For the third year running, I have won National Novel Writing Month. I failed in my initial goal of doing two books; although I kept up well enough for the first week, my co-writer made it clear that he would not be finishing very early on, and I mostly lost interest after that.
But my solo book carried me through, and, unlike last year's attempt, I love it greatly. The novel shall be called Coarse Fetters, and it tells the story of a small circle of high-school-aged friends and their coming of age, centered around a Road Trip. When it's done and edited up, I'm confident it'll be the best thing I've ever written. For now, work continues on it; at 50,000 words, I may be almost halfway done.
This year was the easiest so far. I finished a day early, and could have finished much earlier if I hadn't taken a few days off. I did no writing whatsoever at work, I maintained a reasonable (though not optimal) workout schedule, I spent some time with friends, and I started ballroom dancing lessons. I could have finished a second book, but only with a fair amount of sacrifice in the rest of my life. Even so, 1,666 words a day, no exceptions, is a pace that takes some effort to keep up, and I plan to take a few weeks off from working on it. There are plenty of other things waiting for me to write them in the meantime!
My friend Harry alerted me to the existence of a scriptwriting competition for radio dramas, for which I plan to write between one and three scripts between now and February. I'm optimistic that the playwriting challenge I did in August gave me some sort of foundation for this new quest, but I've already run my ship aground on the treacherous reefs of plosives and sibilants. Must art ever give way to the limits of technology? But then, what is art but the employment of technology for the sake of expression?
My writing skills aren't the only thing that have improved over the last few months. My fantasy football team stands in first place in my 12-person work league; I owe nearly all its success to the excellent advice of a very wise person named Scott (not me).
I have very little interest in football. Primarily, I enjoy spending time with my friends, letting myself get swept up in their enthusiasm for it; this has been the main source of positive reinforcement for me to pay attention to football at all. I grew up completely lacking interest in any sport; it seemed to me a bunch of sweaty nonsense where great effort was expended for the accomplishment of very little. Means should not be ends.
But I've always been entranced with especially complicated machinae, and, on closer inspection, football certainly fits the bill. Realizing that, in theory, every one of those participants in these sweaty, nonsensical rituals is as finely tuned mentally, physically, and socially to perform his given task as modern science can accomplish (within certain limits) puts a different spin on it. We're watching athletes, yes, but we're also watching a medically exceptional demonstration of an altered paradigm of human existence. For these teams, the game is a literal way of life. It's a little humbling, in that respect, when you understand how small the differences are at that very top level of human performance, yet how dramatic the results can be for it.
I considered, once, the fun of a football league composed entirely of robots. Injuries could be so much more explosive, plays more intensely kinematic, and it would remove a lot of the frustration inherent in dealing with messy organic lifeforms. But now, I realize that we're already watching a game of machines, no less so simply because blood flows through them instead of some other sustaining fluid. Entire city-states bend their power to producing the best-performing of them, coders search endlessly for superior programming, and dedicated staffs of hundreds work without rest to maintain and improve these thoughtless beasts. For they do not think; they cannot decide their goals. They have only one aim, to win, and the rest is algorithms computing courses of action and chances of success. In the meantime, they make no choices. They strive forever, and are no more immortal than the perfect robots I thought might replace them. But then, there's always next year's model.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Thursday, October 30, 2014
tumult and stasis
Tomorrow's Halloween, but I'm not scared. I've got big, exciting plans. My feet will move lightly, my face will dazzle with expression, and I will remind the world what joy can be. Somehow, as if I knew.
The scary thing comes after Halloween -- that's National Novel Writing Month -- which, you may remember, I indulged in (and succeeded) the previous two years. I intend to one-up myself this year by competing twice; once with a team-written book (in concert with the incomparable Josh), and again with a book written solo. Never fear; the team-book shall be a total of 100,000 words between us, so as not to violate the spirit of the challenge.
So all of this writing means that I'll be mostly hermetical throughout the month of November. I have this vague sense of dismay that I still feel the need to rest my pen during October, but four months of consecutive intensive writing challenges would really be a little too much for me right now.
