Memories V
Childhood delights lie beyond, come follow me
Paddington, hand me a flashlight, would you old chap?
Most of my childhood is a fuzzy little blur, lost somewhere, set down like a favorite blanket scooped away in clandestine fashion by mother to be washed when her little one is off playing with something else, to limit the self concious anxiety that comes with her child's favorite possession going missing, swallowed up by the great rumbling, swaying guts of a machine.
When you're young nothing is dirty. The filthiest sock in the drawer is the perferred garment of choice, the matted fur of your favorite bear is your favorite companion, having seen a week of the bumpiest sections of the yard, dragged along behind you like the nose of a farmers plow.
Stripped of society's expectations and explanations, stripped of the idea that 'clean' is better that dirty in some special, magical manner that makes little sense. After all, if it won't hurt you to hug that dusty old bear against your chest, then why should you part with it for even the scantest of moments, let alone entrust him to the rattle of the machine in the corner.
This is what it is to be a child.
So many people seem keen to recapture the carefree time of their youth. Much money is spent, much time is invested, and a great deal of it is spent dreaming about simpler times. But really, no one is prepared to quietly set down the sword they drew when they grew older, the weapon of obligation.
I don't want to be younger, even if I would like a chance to go back a long distance and try doing everything over again, a second chance at mending some of the things I've broken over many years. But I think it might kill me, knowing what I know about myself, if I were to return to being a child, with the full knowledge of the adulthood that awaits me, being able to look up into the eyes of my parents and know that they aren't capable of 'loving'. It would hurt more, every slight would scald me with the clarity that only comes with adulthood, with understanding.
Children are resiliant for a reason. Resiliant not only because their bodies are new and supple, but because their emotions are equally unformed, they bounce back from emotional hurts just as easilly as they do physical ones. One can debate that abuse survivors come out permanently scarred, but if you subjected an adult to the same level of sustained cruelty and helplessness, what would become of them?
But my thoughts diverge, not all my memories are unhappy ghosts, some are truly giddy spectres indeed.
And today's glimpse revolves around dark and comfort, the blessing of a good cave. Not the sort that requires a ropes and hats with lights on their breasts, but those made by the accomplished hands of a seven year old boy. The caverns poured into small spaces, made up of couch cushions and sheets, pillows and plushes.
The collection of fond memories I have from 'inside' my parents home are usually forged from deep within a home of my own making, from small caves made out of the cushions from their couches and strewn with sheets dragged off of my bed.
But I wish I could remember more.
I remember with delight stringing sheets up in my room, using tacks to secure them to the walls. (My room was small enough that only two carefully placed bed sheets could form a canopy and cover nearly the entire room, a third sheet could even form a far wall for my cave, to shunt my little home away from the rest of the world.
Perhaps that's the measurement that makes me so unhappy with my parents, not only did they refuse to understand me, but they refused to love what I loved. They were never happy to see me at play, all of my most ornate creations were dismissed with harsh orders to take it down, or threats of them finding me something better to do with my time. Even when I was older and took intrest in other things, they never chose to share my intrests, or even take an intrest in what I was doing beyond choosing to decry it as pointless.
When I read fantasy novels by the shelf load, they only comment was to suggest I should be reading something more constructive, less fanciful. When I was playing dungeons and dragons it was a satanic waste of time (Yes, my mother and father were backwards enough that dungeons and dragons had 'satantic roots', even if they were wise enough to know that stories of people killing each other and forming bizarre cults were overblown and stupid). And when I started playing magic, collecting the cards and playing the game was a waste of my time and money.
I know that it might fade with time. But if I ever have a child, Captain Paddington and I will accompany them on any journey they desire. To the end of the earth, if necessary. That's the measure of love, is it not, intrest...
Rest in peace Paddington, you were a good soldier, and a better spelunker Peru has never birthed.
Paddington, hand me a flashlight, would you old chap?
Most of my childhood is a fuzzy little blur, lost somewhere, set down like a favorite blanket scooped away in clandestine fashion by mother to be washed when her little one is off playing with something else, to limit the self concious anxiety that comes with her child's favorite possession going missing, swallowed up by the great rumbling, swaying guts of a machine.
When you're young nothing is dirty. The filthiest sock in the drawer is the perferred garment of choice, the matted fur of your favorite bear is your favorite companion, having seen a week of the bumpiest sections of the yard, dragged along behind you like the nose of a farmers plow.
Stripped of society's expectations and explanations, stripped of the idea that 'clean' is better that dirty in some special, magical manner that makes little sense. After all, if it won't hurt you to hug that dusty old bear against your chest, then why should you part with it for even the scantest of moments, let alone entrust him to the rattle of the machine in the corner.
This is what it is to be a child.
So many people seem keen to recapture the carefree time of their youth. Much money is spent, much time is invested, and a great deal of it is spent dreaming about simpler times. But really, no one is prepared to quietly set down the sword they drew when they grew older, the weapon of obligation.
I don't want to be younger, even if I would like a chance to go back a long distance and try doing everything over again, a second chance at mending some of the things I've broken over many years. But I think it might kill me, knowing what I know about myself, if I were to return to being a child, with the full knowledge of the adulthood that awaits me, being able to look up into the eyes of my parents and know that they aren't capable of 'loving'. It would hurt more, every slight would scald me with the clarity that only comes with adulthood, with understanding.
Children are resiliant for a reason. Resiliant not only because their bodies are new and supple, but because their emotions are equally unformed, they bounce back from emotional hurts just as easilly as they do physical ones. One can debate that abuse survivors come out permanently scarred, but if you subjected an adult to the same level of sustained cruelty and helplessness, what would become of them?
But my thoughts diverge, not all my memories are unhappy ghosts, some are truly giddy spectres indeed.
And today's glimpse revolves around dark and comfort, the blessing of a good cave. Not the sort that requires a ropes and hats with lights on their breasts, but those made by the accomplished hands of a seven year old boy. The caverns poured into small spaces, made up of couch cushions and sheets, pillows and plushes.
The collection of fond memories I have from 'inside' my parents home are usually forged from deep within a home of my own making, from small caves made out of the cushions from their couches and strewn with sheets dragged off of my bed.
But I wish I could remember more.
I remember with delight stringing sheets up in my room, using tacks to secure them to the walls. (My room was small enough that only two carefully placed bed sheets could form a canopy and cover nearly the entire room, a third sheet could even form a far wall for my cave, to shunt my little home away from the rest of the world.
Perhaps that's the measurement that makes me so unhappy with my parents, not only did they refuse to understand me, but they refused to love what I loved. They were never happy to see me at play, all of my most ornate creations were dismissed with harsh orders to take it down, or threats of them finding me something better to do with my time. Even when I was older and took intrest in other things, they never chose to share my intrests, or even take an intrest in what I was doing beyond choosing to decry it as pointless.
When I read fantasy novels by the shelf load, they only comment was to suggest I should be reading something more constructive, less fanciful. When I was playing dungeons and dragons it was a satanic waste of time (Yes, my mother and father were backwards enough that dungeons and dragons had 'satantic roots', even if they were wise enough to know that stories of people killing each other and forming bizarre cults were overblown and stupid). And when I started playing magic, collecting the cards and playing the game was a waste of my time and money.
I know that it might fade with time. But if I ever have a child, Captain Paddington and I will accompany them on any journey they desire. To the end of the earth, if necessary. That's the measure of love, is it not, intrest...
Rest in peace Paddington, you were a good soldier, and a better spelunker Peru has never birthed.