The Lost Realm

Romilly is snoring quietly on the couch behind me, having fallen asleep towards the end of The Iron Giant. It’s not that she wasn’t enjoying the movie, it’s just that the last few days have been pretty tiring: birthdays, the Royal Show, Hampton the Hamster (please do not make me do that again), and oh-so-many new toys that just demand to be played with every second of the day.

I have decided that a loud, musical toy with potential for cacophonous creativity was perhaps not the best idea for a present for my own daughter. Someone else’s daughter, perhaps. In someone else’s house. Far, far away.

At least the batteries will eventually wear out, unlike those of a certain giant robot.

It’s funny, but The Iron Giant always makes me cry. It’s just one of those movies. There’s something touching about a giant robot that better understands and applies the concepts of humanity than we poor humans. Children and giant metal-eating robots from space: the future of the civilised world.

Oh, and beatnik artists that own scrap yards. We can’t forget them, I guess.

Today I got to ride on the “Dragon Wagon”, a pinkish dragon kiddie-rollercoaster. Twice. I also got to watch some malaysian girls singing, multiple rounds of cow parading, some youth country singers, and a tiny puppy herding a number of full grown sheep.

These are not the sorts of things that I normally do at the Royal Show; however, they were extremely enjoyable as I got to do them with Romilly. The look of excitement and wonder on her face as we wandered about and found new things to enjoy was worth any price. I mean that both literally, in the sense that it wasn’t exactly the cheapest day out, and figuratively, in that I had a nasty headache and I really dislike country music.

Last year Romilly really was only interested in the colours and the noise of the show. She just got pushed about in a stroller and got excited at balloons. She’s such a little person now, with her own individual likes and dislikes. She didn’t mind me looking at the painting and photography exhibits, but there was no way we were going to look at the water saver shower heads or spend time playing silly games in sideshow alley. She didn’t want a pony ride, she didn’t want fairy floss, and she thought that idea of donuts for morning tea was completely wrong (we had to have “warm” — not hot — chips). She certainly did want to stay through badly sung (to a backing tape) country songs, and through nearly two full rounds of the cow parading, including the 20 minutes of cow preparation time.

My daughter is growing up, and despite the fact that we don’t always agree on things (particularly the appropriateness of donuts for any and every meal) she’s more and more fun to spend time with every day.

As I drove home late tonight, I shivered against the cold. My headlights beamed through the darkness, lighting the trees and bushland along the sides of the road. I looked to the left and caught a glimpse of my car, dancing in the water. I passed through wave after enveloping wave of fog, suspended even as I sped through them. As I approached my house, the streetlights revealed great sheets of fog, just hanging there in the air above me. The giant trees cast their shadows across the ground, lit by a moon that seemed to take up half the sky.

It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was beautiful.

I want to give someone else these moments. I want to share them. I don’t want to do this alone.

Sometimes, I feel like a fraud; like I’m not really me. I’m operating myself at a distance and ignoring everything on the inside. I’m ignoring everything that’s true and real.

Once, I was idealistic about the world. I’d be true to myself, and everything would be okay. I grew out of that fairly quickly. You can’t just be yourself, much as you’d like to. People are mean, and the world is filled with realities that soon burst any bubble of self that doesn’t conform well enough to the norm.

So you grow up learning to hide your true self. You change your clothes. You change your hair. You change the way you walk and speak. You stop doing what you want to do. You start doing what you don’t want to do. You become an adult when you want to remain a child. You crawl up inside yourself and don’t let any of your secrets out for others to prey on.

You get so good at hiding yourself that you sometimes forget it’s even there. But it always is. If you listen, you can still hear it. It’s the little part of you that sings in the sunshine, the little part of you that sobs in the darkness.

Microsoft’s new “Security At Home” site has a rather interesting advertisement their new anti-spyware software. Incase they change it, I’ll put it here:

Now, I’m not quite as hip and cool as I used to be, but last time I checked it wasn’t very stylish to get dressed up like Neo and throw yourself through a thresher. Seriously, call an ambulance. That guy can’t be feeling all that comfortable having had his torso twisted and contorted like that.

I’m not sure what this says about Microsoft and their anti-spyware solutions, but it certainly looks painful.

Writing about personal, private issues in a public space is certainly challenging. Having been online for over a decade now, I don’t hide behind anonymity and, for the most part, I don’t create fake names or use initials for people I mention. I check with them first, but I tend to just talk about people I know.

This form of open discussion causes problems sometimes. Even when I abstract my thoughts and avoid details, people know what and who I’m talking about. Sometimes I’ll say something and completely forget that the people involved can actually read it. Sometimes I think that’s when I really make this work.

Other times I find myself wanting to censor my thoughts to avoid saying something confusing or ambiguous that might be misinterpreted. People like to assume and read between the lines, but there’s a lot between the lines here. Somewhere betwixt the words I write are volumes of undisclosed information. You don’t know it all. Even I don’t know it all.

Somewhere in here is me, but you’re not going to find it by reading these words. Only I truly find myself here.