Story-A-Day #428: Pathways

PATHWAYS

It's not like it used to be.  These pathways used to be wider, and much easier to navigate.  Now they are overgrown, crowded with limbs, and leaves, and other obstructions that have grown up over time.

When I was younger, these pathways were my paradise.  They meandered through the forest behind my parents home and directed me to new adventures, new secrets waiting to be discovered.  I would wander these pathways and expect the unknown on an almost daily basis.

Sometimes I would discover a pond, and plumb its depths for hidden treasures: maybe a painted turtle, or a slime encrusted plastic boat left behind by some other wayward wanderer.  Other times I would stumble across an old fort or cabin and pretend that it was mine; a secret hideout where I would defend myself with a wooden sword from an onslaught of deadly foes.

I had many great times exploring those forgotten trails, seeking out new adventures both on, and off the path.  But that was a long time ago, decades.

Today, I stare up the steep incline and know that most of what I once marvelled at would be gone, reclaimed by the nature from whence it first sprouted.  I know that those ponds would be long since dried up; the forts and cabins, long since collapsed upon themselves.

I start up the trail regardless, knowing that those shining moments from my past would have long since faded, but that there might be new discoveries to be found.  Surely the new generations of kids could not be so glued to their televisions and gaming systems that they had not built their own hidden refuges?  Surely nature had not continued to grow and develop in weird and marvelous ways?

The strangest thing about life is that it is full of pathways.  Some of them become worn and familiar as we wander their ways throughout life.  Others become regrets, the path left unexplored that could have resulted in so much more, or less, than what we know about life today.

The great thing about pathways is that they are yours to be either taken, or ignored.  Sometimes you choose the right pathways, and sometimes you take the long way to get to where you need to go.

These may have been the pathways of my youth, but sometimes it is good to return to the well of nostalgia to see if there might not be more to learn, more to be told, more to be discovered.  Sometimes it is just nice to know that childhood is what it was, and remains what it always will be: a past lived to its fullest.

N... Is For Nostaligia

Reflecting Is Usually Where it Begins...

N... IS FOR NOSTALGIA

The effect of nostalgia is quite potent for someone like me.  I have always been a firm believer that the past is all that truly matters, especially in the bigger scheme of things.

History repeats itself...

Learn from your mistakes...

If you think about the concept of time, it becomes quite evident:  The future is intangible, and therefore might as well not even exist.  There is no way for us to predict what is going to happen, therefore we are encouraged to live in the moment.  Carpe diem...  And yet, the present exists in a moment of time so brief and fleeting, that it has no real relevance until it has already come to pass.  Therefore, the past is all that really matters.

It is not that we should dwell upon the past, or live in its wash of hazy recollection, but that we should look to our pasts in order to better our futures.  We can learn from our mistakes, but just as importantly, we can learn from our successes.  What makes us better, or worse, as individuals exists in unique pockets of our past and we should all take those moments, and use them to our benefit.

I have had people tell me that they had traumatic childhoods, or that my reasoning is flawed in some cases.  I respect their views, but I believe my theory to stand true, at least to me.

"What if you were molested as a child?  Would you want to cling to that past?" I was once asked.

And my answer is, I would.  Fortunately, I was loved by my parents and never subjected to such pains and torments, but if I had been, I would hope that I would look to that dark and negative experience as a place for inspiration.  I would hope that it would encourage me to ensure that all children were safe from such harms, and that my own hypothetical future children would be free from such terror.

That is how I feel we can build from the past in the bigger scheme of things...

That is the heavy end of the spectrum though.  There is also the creative end of things as far as writing is concerned.  Without experience; without the nostalgia factor, and by extension a past well lived and travelled, a writer would have very little to write about.

When I was young, I was positive monsters existed.  They were everywhere, and I was constantly jumping at invisible shadows and things that go bump in the night.  I spent many sleepless nights convinced that my entire existence was about to be snuffed out, and yet I wouldn't change a single second of it.

A few of my inspirations - and one autographed copy!

Fear is one of the things we lose first.  It is perhaps the most primal emotion and we soon learn that there is not terror lurking around every bend; outside every branch scratched bedroom window.  The works of authors Stephen King and Dean R. Koontz populated my tween and early teen reading lists only to be replaced by the incredible works of Ray Bradbury, and in more recent years, the fantasies of Charles DeLint and Neil Gaiman.  I embrace the fantastical, but especially so when it is written in a way that is seems a little too plausible.  A little too much like maybe the author might have an inside track...

That is the gift of Bradbury, and what is often referred to as his successors.  The thing is, none of his so-called "successors" (and this is a guess on my part) would like to be referred to in that way, just as I hope to not be viewed as a successor to any of the authors I so admire.  Admiration is the key, and each new generation of authors creates new admirers for those who came before, and new inspiration for those who will come after.

I prefer to think that we are all creators working on one massive loom that is steadily weaving a great quilt of stories beneath which future generations of writers can seek shelter, and in turn, pick up the loose ends and continue what was started before.

The nostalgia factor can be potent and it is something that I can always see traces of in my favourite works of art.

Growing up, one of the novels that I read and re-read the most was Boy's Life by Robert R. McCammon.  That magical book was full of nostalgia, but more importantly, it was full of plain old magic.  My remaining copies are so battered from use that they no longer seem able to be read (something I must remedy soon) so I downloaded it from iTunes to always have with me.  I remember there being a quote early on in that modern masterpiece about how we are all born into a world of magic and wonder and how over time, it is slowly scrubbed, religioned and educated out of us.

I hope that is not the case with you.  I hope that you are still clinging to all the magic that nostalgia has to offer and that you are spreading that magic far and wide.

