Geek Heritage

My father was a very talented musician. In eighth grade, he wrote a symphony. He could hear a song on the radio once and play it back for you on the piano. He played keyboards in a number of different bands; I have a picture of him in a cape, white bell bottoms and platform boots performing onstage. My dad was one of the first rockin' geeks. I bet he'd love MC Frontalot and Optimus Rhyme if he was still around.

President of both chess club and the student body, he dated a cheerleader in high school, yet looking at pictures of him, you can tell that even for the times he was a nerd. He wore Coke bottle glasses and had a big grin, and his talent with music probably made the ladies swoon. I wonder if by that point he'd started using? I'll need to ask his friends.

He thought it was so cool that geek was becoming chic. Dad was proud of my geekocity. He'd really wanted a son, but didn't have one until much later. When I was raised, then, my dad took me camping and fishing and of course, to the arcade. He raised me as a tomgeek, encouraging my nerdy habits. We'd watch cartoons together, and they'd be things like Voltron, Dominion Tank Police and Robotech (Macross). While my dad egged me on in computers, anime and video games, mom got me reading the classics from an early age and watched art film with me.

My momma is a geek for words. She enhanced my vocabulary and gave me the unquenchable thirst for books that I have now. My favorite story that she'd read to me at bedtime was the Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. She encouraged my love of British comedy on PBS, and would discuss movies with me on an in-depth level. She never just asked if I liked a movie, she'd ask what about it I liked, and we would critique parts of the film together. Also, Star Trek. She watched a lot of Star Trek: The Next Generation, then Deep Space Nine. We had Klingon dictionaries and Enterprise design schematics scattered about the house.

She's a very supportive nerd momma, too. She's gotten behind my geeky habits and even gotten involved. She started playing the text MUD I was addicted to, and even volunteers at the same SciFi/fantasy convention I do. I /almost/ got her playing World of Warcraft. We geek out over Firefly together. I still talk film and literature with her, and she encourages me to keep writing.

On Artistry

I honestly wish that I was an artist. I consider myself a hack. I'm mediocre at best at what I do, but I do a lot of it. Drawing, painting, writing fiction/non-fiction/poems/plays, sculpture, sewing, singing, cooking/baking/mixing cocktails, dance, acting on stage/screen, playing the guitar/piano/ocarina/kazoo, costuming, pottery, collage, woodworking, engineering, I've dabbled in all these things but not a one has taken root in me and exploded like a weed throughout all else. Some of these I feel I'm better at than others, some I've forgotten how to do completely. In some I've been patted on the head and told how good I was, but I believe it was meant only as encouragement.

What is missing from all my work is the ability to convey emotion. I was telling this all to Tim the other day, and he said that all artists suffer from a feeling of miscommunication, that their audiences almost never grasp the artist's true intent. This, however, is not my problem. My problem lies in that I simply don't communicate anything.

I wrote a book of poetry when I was still in school that my teacher praised, and I wish I'd progressed at a steady rate from there. I don't believe I've grown as fast as I should have. I get the feeling that I've let down a lot of people who had very high hopes for me.

The Crossing Guardsman

His uniform is the same every day; blue gloves that look more suited to snow than a California spring, a bucket hat that seems snatched from a fisherman's head, sunglasses, a flourescent vest and his red STOP! sign. Sure, the shirt and pants may change, and maybe even the shoes (not that I notice shoes much, mind you), but he looks the same every day, wearing the same glowering expression on his ancient face. He grudgingly assists anyone with children in crossing, but if you are a lone adult, he will not only not help you across the street, but turn around and face away from you, even deliberately ignoring you if you smile and wish him Good Morning.

When I walk past him, I just want to shake him and tell him that the world can't be as bad as he seems to think it is and dammit, it wouldn't kill him to return a greeting or at least smile once in a while. Instead, I just keep walking and think to myself about how much I dislike him. Maybe I'm afraid of turning out like he has, old, untrusting and filled to the brim with a sort of tired hatred.