Posts Tagged ‘growing-up’
Once upon a time, in a land . . . just a land, well not just a land, it was a pretty great land, but still, not too much different than any other land, not very far away and certainly not very far far away, there lived a boy . . . far more than just a boy, this boy was most excellent and may or may not be the author of this story or in fact the author of this very website, this report can be neither confirmed nor denied. The remarkable thing about this particular boy was that he just completed a pretty long sentence used to introduce a story that he was sure was quickly becoming a run-on, but somehow managed to clear Word’s Nazi grammar gods. Seriously, how cool am I? . . . er, him.
This boy, we’ll call him Luke just for fun . . . it is after all a very good name and a name carried by some of the greatest characters and men from the greatest tales in history, literature, popular media, and websites . . . grew up on a fabulous street dubbed by only the most gifted city planners, Megan Place Drive. This street was in the great city of Houston, Texas and housed some of the greatest adventures of the modern age. It was here that young Luke would ghost ride his Huffy Sonic 6 (with 6 speed shifter stick placed strategically behind the sporty dust guard) into various targets assigned by his closest comrades. It was on this very street that young Luke would hone his rollerblading skills by jumping over tipped trashcans and playing street hockey. And it was from this street that young Luke, at the tender age of 19, would depart on a journey whose destiny only the gods could have foreseen.
As young Luke left his childhood home to begin his journey to adulthood, he carried the spirit of Megan Place Drive within him, sharing it with all the world. He took it with him to San Jose, CA as he talked about religion with the Hispanic people of the area while on a mission for his church. He took it with him to Northern Virginia, where his family moved while he was gone, and shared it with his co-workers as he wired houses as a residential electrician. It accompanied him as he returned to college in Utah and earned a degree in film. He brought it with him as he visited his family at their new home near Boston and cheered on the Red Sox during his first visit to Fenway Park. He even carried it within him as he moved to Las Vegas to try a career in video production.
By the time he reached Las Vegas, young Luke had all but forgotten about the times shared on Megan Place Drive, and its spirit was beginning to dwindle, but just as the last glimmer of his past began to fade, he moved to New York, and things began to come full circle.
His first night in town, young Luke accompanied his new roommate to an activity held at the house of some members of the local branch of his church. This particular activity was a movie night of sorts, where each guest was asked to bring one of their favorite clips from a movie. He chose the classic, Coolhand Luke, thinking that it was not only a great movie, but would also help these new acquaintances remember his name. He tucked the DVD in his back pocket and headed out the door.
As he entered the living room and crossed the viewing area to find a seat on the floor, a cute little voice called from the couch, “I love that movie, can we be friends?” (EDIT: I have been informed from a reliable source that her actual words were “I love that movie, we’re going to be best friends.” There was no question, she was simply informing him of the facts.) He looked over and discovered, at the source of this wonderful voice, a cute little almost redhead smiling playfully in his direction. He thought to himself, “Not only does she know what this movie is, but she loves it! I must know more, I may want to be more than friends,” and smiled sheepishly. He soon found out that this cute little almost redhead was called Megan, a name that seemed oddly familiar.
As the weeks went on, he happened upon this cute little Megan many times, sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose, and even worked for her a few times at the food photography studio she manages. She fascinated him, and he found himself drawn to her more and more each time he saw her.
Soon they started dating, and had blast after blast on their weekly date night as they watched movies, visited the Kwik E Mart, and braved the wait at Justin Timberlake’s New York restaurant (best fried green tomatoes he ever had, but still not worth the 2 hour wait . . . they didn’t even have the fried pickles!). He found himself missing her more and more every time they were apart and knew he had fallen into deep smit. There was something about her that was just very familiar. Everything just seemed to fit. Then, on August 11, 2007, young Luke decided take the next step in his Hero’s journey.
He took her to the park nearby his house (Fort Tryon) for a picnic. They hung out for a few hours taking pictures and relaxing (She had her polaroid – pictures posted on her blog, and he had his 35mm which he would set on timer to take pictures of the both of them). They walked around for a while (there’s great views of the G.W. Bridge from that park) and eventually ended up in some secluded benches under some trees. He pulled out his camera again, set up a shot, took one picture, said he didn’t think he smiled, then went over to his bag saying something about filters or something. Then he put his bag over by the camera, pushed the button, grabbed a ring, got down on one knee, asked her to marry him and she said yes. They then waited a few seconds frozen in that pose until the camera clicked, thus immortalizing the moment he decided to live in Megan Place for the rest of his life.
. . . and they lived happily ever after.