However, I do vastly prefer the writing process for novels over shorter-form works. Something about having the freedom to wallow in my own creative juices, rather than feeling the need to disseminate my works as soon as they're finished, appeals to me immensely. So maybe I should just be writing short story collections or something, I don't know.
After finishing my blogging challenge last year, I threw together a pretty minimal statistical analysis of the receptions my blog posts had received. I didn't reach any deep conclusions, but it was fun to try to figure out if there were any results to be found in the number of Facebook likes and comments each post received. I was hoping to do something similar this year, but I don't even know where to begin putting it all together. As for comments, there are too few to make it worthwhile; and though there are a few likes to be found here and there, I've grown skeptical of those as a meaningful metric.
Pageviews tell a different tale, though. For whatever reason, September featured a few of my most-viewed posts ever, including the top spot. My post about Lovecraft, for instance, garnered over 100 views, narrowly edging out my first post about my trip to Germany last year for the top spot. Yet it received zero likes and zero comments on Facebook. It was quite a bit more popular on Google+, where I think the title gave it a wider audience than it might have otherwise received. But as for people who actually know me, it seems to have been a dud.
The third-place spot in pageviews was attained by my third post of the month, spirit shanty, all about Moby Dick. But then, this one had some extracurricular help, too, in that I posted it for my class to read. It was a relatively small class and that doesn't fully explain the boost, but still -- I only got one like, and no comments on Facebook (although it did earn a comment in the blog itself). Whence the views?
Spot number eight was overtaken by the tyranny of stuff, although that one could have been attributed to me reading it so much, because I was so pleased with it. No likes, no comments, nothing at all; perhaps you knew not what to make of it. But I did, so that was fine.
So, of those top ten spots, three belong to blog posts from this past September -- and none at all from the September before. Perhaps there can be progress after all. But for now, I will be quiet. You will hear from me again in December, either in triumph or in glorious, grinning failure. Either way, I'll learn.
The scary thing comes after Halloween -- that's National Novel Writing Month -- which, you may remember, I indulged in (and succeeded) the previous two years. I intend to one-up myself this year by competing twice; once with a team-written book (in concert with the incomparable Josh), and again with a book written solo. Never fear; the team-book shall be a total of 100,000 words between us, so as not to violate the spirit of the challenge.
So all of this writing means that I'll be mostly hermetical throughout the month of November. I have this vague sense of dismay that I still feel the need to rest my pen during October, but four months of consecutive intensive writing challenges would really be a little too much for me right now.
However, I do vastly prefer the writing process for novels over shorter-form works. Something about having the freedom to wallow in my own creative juices, rather than feeling the need to disseminate my works as soon as they're finished, appeals to me immensely. So maybe I should just be writing short story collections or something, I don't know.
After finishing my blogging challenge last year, I threw together a pretty minimal statistical analysis of the receptions my blog posts had received. I didn't reach any deep conclusions, but it was fun to try to figure out if there were any results to be found in the number of Facebook likes and comments each post received. I was hoping to do something similar this year, but I don't even know where to begin putting it all together. As for comments, there are too few to make it worthwhile; and though there are a few likes to be found here and there, I've grown skeptical of those as a meaningful metric.
Pageviews tell a different tale, though. For whatever reason, September featured a few of my most-viewed posts ever, including the top spot. My post about Lovecraft, for instance, garnered over 100 views, narrowly edging out my first post about my trip to Germany last year for the top spot. Yet it received zero likes and zero comments on Facebook. It was quite a bit more popular on Google+, where I think the title gave it a wider audience than it might have otherwise received. But as for people who actually know me, it seems to have been a dud.
The third-place spot in pageviews was attained by my third post of the month, spirit shanty, all about Moby Dick. But then, this one had some extracurricular help, too, in that I posted it for my class to read. It was a relatively small class and that doesn't fully explain the boost, but still -- I only got one like, and no comments on Facebook (although it did earn a comment in the blog itself). Whence the views?
Spot number eight was overtaken by the tyranny of stuff, although that one could have been attributed to me reading it so much, because I was so pleased with it. No likes, no comments, nothing at all; perhaps you knew not what to make of it. But I did, so that was fine.
