»
Main Forums
»
Passions in Prose
»
The Chances Taken
| Passions in Prose |
|
The Chances Taken |
|
|
Michael G Senior Member
since 2000-06-25
Posts 579Nashville |
I had been only a child when I first was to learn the meaning of pain. The simple delicacy of loosing faith in another person became a world open to me. My father, in his good grace’s decided to walk away from a marriage of 11 years. He had become restless, bored within himself, thinking he had become stagnant. He wrote for the Associated Press, he also took photo’s for them. What he had seen as a reporter for the Los Angeles branch I could only guess. Mind you I had some clue, for being his son he had taken me to some of his interviews. I had meet people like Cathy Rigby, Rafer Johnson, my heroes growing up. I had been to the fires in the Malibu mountains, where only the Fire fighters would go. I remember clearly watching my dad change camera’s while a wall of flame jumped over the road only yards in front of the car. I also remember the slap across the mouth, when Nixon resigned. I was talking about my day, when my dad told me to quite up. I kept up, to the point where he slapped my mouth. He told me to listen, that what was being said would be important to me one day. I listen, a tear running down my cheek while the taste of blood ran down my throat. We watched Skylab fall to earth on the top of our 1930’s apartment. Camped on top of it summer after summer, letting the breeze from the ocean fall over us. I loved the roof of that place. I used to hide out in my dads darkroom, a closet he had converted. The smells of those chemicals still take me back. On a line, hanging like time capsules would be the black and white photo’s he had taken. In the bedroom, the type-writer with the stories he worked on. I remember being able to read at a young age, not from being pushed, but from the curiosity of my surroundings. I would read the stories he would turn in, sifting through words letting them produce the pictures in my mind. That place would always serve me in my times of desperation. The avocado trees, the figs, the apricots and walnut trees, they would all be my home. I would sit for hours, attempting to understand how to form a sentence, to place it on paper. I would write small paragraphs and show it to him, just to see the smile for split second, only to watch it fade. He faded also. Nothing dramatic really, he simply left, and divorced. He moved to Bellingham, to start a new life, only to find the old one not wanting to be neglected. He became a teacher of journalism at the college and soon had a younger girlfriend. I visited him one summer, only to have my dreams of ever knowing my dad shattered. He simply was too impressed with himself to be bothered with me. I found out why a few years later, when looking for my birth certificate I found out he was not my dad. He had come two years after I was born. I understood his distance, understood the hate he welled for me. I understood it, though have never accepted it, still preferring to think of him as a weak man. I did take one thing from him, the simple thoughts of words. The passion of the story and how it may be used. I have seen both sides of it. The evil done when you scorn, putting a letter in the hand of one you wish to hurt. The pure joy of love, when those words are used in goodness. I despise those who rally behind stupidity, whose words are after thoughts of men with lower IQ’s. I began writing when I was 12, a year after he left. I believe it was more for therapy than anything else, but my voice was being formed. I still look at those early note books filled with poems, and I yearn to go back and say something. To tell that young man that life is never set, never pure. That it can change like the wind, that in doing so you can become anything you want. I want to go back, but even if I could, I would not. For the life I have led, and the one I am still living unfolds a day at a time. Those roads I have yet to travel upon beckon to me, tempting me to go. Those travels and those chance encounters upon them are what fill me mind with the power to write. At 35 I have just begun to live, whereas by this time my dad had decided to give in. Now when I think of him, I pity him for never giving me a chance to be a son, for never giving himself a chance to be a father. |
||
| © Copyright 2001 Michael G - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
Marina Member Elite
since 2000-02-10
Posts 2245Pickering, Ontario |
I had to reread this several times. Not because I didn't understand the pain of your words or how you expressed it, but because I am at a loss of words. How does one reply to something as personal and painful as this piece? Perhaps I will be best to just say this... If nothing else this man showed you that your pen and paper can make any world you choose. You have a very rare gift Michael. Your talent for writing is truly a wonder and this prose is merely just a sample. Love, Marina It is a blessing to have wings for words, and passion in pen Marina Crossley [This message has been edited by Marina (edited 05-14-2001).] |
||
|
obscurity of cloud Member
since 2001-05-11
Posts 294....:::::******:::::.... |
This has definite deep meaning. Your emotion and sense of self are really evident. However, i was deterred by some grammar flaws, like the apostrophes in plurals, and some misspelling, but that cal be easily cleared up. Your spirit really shows through, excellent work. "so when at times the mob is swayed to carry praise or blame too far, we may choose something like a star" --Frost |
||
|
Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
I began writing when I was 12, a year after he left. I believe it was more for therapy than anything else, but my voice was being formed. I still look at those early note books filled with poems, and I yearn to go back and say something. To tell that young man that life is never set, never pure. That it can change like the wind, that in doing so you can become anything you want. I want to go back, but even if I could, I would not. For the life I have led, and the one I am still living unfolds a day at a time. Those roads I have yet to travel upon beckon to me, tempting me to go. Those travels and those chance encounters upon them are what fill me mind with the power to write. At 35 I have just begun to live, whereas by this time my dad had decided to give in. Now when I think of him, I pity him for never giving me a chance to be a son, for never giving himself a chance to be a father. ======================================= sweet poet on the wind... you are wise beyond your years.... and yes...I know old souls come with a price.. lesson learned the hard way always will be the ones that stay with us and the ones that we learn the most from. You ARE a writer...for only a writer could make me feel every word.. and that is your gift... your pen has soul MG. take care poet sir. (thanks Marina, for the heads up)  tis never easy being a moth, |
||
|
Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
You may or may not know, but I read with my heart, not my head. Though I see the grammatical errors (another line between paragraphs would be nice), I usually 'feel' the story/poem as I read. I feel that you are a bit 'detached' from this piece. I'd like to see something in more depth - maybe this spans too long a time. I really like where you're going with it - and feel badly that you had to go through it. Have you ever looked for your birth father (if you don't mind me asking)? |
||
|
Marina Member Elite
since 2000-02-10
Posts 2245Pickering, Ontario |
I didn't think you had it checked off for critique, but I am more then sure that they were mentioned to help and certainly not hinder your prose. I think your meaning and emotions didn't go unnoticed by anyone.  Me It is a blessing to have wings for words, and passion in pen |
||
|
Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Michael, please know that what Marina implies is not true..I never would have said anything to 'put down' your effort here. I enjoyed it - but in my heart it felt 'detached'...sorry if my words offended you. |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