THE END
Tags: Articles, coolhand-luke, dating, dvds, engagement, growing-up, houston, huffy, justin-timberlake, kwik-e-mart, marriage, Movies, proposal, sonic-6, texas
So, after a year and a half or so of living in Las Vegas, I’m moving once again. It’s weird. I’ve moved a lot in my life, but for some reason, this time feels different. I feel like Hugh Grant’s character in About a Boy, like every day, every activity in which I involve myself is broken up into smaller units of time, which units I’m slowly running out of. It’s not that any unit of time is any more precious to me than it usually was before I decided to move, more that I’m a lot more aware of these units these days.
Taking a shower: 1 unit.
Going to work: 16 units.
Hanging out with friends: 5 units.
Microwaving Chimichangas: 1 unit.
Reading: Not enough units.
Watching movies: way too many units to count.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I have become Hugh Grant’s character in About a Boy, only not so British, or man-whorish. Maybe I’ve successfully become an island here in Las Vegas and this move is disturbing the peace on my tranquil little island. Most of my friends are now married, so at most I see them once a week, and my family lives a few thousand miles away, and I guess I’ve become a little too well adjusted to this island life. I do what I want when I want to do it, only associating with the people I’ve chosen to associate with. This move threatens to put an end to all that. I may actually have to leave this hip little island getaway. That is not something I’m looking forward to. Seriously, you should check it out sometime, it puts that island in Pinocchio to shame, mostly because my guests don’t turn into donkeys at the end of the day. A few of them might feel like a jackass, but that’s their own doing. Luke’s Magical Island assumes no responsibility for any feelings of jackassity that may occur as a result of your stay.
What’s most interesting to me is the way people react when they find out I’m moving. First, they ask where I’m moving to. I tell them New York and their eyes light up as they ask, “The city?!” I just smile and nod and they say something like “That’s so cool,” or “Wow!” or “I’ve never been to New York, I’ve always wanted to go,” each of which is followed closely by “So does that mean I can stay at your place when I visit?” To most people, it’s like New York City is some magical place from the movies and TV shows that instantly catapults any resident of that city into some strange category in the upper echelon of society. I’ve been to the city. Sure, it’s cool, but it’s not echelon cool. It’s just an island full of people living as islands. I guess that’s kind of cool.
I don’t think the island thing is really the answer. I mean really, if I can live as an island here, it’ll be a lot easier over there. So why does this move feel so weird? Maybe it’s because it’s the first time in my life that I’m moving somewhere completely foreign, not really knowing anyone in the area, and having no idea where I’m going to live or specifically what I’m going to be doing. That should make me scared, but it’s not fear I’m feeling. I know it’s the right move, it’s the right time, and I’m sure it’ll work out. I’m not scared. Maybe I should be, but I’m not. I can’t even convince myself that I am. It all just feels weird.
Maybe it just means I’m finally entering the “adult” world. Maybe that’s it. Las Vegas is kind of a transitional place. Most of the people I know out here are in that transitional phase of their life between college and career. Maybe this weirdness is just the feeling that comes with leaving that phase behind. Maybe this is the feeling of “growing up.” Maybe this is the feeling of actually becoming an island. Whatever the case, I’m not getting on any stages with strange little boys to sing “Killing Me Softly.”
Tags: about-a-boy, Articles, growing-up, las-vegas, moving, music, new-york-city, simon-and-garfunkel
For the first time since I was a child, I spent the entire day reading a book. I forgot what an amazing feeling it was to lose myself for hours at a time inside some world created by someone else. There’s always something just a little bit familiar to these worlds. If there wasn’t, we could not become so lost exploring them. This story, however, seemed more familiar than any story I’ve read in years.
I just finished reading Ender’s Game. I literally closed the book just seconds before I started writing this. I identified personally with little Ender Wiggins. It was strange to watch as he went through these strange worlds in ways that were so familiar to me. In this book, a little boy quickly became isolated because he was different. Many adults would praise him and many worried he was not living up to his potential. His peers mocked him and played tricks on him. Any displays of weakness were quickly snatched up and used against him. So he quickly learned to shield his weaknesses from the view of others.
He began to isolate himself voluntarily. He trusted no one and only let down his shield in the privacy of his own room. He had small pockets of friends here and there, but even they were only allowed to see what he wanted them to see. He was never comfortable in large groups, always sensing their judgment or possible danger, so he sat back and watched them from a distance, observing their interactions, learning more about himself and mankind through the interactions of others than he ever could in any school. Still, he isolated himself, still he watched, still he learned, still he longed for a childhood he could never have; companionship he thought always out of reach.
It’s interesting to me the way a text, such as a book, or a movie, or a song can connect with us on such a personal level that we transcend our own existence. We begin to see our lives from the outside, through the eyes of some character in some story, taking place in some other world. The story is the same. It is our own story, but the characters and the setting are all different. This is what draws me to the art of storytelling. Whether through books, or movies, or music, I am always looking for new versions of the same old story; different perspectives of my own story. I wonder if others are reading the same stories and connecting on such a personal level as I am.