I encourage you to check out these authors, and to re-familiarize yourselves with some of the authors who originally inspired you.  And when you go to sleep tonight, make sure you curl up under a quilt woven from nothing but the purest of magic and nostalgia...

That's where the best of dreams take place, the dreams of childhood that will inspire you onward.

Story-A-Day #291: Battle Of The Burrs

BATTLE OF THE BURRS

This time of year, they aren't too bad, almost like little balls of velcro that cling to clothes, but are easily plucked free. They make for a great distraction during the lazy dog days of late summer.

Once they dry out though, it's a whole different mess. Individual brown spikes cling voraciously, almost digging in deeper as you struggle to rip them free.

They thrive for socks - sport, wool, cotton, it doesn't matter. They dig deep, and cling tight, scratching their way into the confine where the tender flesh of ankles awaits.

They are ingenious nuisances, hitching a ride and spreading their seeds with ease, steadily setting pace to commandeer the entire forest floor by the following Spring.

For now though, they are fun projectiles, clinging to clothes and hair with reckless abandon as we hoot and holler our way through the wilderness, miniature barbed mines that float just right as they seek out their targets.

They are a perfect way to pass a warm afternoon in August.

I duck and role as one bounces uselessly off a nearby tree, much to close for comfort. With a loud cry, I explode upward and let loose a volley, before fleeing for cover.

The battle will rage in until my mother's distant call to dinner. It will be an epic battle.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone. Please excuse auto corrected errors!

Story-A-Day #124: In A Fog

IN A FOG

Do you remember this place where we used to meet? It was always our secret, a quiet escape from the overwhelming. It was our retreat from reality.

Sometimes we would come here together, walking along the quiet paths until we didn’t want to walk any further. Sometimes we would arrive separately, drawn together as always by our need to find comfort in a shared embrace. On those unplanned days, I grew to understand just how much you meant to me, how much a part of my life you had become.

We would settle down and watch the world with an unfocussed intensity. There was a simple beauty to the time we shared, a glorious aloofness that somehow managed to be razor sharp.

As I sit here today, engulfed in a fog, I wish that you were still here with me, a partner in silence to stave off the cool chill. With a warm smile, you would dispel the bleakness of the mournful day, evaporating the doubts and fears and remorse that slowly seep in from the corners of my reality.

I am happy, though. Please don’t think I am not. I have done well for myself, made a name that merits the one I began with; the one I had back then. I have worked hard, and lived hard, and I have grown. We are older now, wiser and more responsible. I miss the quiet simplicity of retreat. Life isn’t like it used to be, for either one of us I am sure.

I sometimes think that you are here. It’s not my imagination though; it is bigger and broader than that. It is more real. On a day like today, I can almost see you lurking in the fog, your slender form a wisp that mingles with its surroundings. There is a subtle radiance in the gloom that surrounds you, a glow that threatens to burst into a radiant heat and that burns a hole through the present, and into the past.

I can feel you in the grass beneath me, and hear your voice whispering gently through the short green blades. I can smell you in the flowers, an earthy nostalgic aroma that only furthers the illusion that you are here.

We are inextricably linked to this place, one with the other. There is no escape, no will to escape. This is the place where we used to be and the place we will be forever. It is simple and magic and unlike any other.

Not many places like this exist, places so entwined in moments shared that they no longer exist without them. This was our place, and remains so.

I sit here in a fog with you by my side. It doesn’t matter how much space or time separates us because in this fog, we remain one. There is no place more beautiful or sacred in the world.

Story-A-Day #86: Hockey

HOCKEY

The crowd went wild. People were cheering and banging their seats and across the arena, on the other side of the shiny white ice, they were singing a song he had never heard before. It was the loudest, most exciting thing he had ever experienced.

The announcer came on over the loudspeakers to tell the audience what the young boy already knew. The captain, Number 3, had scored a goal for the good guys.

He flipped his notepad open and jotted down the captain's name and time of the goal in the left hand column of the simple chart he had created before the game.

The whistle echoed through the cavernous arena and the action continued. He watched as the tiny players below skated back and forth up and down the rink. He cheered as two players collided with a jarring crunch, and then he cheered some more as the gloves hit the ice and the two players sorted out their differences.

When the final whistle blew to announce the end of the game, he was a little dismayed that his team had lost, but he looked up into the smiling face of his father and knew that it would be okay.

There would be another game next week. He took his father's hand and they joined the exodus.

It had been a good game. It had been a great night.

"Thanks dad," he said, and that was enough.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

2 Weeks and 2 Days Later...

It's been too long since my last post, and for that I apologize. There are no excuses really, besides a handful of writing projects, a strange obsession with all things Olympics, and the requisite daily grind.

I've also been spending far too much time trying to figure out how to shoot something in Cuba when I am there and what I should be shooting. I have a few ideas drifting trough the mental quagmire, but so far, nothing concrete. More vexing than an idea (which granted can probably wait for a bit) is figuring out what I can use to shoot. I need something affordable, portable, and easy-to-use on the fly. Any suggestions? I'm leaning towards the ultra tiny Canon SX200 at the moment. It seems like a good bet.

All of this of course has lead me to a whimsical nostalgia for the trouble shooting process of all our shoots. I've mentioned weather, equipment, schedules and more in the past, but ideas are one thing that I didn't mention. I have a few in the hopper right now, and a few scripts ready to go, and I am hoping that very soon, there will be a new update. In the meantime, some nostalgic shots of the process of bringing About The Girl to fruition. Still an achievement that I am extremely proud of...

I'll be in touch again soon. With some news. About ideas...