So, of those top ten spots, three belong to blog posts from this past September -- and none at all from the September before. Perhaps there can be progress after all. But for now, I will be quiet. You will hear from me again in December, either in triumph or in glorious, grinning failure. Either way, I'll learn.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
grow and bear it
How the creaking frame of that wizened, elder dramaturge resounds in the shadows of the stage; how his eyes, misty, alight on every clapping hand; too frail to bow! At last, it calls! The bell, the ringing bell! A daughter takes his elbow, and leads him away through flowers, falling like rain....
**
I experienced low blood sugar today. Normally, I maintain a strict schedule for when I eat, and I never have any problems. But today, I made a different choice of food for lunch, and I guess it wasn't enough; by mid-afternoon, I wasn't exactly hungry, but I was deep in the doldrums. All around was misery and gloom, and clawed shades from the past came a-clutching at my sunny disposition. How frustrating to escape from an unhappy situation, only to learn that it was a relatively normal situation, and merely my physiology contributing to my unhappiness! At least I kept myself from inflicting it on others -- such is my gift --
**
Oh, that brave fish struggles, struggles, that big, brave fish. He fights and pulls and whips his tail, he gasps and heaves and flaps his gills, but nothing's left for him. He's hooked, well and truly, soon to be strung up on a line and shown, or cleaned out and cooked; there's his tail, and there's his tale, my son. Never thrown back, not that fish, much too brave for that. He's strong and true and hooked, and there he lay, bedeviled by his own appetite.
**
I'm writing in front of a mirror right now, and while I usually try and keep one nearby when I'm writing, it's never so direct. I can cast my eyes up a little from the screen and see my face, and for some reason, I'm scowling. My face is relaxed, my jaw is loose, and I look like a man who's been harpooned. Was it always this way? I can still smile, there's that, but people tend to ask me why I look so upset. I see what they mean. But on the inside, you know, I'm happy and sad, grateful and angry, kind and unkind, all at once. My face can't manage it; I'd need a mask to give people any insight into me.
**
The baby duck cries on the cool, soft sand, but its mother can't hear. She's alive, yes, but far away, and she has tears of her own to shed. The little one is fuzzy and warm, but not for long. Soon, his gentle chirrups will give out for rough, sharp quacks, and his lovely down will fall away from his slick, stiff feathers. He'll be a drake if he makes it; if not, there's no-one to blame but the water.
**
I'm puzzled and afraid. My voice is childlike and uncertain. My words are gentle and encouraging. Or so it always seems to me. I feel so little, but I'm not.
**
Something hisses there in the desert night. Is it forward, or behind? Does it warn you back, or drive you on? And why is it a noise only you hear? Why do your friends look right and left, or any other way? Clasp hands and spin, senseless, wondering, repeat the eternal circles that are the only real form of progress. Clear out the hissing with laughter, stomp the dunes to plains, and fill in the quiet canyons with a sense of grace. That's the way the world was formed, and no other. Smile, dance, and be alive.
**
I experienced low blood sugar today. Normally, I maintain a strict schedule for when I eat, and I never have any problems. But today, I made a different choice of food for lunch, and I guess it wasn't enough; by mid-afternoon, I wasn't exactly hungry, but I was deep in the doldrums. All around was misery and gloom, and clawed shades from the past came a-clutching at my sunny disposition. How frustrating to escape from an unhappy situation, only to learn that it was a relatively normal situation, and merely my physiology contributing to my unhappiness! At least I kept myself from inflicting it on others -- such is my gift --
**
Oh, that brave fish struggles, struggles, that big, brave fish. He fights and pulls and whips his tail, he gasps and heaves and flaps his gills, but nothing's left for him. He's hooked, well and truly, soon to be strung up on a line and shown, or cleaned out and cooked; there's his tail, and there's his tale, my son. Never thrown back, not that fish, much too brave for that. He's strong and true and hooked, and there he lay, bedeviled by his own appetite.
**
I'm writing in front of a mirror right now, and while I usually try and keep one nearby when I'm writing, it's never so direct. I can cast my eyes up a little from the screen and see my face, and for some reason, I'm scowling. My face is relaxed, my jaw is loose, and I look like a man who's been harpooned. Was it always this way? I can still smile, there's that, but people tend to ask me why I look so upset. I see what they mean. But on the inside, you know, I'm happy and sad, grateful and angry, kind and unkind, all at once. My face can't manage it; I'd need a mask to give people any insight into me.