On the flight home from visiting my family for the holidays, I watched a couple episodes of Scrubs. This show is another one of those texts that takes me out of my regular frame of mind. It’s not quite as transcendent an experience as some, but this show always reminds me of my buddy Scott. It’s uncanny the similarities between the interactions of JD and Turk and myself and Scott. It goes all the way down to the mannerisms of the individual characters. It’s like someone took our life and hired a team of writers to make it more interesting and cram it into 30-minute segments. I can never watch an episode of Scrubs without being reminded of Scott, and it never fails to put a smile on my face.
While I was out visiting my family, trying feebly to adjust to the three-hour time difference, I watched Hotel Rwanda. This proved to be a completely different kind of transcendent experience. This was not a reminder of past or present experiences, but a demonstration of what-ifs. It appalled me to watch as these people were stripped from their homes and their loved ones as their country tore itself apart.
In this story, one man comes at first unwillingly to the aid of many of his friends. Over the course of the story, he rises to conquer greater and greater obstacles. But it is not this man that I identified with. This time, I connected with the cameraman played by Joaquin Phoenix. His job was to capture as much of these people’s tragic story as he could so that his superiors at the major news network would get more viewers. His mission, however, was much more noble, and much more tragic than that.
There is a scene in which all the foreign nationals, all the white people, are leaving on a bus, leaving all the Rwandans to deal with the savagery on their own. A group of children then come walking down the street, singing and cheering only to be separated into Rwandan and National, chum and prize fish. Nuns are separated from the orphans they have cared for and come to love, forced to leave them to a grim fate. The cameraman comes out and films it all, but it gives them little hope.
Earlier in the film, the cameraman is talking with Paul, the hero of the story. Paul tells him that he’s glad that the cameraman is filming all the savagery, that now the west will be forced to do something. The cameraman replies simply, “I think, if people see this footage, they’ll say ‘Oh my God, that’s horrible,’ and then go on eating their dinners.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what that would be like if it were me. What would I do if I were there, the only one able to tell these people’s story to the world? What if those were my friends being torn from the orphans they had grown to love, leaving those orphans to uncertain death. Would it all be for naught?
This is the reason I chose film and media as a possible career. I want to tell these stories. I want to tell my story. I want to be a voice for the voiceless; I want to be a tool for the development of some young mind somewhere, destined for greatness; I want to be a speaker for the dead, but will it all be for naught?
All of these transcendent tales end with the hero accomplishing some great feat, or overcoming impossible obstacles. All those trials they overcame, all those lessons they learned all prepared them for that one final battle, where they emerge bruised and battered, victorious, and a completely different person than the one that began the story.
Isn’t this what we’re all trying to do? We’re all learning, we’re all growing, we’re all preparing for some unseen event in the distant future. No one really knows what it will be; it will probably be different for each of us, but maybe that’s the point of all these stories.
Maybe these stories can’t help the victims of the present. Maybe they’re not supposed to. Maybe they’re only supposed to help future societies. Maybe we’re all preparing each other unknowingly for that final battle we’ll all face someday where we’ll emerge bruised and battered, victorious, and a completely different person than the one that began the story, ready to pass our boon on to a society that may or may not be ready.
Tags: Articles, books, Enders-Game, film, growing-up, Hotel-Rwanda, Movies, Orson-Scott-Card, reading, scrubs, transcendence
I haven’t written anything in a long time. I’m not sure why. I once wrote that writing was therapy to me. In the past, these periods of mental silence marked troubled times which were always followed by frantic purgings of emotion and thought onto blank notebook pages as they counseled me through dark hallways. These are not troubled times, or at least not in the typical sense.
Overall, I’d say I’m pretty happy with the world right now. Sure, I would change some things if I could, but I’m living life one day at a time. My life is filled with more uncertainty now than it’s ever been before. I know what I’m doing this weekend, but beyond that, it’s nothing but a blank page. The strange thing is I’m not worried. There are a million things that could go wrong, a million things that could blow up in my face right now and completely destroy me, but I’m not at all scared. So why haven’t I been writing?
Apparently, this was a problem even in my earliest years of grade school. I was looking through some old files in my parents’ basement the other day and I came across some comment sheets my teacher had written in first grade. She said I was reading above my level and showed great promise in my writing skills, but that she had trouble getting me to focus. A later note said that I had stopped writing completely, that I said there was nothing to write about. She said she found ways to get me to write something, but that I seemed largely uninterested with the tasks at hand.
