In September 2021, Blizzard Entertainment released Diablo 2: Resurrection. This was a game that a buddy introduced me to in about 2001 and we played many a late hour into the night this role playing game (RPG) It was my first foray into the "fantasy" world, and twenty years later, I returned to the remastered original game. On a Saturday morning I sat down to chronicle my return.
0900: Turn on computer, upload game, press play. Entered the waiting cue to access the server as player #238.
0945: Finally entered the game.
0946: Game crashed to desktop.
0947: Reentered the waiting cue as player # 132.
1016: Crash to desktop prior to entering server lobby.
1017: Reentered the waiting cur as player 78.
Approximately 1105: Server converted me to off line play. Press online and reenter the waiting cue as player #314.
1215: Game crashed to desktop.
After three (3) hours of "gameplay" I balanced my checking account, requested a copy of my credit report, finalized some end of month bills before they were due, discarded motor vehicle repair orders predating 2015, defrosted some frozen food for dinner this evening, and surfed the yachting classifieds for a replacement.
Blizzard get a big fat F for their theft of US$60 for unavailable downloadable content.
Here we go again, another lap around the globe as we grapple to "flatten the curve in fourteen days", now in its second year.
I have returned to writing after an extended absence in another country fulfilling the obligations of emergency management in the Covid era. Returning to writing I have been presented with atopic that continues to plague me, grief.
Twenty one days to complete a manuscript for publication.
Yup, we go again. Damaged goods.
Welcome, my child.
A little girl.
...and once again, the Bourgeois family has provided the Madden family with another lost link.
The following is a reproduction of an article that I wrote for the Fathers Rights Movement California State Chapter on 6 Feb 2021.
My parents were divorced when I was young. As a teen and later as a college student, I'd occasionally visit Dad at the Army base he lived and worked at. On his desk were photographs of my brother and I but they were old photos...as toddlers, the first day of school - there was nothing recent.
I never understood why.
Come forward sixteen years and I'm divorced with two daughters. On my last day in Australia before coming to the USA, Dad took us to a fine seafood restaurant. At the end of the meal a photo was taken of the people present, including my Dad, my brother, and my daughters.
Come forward another sixteen years and and the photo pops up on my Facebook memories.
And suddenly...I understand why Dad only had old photos of my brother and I.
It was all he had.
The photograph taken at the restaurant was the last time my Father saw his granddaughters. It was the second last time I saw my daughters.
Now, it is all that I have.
Happy birthday Ming.
It's a been a long time since we last spoke. I can't recall how long it is. I recall what was said, and how I was away.
In the last sixty days I've lost the man who taught me to parent, a parent I cared for and a co-parent. I kept to myself since I got here because of the damage that was done before I left.
How's your Goddaughter? You might know more than I, but the loss of the girls broke me.
I went back to work on my book last week. In particular, I changed the part where I mentioned you and your wife. I had not used your names through the first few drafts - not because I didn't want to, but because I felt that you and D didn't need the "publicity" that might come when the book came out. I prefer to think of the two of you as the couple who could point to the book and go "he's talking about us there." There is a section where your words read "If he comes here, it's because no one else believe in him."
I have change it, to include your name, not because the words have changed, the relationship has changed. You were #thefirstfan and people should know, even if it's not the case now.
Happy birthday Anthony, from your fan. Your friend.
It has a been...a quiet time. A Dreamtime.
For the First Fans - we have lost three in sixty days.
The Big Man was the first to go. He taught me more about parenting then my own Father did.
The next was Her Mom. She needed the dependent care but in the end, She would always been the disobedient person that She was, in need of oversight at all times, and needing saving when there was no oversight. She wanted to make Her own decisions, and that is why She has gone.
The third, I did not not know well, but Her loss punctuated the generational gap.
There is a child that will be born this year, a child that will be the first (known) grandchild to me.
...and suddenly, the stories I should have written have now become the stories that will be told to a young child. The stories that they will hear of the Big Man, Large Marge and another, will no longer be coming from the lips of those people, but will be regaled by story tellers.
The aboriginal people of Australia speak of the Dreamtime, to explain the landscape of the land, and the history of their people. And I will speak of the Dreamtime in the technological era, of the people that came before the child, and of what the child meant to those people.
I wonder if my own children will tell the Dreamtime story of their Father to their children?
I thought of you last night.
Actually, I think of you every night. Sometime I think of you first thing in the morning
Most times I think of you after starting my day and wonder what you are doing.
I always think of you in the evening.
But last night it was different, you arrived in my dreams - like you have many times before.
I know the exact date the last time we spoke, the last date I saw you. Time, has not been favorable.
Wherever you are, what ever you are doing, I think of you constantly.
You are missed.
Every time I think of you, with every word I write.
Everyone who was alive, knows where they were on this day in 2001. It ranks higher than the Kennedy Assassination, Man on the Moon, even the passing of Elvis.
It even outweighs the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor.
Of the four events I mentioned, only one is joyous. We recall the horrors of our life, and I am no exception.
The events of September 11 2001 changed the world, and my path on this world. With hindsight now, I can pinpoint that moment as the change in my professional life, which subsequently resulted in my immigration to the United States.
After the events of September 11, there was nothing I could do to help those, but, with the skillset I had previously acquired, I could help those going forward. Even if those going forward, number just one.
As the Covid 19 situation in California continues to contain me in my residency, as tend to someone who cannot, or should not, venture outside. Additionally, the California Wildfires place a heavier burden with reduced air quality. Again, as I tend to someone who cannot, or should not, venture outside.
Sometimes the service we provide is not for the betterment of all, but for the preservation of the one.
Second half.
As the California "stay at home" orders continue to escalate with the returning surge of Covid-19, the desire to write is,,,diminishing. It's not that I don't have the discipline, it's more along the lines that other than medical facilities, it's been five months inside the same room. Some call it cabin fever.
I always thought that I could single handed sail long distances. Not necessarily a circumnavigation, but I thought I could do oceanic crossings, stay a while, continue on. Maybe I will have that ability one day but after five months, I'm no so sure.
Today I celebrated another lap of the solar system and head out again, without my daughters. In a conversation with my Father this evening I spoke briefly about them. He, the man who lost his own children, but regained them miraculously, was a better Father than I. I never regained mine.
Still, I had lasagna tonight as if they were here.
One hundred and forty seven days ago I went into isolation with the California lockdown. That's five months. The "need" to remain at home isolated from the pandemic was a "protection" assignment. Protecting someone else.
In five months I have gained about fifteen pounds, predominately through inactivity. Just recently I have begun a light exercise program in which I ensure that the dogs (plural) are walked each night. They are not my dogs.
The days are somewhat disjointed as there is not regimented rising time, but the meals are as scheduled three times a day - with a slight variance for the evening meal based on travel time for another occupant of the house. I'm not making two evening meals a day.
Before I came to the United States, I was an accomplished sailor on the racing circuit. I often wondered if I had it in me to sail single handed long distances. Though I never aspired to sole circumnavigate the globe, it was a question in my mind of could I transfer my race skills to cruising skills.
I'm no longer sure I could solo circumnavigate. I'm sure that the days would be vastly different but in my twelve square feet office, I have found myself...wandering about. There is always something to do, but not always something I want to do. And I found the reason for that.
It's been one hundred and forty seven days since I went into isolation. That's five months.
They're not my dogs. 5 Months. One hundred and forty seven days.