**
The baby duck cries on the cool, soft sand, but its mother can't hear. She's alive, yes, but far away, and she has tears of her own to shed. The little one is fuzzy and warm, but not for long. Soon, his gentle chirrups will give out for rough, sharp quacks, and his lovely down will fall away from his slick, stiff feathers. He'll be a drake if he makes it; if not, there's no-one to blame but the water.
**
I'm puzzled and afraid. My voice is childlike and uncertain. My words are gentle and encouraging. Or so it always seems to me. I feel so little, but I'm not.
**
Something hisses there in the desert night. Is it forward, or behind? Does it warn you back, or drive you on? And why is it a noise only you hear? Why do your friends look right and left, or any other way? Clasp hands and spin, senseless, wondering, repeat the eternal circles that are the only real form of progress. Clear out the hissing with laughter, stomp the dunes to plains, and fill in the quiet canyons with a sense of grace. That's the way the world was formed, and no other. Smile, dance, and be alive.
Monday, September 29, 2014
daylight susurrus
I have set down in Orlando. It takes fourteen hours to drive from my home to Orlando; the plane trip, from my home to my hotel, wound up taking seven hours. I'm not sure flying was the right decision.
It's storming like crazy here. I'm in a hotel that's far larger than any I've ever stayed at before; it contains eight restaurants, a deli, and half a supermarket. Gargantuan would be an understatement. It took me fifteen minutes to walk from one side of the hotel to the other. It's world-spanning.
A wincing flash of hot, white light; a terrible series of booms that shake the windows; the sky is falling. The spotty Orlando skyline is nearly invisible behind the dense wall of fog and bitter, dark clouds. Through it all, cars travel International Drive unceasingly, and a sad, redundant fountain across the street shoots its jets ever upward into the uncaring rain.
The hum of the air conditioner in my room is my only companion, but the power of the storm is such that even that begins to soften. The air, this afternoon thick with heat and humidity, has given up its tension and relaxed with a cool sigh of release. And in the lobby below, a thousand tourists glance at each other, shrug, and order another drink.
I can see palm trees at crooked angles; I can hear the girl in the next room talking about clothing; I see limousines, valets jogging, the convention center's rain-slicked roof. Its doors yawn open like the devouring maws of Titans. Tomorrow, I will enter, and be consumed.
Somewhere in this city, there are answers, though I do not know the questions. I suspect that the secret is to listen, and to remain open to the truths I am told. I will doubt nothing! Illuminate me with your meager, thirsty light, Orlando! Show me what you have to teach to a soulful traveler, bereft of all sense and mortal desire! And you, my friends, will be the recipients of my happy report.
I have already drunk the water.
It's storming like crazy here. I'm in a hotel that's far larger than any I've ever stayed at before; it contains eight restaurants, a deli, and half a supermarket. Gargantuan would be an understatement. It took me fifteen minutes to walk from one side of the hotel to the other. It's world-spanning.
A wincing flash of hot, white light; a terrible series of booms that shake the windows; the sky is falling. The spotty Orlando skyline is nearly invisible behind the dense wall of fog and bitter, dark clouds. Through it all, cars travel International Drive unceasingly, and a sad, redundant fountain across the street shoots its jets ever upward into the uncaring rain.
The hum of the air conditioner in my room is my only companion, but the power of the storm is such that even that begins to soften. The air, this afternoon thick with heat and humidity, has given up its tension and relaxed with a cool sigh of release. And in the lobby below, a thousand tourists glance at each other, shrug, and order another drink.
I can see palm trees at crooked angles; I can hear the girl in the next room talking about clothing; I see limousines, valets jogging, the convention center's rain-slicked roof. Its doors yawn open like the devouring maws of Titans. Tomorrow, I will enter, and be consumed.
Somewhere in this city, there are answers, though I do not know the questions. I suspect that the secret is to listen, and to remain open to the truths I am told. I will doubt nothing! Illuminate me with your meager, thirsty light, Orlando! Show me what you have to teach to a soulful traveler, bereft of all sense and mortal desire! And you, my friends, will be the recipients of my happy report.