Why wasn’t I writing? In those days, you don’t write anything but what you did for summer, or what your favorite color is, but I wanted nothing to do with it. I did find one little story I wrote. It was called “The Garbage Pail Kids Fight the Junk Kids.” I basically made up my own version of the classic Garbage Pail Kids and had them duel as only a six-year-old can. It came down to a rope climb. Fast Cast from the Junk Kids beat Russell Muscle from the Garbage Pail Kids because Russell’s muscles made him too heavy and the rope broke when he got to the top.
I guess that’s the answer. My teachers wanted me to write about reality, about what was going on in my world. I wanted nothing to do with reality. For whatever reason, I wanted to get as far away from my world as I possibly could. They said that I read a lot, but that I had trouble focusing on anything else. What they didn’t realize is that I was focusing.
I was focused so intently on leaving my reality that I would often leave it for hours or even days at a time. I have this intense memory of one day in my early childhood where I just got up from the couch and floated through the air. It’s one of the best feelings I’ve ever had in my life, and it never happened. Everything about that memory feels real, but my mind, reality tells me it’s not.
I think that’s what’s happening to me now. I think I’m running away from my reality. Every moment of my life up to this point was planned out and set in motion long before I ever knew what I was doing. I knew I was going to go to college, I knew where, and I even knew what I needed to do to get there and get through it. All that lies ahead now is possibility and uncertainty. Somewhere in that uncertainty is a career, somewhere in that possibility lie marriage and a family. There is nothing but responsibility ahead of me.
I must be scared. I must be so scared of taking that next step into society that I want nothing to do with it. I finished the first draft of my first feature length screenplay recently, but I think I only did that because it wasn’t finished. It was the only door left that was still open. I finally closed that door and left myself with nothing but a million unopened doors to choose from.
I’d like to sell this screenplay, or even get it to the point that I feel comfortable showing it to the public, but I have done nothing since I finished it. I have dreams of being a screenwriter and working in the film industry, but I have done very little to get the ball rolling. I tell myself that I’m waiting for feedback, but that’s a lie. Sure it’d help, but I know exactly what needs to be done to take it to the next step, it’s just a matter of sitting down and focusing.
I guess that’s the curse of the dreamer. We become so comfortable in these fantastical worlds we create, that we completely lose sight of reality, or even begin to hate it and despise all things that call it to our attention. I guess they call it “Escapism.” I guess I’ve been escaping for most of my life. Maybe it’s time to accept my reality and let it help other six-year-olds escape their own realities.
Tags: Articles, dreamer, dreaming, escape, growing-up, reality, writing
The other night, as I lay restless in my bed staring at the ceiling, I began to reflect on my past and came to an exciting conclusion. I am part cat. Not only do I enjoy a good glass of milk, love chasing mice, and lounge around the house for most of the day, but I have the innate ability to fall from any height and land unharmed. I cite two specific instances for your consideration:
1. I was probably 12 or 13 years old and was out playing with my friends. We came upon a tree outside the neighborhood pool. I decided that the tree needed to be climbed. I set out to conquer said tree in the name of 12 year olds all over the world. I was at least 3/4 the way up the tree when a branch gave way under my enormous weight of about 82 pounds (I was not a large little boy). I plummeted to the grass below and landed on my feet, collapsing into a squat. I jumped up with nothing but a small scratch down my right arm. My friends all stood in awe and bowed to the glory that is I.
2. After my freshman year of college, I worked as a stock boy at Party City. Halloween was approaching and we were filling the aisles with plastic skeletons and Hot Dog costumes. I was sent to the back in search of old stock tucked in the darkest corners of the stockroom. I climbed to the top of the 16-foot ladder and reached out for the boxes we needed. I could barely reach them. I nudged the boxes closer to my grasp and just as I grabbed a hold of them, the ladder fell from beneath me with a crash. A girl screamed. The boxes fell with a deafening thud and before I realized what had happened, I found myself on top of the very boxes that caused the fall. The owner came rushing out in fear of a lawsuit and was so surprised to see me lying there with a smile on my face and not a scratch on my body that he placed a plaque on the ladder as a tribute to my splendor.
Now, I did not always have these amazing abilities, there was a time when a simple fall could mean my definite demise. As a boy living in Indonesia, I once rolled off the top bunk of my bunk bed onto a marble floor in my sleep. I broke my elbow and had two pins inserted to fix the damage. In another childhood incident, I was lying on top of the bar in our house when I fell asleep. Somehow, I rolled off of said bar and hit my head, resulting in a concussion.
I can think of two explanations for this discrepancy. First, that somehow over the years as a result of my accidents, I evolved into the cat-like superhuman that I am today. Second, that sleep is like Kryptonite to me and strips me of my feline features, leaving me vulnerable to the everyday effects of gravity. Either that, or I am still in a coma as a result from the bar top fall and none of this is real at all . . .
Tags: Articles, cat, growing-up, reality, superhero
Subscribe in a reader