
There was always a sense of mystery and intrigue in this shapeless and faceless world. Back when online social networking rarely had the capability to transmit pictures it was left completely up to the minds artistry. My constant attention to this character who was a leader, who was a war hero, and who demanded attention from the world he bore, seemed more like a desperate call to a distant father. It had become more like the dream I had of who my grandfather was meant to see me grow into, had he been living. Of course, not in the sense that I would grow to be a king in the real world, but that in some sense of the word I would be worthy to be proud of.
Now, both of my grandfathers and my father have passed on, and any thought of them is generated completely through imagination. Two days ago, I was watching Barry Lyndon, and after watching nearly 3 hours of 18th-century aristocracy, it reminded me that I have no one above me now. There is no king to inherit the throne from; if there ever was one, it was handed down long ago. Im the master of a new way of the Hildreth lineage must continue. I am suddenly in charge of creating new purpose for my children, providing for them a semblance of purpose, Ive been unable to find internally.
As I continue to explore the world through photography, my imagination is being shaped and molded. The way I think about the universe is changing. The way I engage people. The way I write. It feels timeless. Some days I feel like the notion that all time is happening at once, makes sense. Other moments, I drift off into the theory of coming from one small particle in the universe, and how my consciousness is shared with everyone else. It feels as though if I dislike someone, Im essentially disliking myself, as my only difference to them is the perception Im capable of based on my existence.
It still seems feasible to think that this is all just a dream. Maybe everything is and has always been in my imagination, even reality.
What if humans only appear as human because thats my interpretation?
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My parents were still together until my early teens, but not without years of bearing witness to domestic violence and spending my 13th birthday with police officers trying to subdue them both.
I ultimately ended up living with my father, which was certainly an interesting experience. We lived in a run down commission home where little money was available for things like clothes and anything beyond the basic means for living. I was bullied incessantly at school and without a mother to idolize or look up to - did not know much about growing into a woman.
In any case, my father was diagnosed when I was 14 with a fatal lung disease, and I spent the next two years taking care of him while he slowly died on life support, while also looking after my younger brother. When I wasn't doing that, I was lost in the world of the internet - a place where I could escape the problems of the real world and connect with people in a way that I was afraid to in reality. Even to this day, a couple of my closest friends were people I met online, and even my husband I met online while I was in Australia, and he in USA. My online connections helped me learn to accept myself, and my venture into photography and photo art started from a place of loneliness when I was 16. It was a way of expressing myself and seeing beauty in a world that appeared to lack it.
I have no idea why I'm telling you this, without eloquence, in the middle of the night, but I just wanted to let you know that you're not alone. I'm just glad that ultimately, we've both grown up to be better, more humble people for it. *hug*
It's funny... When you are a child, you feel like your experience is so bizarre compared to what you perceive as normal... ha, given the brainwash of family images depicted by television. As we get older, we discover that there is no such thing as "normal", in a Cosby, Family Ties sense. The older you gets, the more you realize just how dynamic life is. None of us had the same ride. (a la Bill Hicks) We all were raised with things that would love to forget but also moments & peoples memories we will cherish forever. Everyone had a unique existence.
I can totally relate to much of this. Many of us were old souls trapped in that little inexperienced flesh cage. I never forget where I came from but try to live for the now. The ride really is short and I'm trying to milk a little more fun out of it before I'm dust, the only promise in life. I'm satisfied in the knowledge that my early life experiences shaped who I am now. I was a strange little shit. I had huge ideas. I felt like I was tripping all the time. I had anxiety that I didn't know how to explain to adults. I was an artist. I didn't relate to other little kids. Maybe they didn't really relate either. maybe we all were pretending in unison, together.
I don't have a direct response to this blog. I can only get out of it what I learned from my trip down the gauntlet of childhood... So, I'll leave it on a simple note.
"It ain't where you're from it's where your at"
-Rakim
Sounds like quantum mechanics more than Buddhism... but both have valid qualities & ideas. I think any sane person, thinking for themselves, without worldly influences would come up with some version of "the big picture" that comes close to some buddhist ideology. I guess that's why it's founder came up with much of it while shrooming, lol. We could get into an endless conversation on these grand, reverent ideas of reality, what it may or may not be & why....BUT, it wouldn't change the fact that the car insurance is still due & the lawn needs to be mowed.