I have already drunk the water.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
fond returns
In my web-travels today, I came across the term endling. From Wikipedia:
The photo struck me at once as incredibly sad. The creature is lonely; he knows this, and tries to reach out to make a connection. But he's doomed to fail -- all those he could have related to are gone, and he will spend the rest of his days staring dumbly at those he does not understand, and who cannot understand him in turn.
It's probably the most pessimistic way of looking at it. Let's try again.
Here, Benjamin, the last of his kind, still stands proudly. Although alone, he is well used to solitude, and looks with bemused interest at the animal kept in the cage adjacent to him. All his life he has known competition, danger, and the loss of his friends and family; now he has the chance, finally, to relax, take a breath, and observe the world around him. The playful beast on the other side of the fence would have once been a dangerous enemy; now, he is a playmate, and Benjamin will never need to feel lonely again.
I think endling is probably the best choice of word for such an existence among the three listed above. Ender is strangely transitive, since we'd assume that such a creature would lack much in the way of agency, especially as far as the fate of its own species. Terminarch just sounds sort of ridiculous, like the final ruler of a civilization, and seems to have a strange-feeling mix of Greek and Latin roots, besides. The chief argument against the use of endling seems to be that it sounds pathetic, but...isn't that appropriate?
What if, some day, you find that you are the last member of some group that once mattered to you? You look around and see that the memories you once cherished and shared have become a solemn albatross, circling endlessly around your ship, never finding a place to land. You have won the great tontine, but your prize is bitter. What's the right reaction to knowing you're the only one left? Would you permit your history to fade to sullen black, and call it inevitable? Or would you dedicate your remaining days to spreading the word about the dreams and adventures you and your friends once shared?
Think about it. More than that: assume that this is your future. And with that assumption in mind, ask yourself: "what stories will I have to tell?" If nothing comes to mind -- go make some. You're not an endling yet.
An endling is an individual that is the last of its species or subspecies. Once the endling dies, the species becomes extinct. The word was coined in correspondence in the scientific journal Nature. Alternative names put forth for the last individual of its kind include ender and terminarch. The word relict may also be used but usually refers to a group that is the last of the species.The article goes on to give examples of endlings, including the last passenger pigeon, Martha. Of more interest to me, though, was this photo of the last Tasmanian Tiger, Benjamin:
 |
| Also called a thylacine; a marsupial. |
The photo struck me at once as incredibly sad. The creature is lonely; he knows this, and tries to reach out to make a connection. But he's doomed to fail -- all those he could have related to are gone, and he will spend the rest of his days staring dumbly at those he does not understand, and who cannot understand him in turn.
It's probably the most pessimistic way of looking at it. Let's try again.
Here, Benjamin, the last of his kind, still stands proudly. Although alone, he is well used to solitude, and looks with bemused interest at the animal kept in the cage adjacent to him. All his life he has known competition, danger, and the loss of his friends and family; now he has the chance, finally, to relax, take a breath, and observe the world around him. The playful beast on the other side of the fence would have once been a dangerous enemy; now, he is a playmate, and Benjamin will never need to feel lonely again.
I think endling is probably the best choice of word for such an existence among the three listed above. Ender is strangely transitive, since we'd assume that such a creature would lack much in the way of agency, especially as far as the fate of its own species. Terminarch just sounds sort of ridiculous, like the final ruler of a civilization, and seems to have a strange-feeling mix of Greek and Latin roots, besides. The chief argument against the use of endling seems to be that it sounds pathetic, but...isn't that appropriate?
What if, some day, you find that you are the last member of some group that once mattered to you? You look around and see that the memories you once cherished and shared have become a solemn albatross, circling endlessly around your ship, never finding a place to land. You have won the great tontine, but your prize is bitter. What's the right reaction to knowing you're the only one left? Would you permit your history to fade to sullen black, and call it inevitable? Or would you dedicate your remaining days to spreading the word about the dreams and adventures you and your friends once shared?
