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Posts Tagged ‘fantasy’

I called off from work tomorrow.  They’re not going to be happy about that, but I must get better.  My voice is almost completely gone and I have a rehearsal tomorrow, a concert the day after, and then a service, another concert, and a singing-social event on Sunday.  I can’t take chances.

I remembered something as I walked back from my car the second time tonight.  (I left my phone.  Again.)  It’s raining.  Two days ago I called Jess and left a message about the melancholy feeling I get when it rains.  That elusive want isn’t the need to be needed that I talked about before.  I apparently have two unknowable longings.  This second one is more nostalgia than the other, I think, but not completely.

What I remembered was sitting on the front stoop of my house when I was a child (think 7-9, or maybe more like 6-8) with an umbrella propped against the wall, huddled underneath it in the rain.  I was making a tent for myself and enjoying the gloomy weather.  I’m fairly certain that the feeling I feel now when it rains is the same basic emotion I felt playing then.  This is significant because it proves my assumption about the rain-feeling’s origins wrong.  If I felt the same feeling that young, then it can’t be nostalgia for some forgotten adolescent event associated with rain.  It likely has nothing to do with boys.  I think I’d just come to assume it did because a) common layman’s understanding of psychology leads us to assume that all things stem from sexuality and our parents and b) boys are generally the only thing that can get that deep and strong an emotional response out of me.

But maybe it still is about boys in some way.  First, the feeling can’t be exactly the same now as it was then.  I’ve matured and evolved and had new experiences that have added to my associations with rain.  And I certainly experienced a lot of rain and tents with boys in boy scouts.

Or we could consider the possibility of an early sign of my sexuality.  (A dangerous and often misleading course of action, I have come to believe.)  I’m sure I ran fantasies of children caught out in the elements, despondent, needing rescue.  I think I remember thinking of that, playing that “game” with me as the distressed child.  (I remember being particularly fascinated with stories like Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Match-Seller.)  I don’t recall that leading to rescue fantasy.  Only the helpless situation.  Only when I was old enough to cast myself in the role of rescuer did my fantasies take on that element, I believe.  But I’ve been fantasizing that general situation my whole life.

And I think this fantasy is likely familiar for most boylovers.  It goes back to the need to be needed thing.  We fantasize about children and distress not because it’s attractive, but because it creates a need for the rescuer.

Perhaps that very fantasy – which is often featured in BL fiction – could be the root of what makes some pedophiles turn violent towards children.  The fantasy has an undeniably dark aspect.  It isn’t inconceivable that a young man experimenting in his mind with the rescue scenario could become fixated on the first half to the exclusion of the rescue portion.  Especially if he pays too much attention to the opinion of society at large that people who feel sexual attraction to children are monsters by “virtue” of their attraction only, and not their actions.  If he obsesses too much on the fantasy child’s distress it could eventually become attractive to him.  Especially if he comes to embrace that self-loathing that viewing yourself as a monster leads to.  Young men often try to live up to expectations.

Coming from someone as inexpert as myself, this may all be a load of bollocks.

In any case, the rain makes me feel melancholy in a sweet way that I want to nurture, while making me long for something unknown and lost.

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It’s about 5:00 now.  The island was very beautiful.  I certainly wouldn’t mind living there.  If only I had a couple million dollars.  As gorgeous a place as it is, however, it doesn’t compare to the boys walking all over it, and running shirtless over this ship.  As we made way from the port, my father and I stood at the stern and watched the port fade away.  As we did, a boy about 12 stood six feet off to my side and watched as well.  Not typical 12-year-old behavior.  Watching the land fall away that slowly seems too sedate and activity for most children, even that old.  Especially when there’s a water slide behind them.  He also seemed to be listening in on my and my father’s conversation.  I’d like to think that he wanted to be a part of our conversation, share our experience, as much as I wanted it.

And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think that.  Quite clearly he has more patience and mature interests than most his age.  It is very possible that his father wouldn’t be interested in sharing a moment with his son like that.  If he even has a father.  One never knows these days.  Point is, he could very well be looking for someone to share his uncommon interests with.  He could easily be one of those fabled “lonely boys” seeking to relate to someone.

I’d have loved to have been that someone.  To say to him, “See that boat up there?  That’s waiting to puck up the harbor pilot after he gets the ship out of the shipping lane.”  To tell him about the red and green buoys, and coment to him how the water changed from green to a blue so deep it almost looks purple.

Then I’d put my arm around his shoulders and give him a squeeze and we’d just watch the land slip away in companionalbe silence, him knowing I cared about him, me knowing he appreciated the attention.

Perhaps a bit idilic, but not an unreasonable fantasy.  I do care about him.  Isn’t that crazy?  I saw him for a few minutes out of the corner of my eye, both of us trying not to get caught looking (him by me and me by my father) and I already care about him.  I won’t be so cheezy and sentamental as to say I love him.  I don’t.  I don’t know him.  But I do wish him nothing but “puppies and sunshine” to quote Boy Wonder.

Two things prevented this fantasy from becoming history.  One.  My father was there, obviously.  How can I chat up a 12yo in front of my father?  He already is too close to the truth.  (Ever since 15.)  The other thing is my unending cowardace.  I’d just be too damned chicken to try it.

But what’s the worst that could happen?  He ignores me?  I feel awkward and walk away, ever to see him again?  I need to get over this.

I wrote this entry on the port side wind deck looking out over bluest infinity, with flying fish skimming the water beneath me.

And my father now knows I journal.  He visited me mid-entry.

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I just got off the phone with Jess.  She wanted to tell me that a fantasy book she was sure I’d read was being turned itno a TV series.  I told her, “yeah, I know.  George Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire is being made into a series by HBO.”

“No,” she told me.  “Not George Martin.  His name starts with a ‘T.'”

I offered up the name Tad Williams in excitement.  How great would a show based on his books be!  That sounded right to her until I told her the title.  The Dragonbone Chair.  “Yes!” she exclaimed.  Then, “Wait.  Dragonbone Chair?”  That didn’t sound right after all.  Memeory, Sorrow and Thorn, Shadowmarch, Otherland, Tailchaiser’s Song.  None sounded right.

So she gave me as much of a description of the plot as she could.  A guy, a young guy is a wizard, but doesn’t know it.  Then some sorceress comes along and convinces him to help her.  He gets caught up in her cause and feels obligated to stay involved.  And he runs around the woods with no shirt on.

After a few more questions I learned that there was a bad guy, but she didn’t remember anything aobut him, the sorceress might be good or bad, and it would be on the CW.

So I went online.  The plot didn’t sound anything like Dragonbone Chair, but I looked at Tad’s site anyway.  Nothing.

I went on CW’s site.  Horrible site.  Impossible to find anything resembling a list of current or upcoming shows.  I didn’t see anything that looked right.

Then I just googled “new fantasy tv series.”  Easiest thing in the world.  Wizard’s First Rule by Terry Goodkind.  Everything she’d told me was true.  I’d even heard a few days ago that it was being made into a show.  But I’d forgotten. Not among my favorite books.

But bravo Jess!  As odd as your recollection was, it got us there in the end.

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