Neirai the Forgiven
Christian Guilds List Manager
heh... we'll see if I can keep up to you "real" writers. My English prof has been encouraging me to try my hand at writing a biography of sorts, so I think I'll try give it a shot. I'll also try to work on my story whenever I feel inspired to write anything good for it.
<<Biography>>
<Openstance>
Memory is an interesting thing. It can often be misconstrued, reconstructed incorrectly, or even plain old fantasy. I don't pretend to believe that my memories are accurate or even at times real; I have memories which I undoubtedly got from photographs that my parents kept that I can remember vividly but that I know are false because the photographs were taken before I was born. This is a basic human experience -- the vast majority of our events are mere fabrications of our minds.
The first memory that I have is a picture in my mind. I'm sitting with my mom and brother and sister in the front row or just-behind-front row of a high school auditorium. We're on the right side of the auditorium. In front of me is a stage. My father is up on stage playing his guitar. This was my first remembered church experience. It's kind of apt that my first memory is a picture of a church worship service, surrounded by family. Family, worship, and music in general have always been integral to my life.
What's funny about this memory is that it has always been my first memory. Even when I was a young child, I could never put a finger on an earlier memory. It's like I never existed before that moment. It's like the movie of my life opened with me in the front row of that little church in a high school, listening to old vineyard church choruses. Okay, they weren't old back then, they were cutting-edge songs.
The first memory that I can interact with has had a similar effect on my life. Maybe a healthy one, maybe not.
We lived in a little condominium complex in the north of Edmonton. The condominiums are organized into six little groups of about 18 houses that all point towards an inner courtyard of concrete. Nowadays when I visit it looks almost like a prison to me -- but back in the days of my childhood it was a paradise, an eternal playground full of children, laughter, and big wooden planters.
Off towards the end of the three-hundreds, where my house was, lived a little boy that I only remember seeing once. He was not a particularly healthy young boy; that is why I only remember seeing him once. He was usually sick at home with something that I wasn't old enough to understand, other than that it made his mother really sad and made his father work from home. His was the first home that I ever went over to play at without my parents. I'm very certain that my parents were around -- but I never saw them.
I don't remember anything about the day except that at some point in the day we went down to see his father. His father was happy to see us and showed us his work. It is the first time that I ever remember seeing a video game. I know this isn't true, because his father was working on making a video game that I remember as being "like Mario but for girls." If you are a video-gamer, I know that right about now you are probably chuckling at the idea. I'm not surprised. The memory of that video game screen is the only memory I have of that game. It probably flopped if it was ever completed. The kind of girl that plays video games is not likely to be interested in Mario for girls -- she's likely to be interested in Mario.
Anyhow, that part of the memory is fleeting at best. The part of the memory I remember is the game that he let us play. It was in black and white game on a monitor that could produce color. The game was clunky and eventually crashed during play. And it had the most profound impact on my young life. I never forgot that game. I spent a lot of my young life searching for it -- either in the recesses of my own over-active imagination, or in books, or in other games.
The game consisted of a party of four adventurers that scoured the countryside in search of something that I couldn't understand. Being able to read would have helped. I still remember the images of my party: four identical warriors who my friend, whose name I remember as Adam, said were the best choice to pick.
It would be a long time before I would find that game again. When I eventually did, I learned to call the four cloned warriors Fighters and the game Final Fantasy.
<<Biography>>
<Openstance>
Memory is an interesting thing. It can often be misconstrued, reconstructed incorrectly, or even plain old fantasy. I don't pretend to believe that my memories are accurate or even at times real; I have memories which I undoubtedly got from photographs that my parents kept that I can remember vividly but that I know are false because the photographs were taken before I was born. This is a basic human experience -- the vast majority of our events are mere fabrications of our minds.
The first memory that I have is a picture in my mind. I'm sitting with my mom and brother and sister in the front row or just-behind-front row of a high school auditorium. We're on the right side of the auditorium. In front of me is a stage. My father is up on stage playing his guitar. This was my first remembered church experience. It's kind of apt that my first memory is a picture of a church worship service, surrounded by family. Family, worship, and music in general have always been integral to my life.
What's funny about this memory is that it has always been my first memory. Even when I was a young child, I could never put a finger on an earlier memory. It's like I never existed before that moment. It's like the movie of my life opened with me in the front row of that little church in a high school, listening to old vineyard church choruses. Okay, they weren't old back then, they were cutting-edge songs.
The first memory that I can interact with has had a similar effect on my life. Maybe a healthy one, maybe not.
We lived in a little condominium complex in the north of Edmonton. The condominiums are organized into six little groups of about 18 houses that all point towards an inner courtyard of concrete. Nowadays when I visit it looks almost like a prison to me -- but back in the days of my childhood it was a paradise, an eternal playground full of children, laughter, and big wooden planters.
Off towards the end of the three-hundreds, where my house was, lived a little boy that I only remember seeing once. He was not a particularly healthy young boy; that is why I only remember seeing him once. He was usually sick at home with something that I wasn't old enough to understand, other than that it made his mother really sad and made his father work from home. His was the first home that I ever went over to play at without my parents. I'm very certain that my parents were around -- but I never saw them.
I don't remember anything about the day except that at some point in the day we went down to see his father. His father was happy to see us and showed us his work. It is the first time that I ever remember seeing a video game. I know this isn't true, because his father was working on making a video game that I remember as being "like Mario but for girls." If you are a video-gamer, I know that right about now you are probably chuckling at the idea. I'm not surprised. The memory of that video game screen is the only memory I have of that game. It probably flopped if it was ever completed. The kind of girl that plays video games is not likely to be interested in Mario for girls -- she's likely to be interested in Mario.
Anyhow, that part of the memory is fleeting at best. The part of the memory I remember is the game that he let us play. It was in black and white game on a monitor that could produce color. The game was clunky and eventually crashed during play. And it had the most profound impact on my young life. I never forgot that game. I spent a lot of my young life searching for it -- either in the recesses of my own over-active imagination, or in books, or in other games.
The game consisted of a party of four adventurers that scoured the countryside in search of something that I couldn't understand. Being able to read would have helped. I still remember the images of my party: four identical warriors who my friend, whose name I remember as Adam, said were the best choice to pick.
It would be a long time before I would find that game again. When I eventually did, I learned to call the four cloned warriors Fighters and the game Final Fantasy.