Think about it. More than that: assume that this is your future. And with that assumption in mind, ask yourself: "what stories will I have to tell?" If nothing comes to mind -- go make some. You're not an endling yet.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
unplanned cheer
Shockingly, astonishingly, unforgivably, I have never mentioned Dwarf Fortress on this blog.
Dwarf Fortress is...how do I put this?....Dwarf Fortress is, at first impression, a computer game. You might call it such because it is a program that runs on a computer, is designed to accept interaction from a user, and is not a productivity tool. "Game" gets harder to define every year.
Dwarf Fortress shares much in common with some computer games. You can find dragons, minotaurs, dwarves, elves, necromancers, and the undead running around in the worlds Dwarf Fortress presents. The world presented is low-technology; fighting is generally conduct with swords, axes, and bows. It's easy to look at all the computer games that involve these subjects, then look at Dwarf Fortress, and call it a computer game. It isn't.
Dwarf Fortress is a world simulator program. When you turn it on, it creates History. It builds a tapestry of thousands of years of events involving the clash of civilizations, but also takes into account the personalities of individuals in shaping history. A king may declare war on an enemy empire despite being horribly outmatched, simply because his beloved wife was slain in a raid conducted by the forces of that enemy. None of this was written by the game creator. All is created history. Every world is unique.
When you start interacting with the simulation, even more wonderful things can happen. You can watch as people develop relationships, pursue their hobbies, achieve their dreams and plan for their futures. You can peek into their minds and see the little annoyances and pleasures they meet through each day. Let me show you a completely random example of what can happen:
A dwarf is born. A few years later, his mother is devoured by a giant spider, and he develops a lifelong fear of giant spiders from having seen it. Several years after that, he witnesses an eagle killing a giant spider, and becomes very fond of eagles. He becomes a stonecarver by trade, and is given the task of building a stone coffin for a great king. Because he loves eagles, he portrays the king as riding a giant eagle.
Meanwhile, another dwarf, who has hated eagles ever since he was viciously beaten by a goblin carrying a mace decorated with leather images of eagles, visits the first dwarf's home village on a trading mission. He spots the coffin on its way to be placed within a great tomb, and the sight of eagles carved all over it sours his mood. As a result, he is much stingier than normal in trading, and the village must pay higher prices than ever before for any of his desperately-needed rare goods.
This all occurs dynamically in the course of the simulation, and I haven't even really scratched the surface of explaining its depth to you! Of course, I've presented it to you narratively above, for ease of understanding; you would have to do some research to figure out that the story above is going on. If you weren't paying attention at all, all you would know is that prices had suddenly become higher for whatever reason. But if you dig a little deeper, there is no end to the chain of cause and effect.
Now imagine an entire world simulated to this degree of detail and complexity. That's the beauty of Dwarf Fortress.
I play a lot of games, but I prefer these types of simulations over any of them. I like to see stories unfold dynamically through interactions of complex systems -- much like the real world. There are two major terms used in game design that combine to create this type of effect. The first is procedural generation, where the content of the worlds is created through a series of random processes, as opposed to being statically created by a human designer and then delivered to the end user. The second is emergent gameplay, where interesting, but undesigned, interactions between simulation elements occur as a result of the overall design of the program. The truly valuable thing about these types of experiences is the capacity they have for telling you entirely unique stories, over and over again, so long as you have the imagination to engage with them.
Dwarf Fortress is...how do I put this?....Dwarf Fortress is, at first impression, a computer game. You might call it such because it is a program that runs on a computer, is designed to accept interaction from a user, and is not a productivity tool. "Game" gets harder to define every year.
Dwarf Fortress shares much in common with some computer games. You can find dragons, minotaurs, dwarves, elves, necromancers, and the undead running around in the worlds Dwarf Fortress presents. The world presented is low-technology; fighting is generally conduct with swords, axes, and bows. It's easy to look at all the computer games that involve these subjects, then look at Dwarf Fortress, and call it a computer game. It isn't.
Dwarf Fortress is a world simulator program. When you turn it on, it creates History. It builds a tapestry of thousands of years of events involving the clash of civilizations, but also takes into account the personalities of individuals in shaping history. A king may declare war on an enemy empire despite being horribly outmatched, simply because his beloved wife was slain in a raid conducted by the forces of that enemy. None of this was written by the game creator. All is created history. Every world is unique.
When you start interacting with the simulation, even more wonderful things can happen. You can watch as people develop relationships, pursue their hobbies, achieve their dreams and plan for their futures. You can peek into their minds and see the little annoyances and pleasures they meet through each day. Let me show you a completely random example of what can happen:
A dwarf is born. A few years later, his mother is devoured by a giant spider, and he develops a lifelong fear of giant spiders from having seen it. Several years after that, he witnesses an eagle killing a giant spider, and becomes very fond of eagles. He becomes a stonecarver by trade, and is given the task of building a stone coffin for a great king. Because he loves eagles, he portrays the king as riding a giant eagle.
Meanwhile, another dwarf, who has hated eagles ever since he was viciously beaten by a goblin carrying a mace decorated with leather images of eagles, visits the first dwarf's home village on a trading mission. He spots the coffin on its way to be placed within a great tomb, and the sight of eagles carved all over it sours his mood. As a result, he is much stingier than normal in trading, and the village must pay higher prices than ever before for any of his desperately-needed rare goods.
This all occurs dynamically in the course of the simulation, and I haven't even really scratched the surface of explaining its depth to you! Of course, I've presented it to you narratively above, for ease of understanding; you would have to do some research to figure out that the story above is going on. If you weren't paying attention at all, all you would know is that prices had suddenly become higher for whatever reason. But if you dig a little deeper, there is no end to the chain of cause and effect.
Now imagine an entire world simulated to this degree of detail and complexity. That's the beauty of Dwarf Fortress.
I play a lot of games, but I prefer these types of simulations over any of them. I like to see stories unfold dynamically through interactions of complex systems -- much like the real world. There are two major terms used in game design that combine to create this type of effect. The first is procedural generation, where the content of the worlds is created through a series of random processes, as opposed to being statically created by a human designer and then delivered to the end user. The second is emergent gameplay, where interesting, but undesigned, interactions between simulation elements occur as a result of the overall design of the program. The truly valuable thing about these types of experiences is the capacity they have for telling you entirely unique stories, over and over again, so long as you have the imagination to engage with them.
Friday, September 26, 2014
'neath this esteeméd earth
Today, we're going to talk about the Cadaver Synod.
The Catholic Church has gotten up to a lot of silly nonsense in its 2000-ish year history, Sinecures, simony, and sex abuse are the most common complaints, but I think the Cadaver Synod destroys them all in the realm of "crazy Church actions that start with S."
In case you're too busy to read that article, here's how it went: a pope died, the next pope decided the previous had been a Bad Dude, they dug up his body, put it on trial, retroactively nullified his papacy, and threw his body in the river. (Throwing bodies in the river is, in fact, a traditional method of burial for people you hate in Rome.)
Had you been Pope Formosus (the Stiff), would it bother you to think your body would be so ill-treated after your demise? What do you hope happens to your body when you die, anyway? I'm not too concerned about mine; I'm pretty sure I'll have other things to think about by then. But then, I'm not too concerned about what happens to my body right now, and last I checked, I still have a pulse.
More than the body's desecration, though, is it worthwhile to spend your time living protecting your legacy? Should that really be your focus? What's a legacy, anyway? It's how you're remembered by people who once knew (or knew of) you, I suppose; but with that definition in mind, you don't need to die to have a legacy. You'll have a legacy in every person to whom you're nothing more than a memory. But while people seem to spend a lot of effort protecting their reputations when death is near, they're often also remarkably indifferent to the impressions they make on those they never expect to meet again. But that's silly in itself. Every stranger is a potential friend; every friend a potential stranger. If there's a person in the world whose opinion of us we hope to maintain in death, then we ought to be consistent in the way we treat that person and the way we treat everybody else.
But you shouldn't listen to me. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool solipsist; the only reason I'd say this stuff is to change the way you'll act. With that in mind, as I get older, I'll probably just get more obnoxious; be ye warned.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
dumb nobility
How tortured I am. How tempting, when I've found the perfect quote or excerpt or parable or story or epic to demonstrate to you my current state of mind, to simply post it and let it be done. Even a series of annotations would do little to satisfy my ambition, but how can I improve on the glorious words of others? I'll just throw out some links, and let you peruse them to our mutual satisfaction:
Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"
Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself" (my favorite sections are 47-48)
Together, these two works form a whirling dervish of individualism that actually strikes me as somewhat obnoxious, but I am no less a slave to the overall sentiments expressed for it (sometimes contradictory though they may be).
These works are large (they contain multitudes). I can't possibly express to you all of my various reactions. I will react, instead, to the idea of writing at large, and hope I might expand on this at a later date.
I realize that I am a writer in search of a voice. I mean, I have something of a voice, but it's not quite the well-worn, comfortable identity I'm looking for. One of the Great Purposes of this blog is to give me a chance to practice and enhance my writing; to that end, I try to pursue a lot of different subjects and, to a lesser extent, styles. Despite the term, "finding" a voice isn't as much a matter of discovery as it is one of development. And I think I'm getting there. All things in time.
I noticed that sort of development with my playwright challenge last month -- as the days passed, I could tell that I was building a better sense for what goes into writing a play. That didn't mean that all my plays were necessarily better as the month went on, but I felt a lot more confident writing them. A confident mistake is far better than a tentative one.
It's not exactly the same with my blog -- after all, I have a great deal more experience writing blog posts than plays -- but I can feel a similar arc transpiring this month. I think I'm putting a lot more of myself into these posts than I did last year, and I like the results. Writing has ceased to be a slog for me, and transformed instead into a pleasant delight, full of interesting challenges and too many alluring paths to take. It's truly reached the point of being a habit more than an obligation; a break, more than a task; what was once Sisyphean has given way to the Elysian. Perhaps it is the way of all things.
With this feeling of being accustomed, I'm not sure that the challenge is such a good idea. Depending on how blogging goes over the next year, I may set aside this monthly challenge altogether; I may feel that there's no point, if I'm blogging regularly enough anyway. What good is a challenge that you know you can accomplish? And anyway, I'm not so sure I like the idea of such a challenge; for the purpose of setting you to a task you wouldn't do normally, I can see the reason behind it. But blogging is something that I'm meant to be doing anyway. Challenging myself to do it more seems like a sad attempt at making up for a lack that's totally natural, like covering the nakedness of a mountain. If I have nothing to write, so be it; I'd rather stand honestly, holding my empty pen, than force myself to find words without any meaning.
Really, this is my reaction to feeling like, with this challenge, I'm discouraged from writing two blog posts in one day; sometimes I have that much to write! It's silly to space it out when I have more to say, and it's silly to squeeze it together when I don't. Thanks for putting up with my silliness; let's all look forward to the time when I write daily because I want to, and not because I've shackled myself to a standard that does little but encourage me to resent writing altogether, and draw forth mediocrity in place of honest silence.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"
Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself" (my favorite sections are 47-48)
Together, these two works form a whirling dervish of individualism that actually strikes me as somewhat obnoxious, but I am no less a slave to the overall sentiments expressed for it (sometimes contradictory though they may be).
These works are large (they contain multitudes). I can't possibly express to you all of my various reactions. I will react, instead, to the idea of writing at large, and hope I might expand on this at a later date.
I realize that I am a writer in search of a voice. I mean, I have something of a voice, but it's not quite the well-worn, comfortable identity I'm looking for. One of the Great Purposes of this blog is to give me a chance to practice and enhance my writing; to that end, I try to pursue a lot of different subjects and, to a lesser extent, styles. Despite the term, "finding" a voice isn't as much a matter of discovery as it is one of development. And I think I'm getting there. All things in time.
I noticed that sort of development with my playwright challenge last month -- as the days passed, I could tell that I was building a better sense for what goes into writing a play. That didn't mean that all my plays were necessarily better as the month went on, but I felt a lot more confident writing them. A confident mistake is far better than a tentative one.
It's not exactly the same with my blog -- after all, I have a great deal more experience writing blog posts than plays -- but I can feel a similar arc transpiring this month. I think I'm putting a lot more of myself into these posts than I did last year, and I like the results. Writing has ceased to be a slog for me, and transformed instead into a pleasant delight, full of interesting challenges and too many alluring paths to take. It's truly reached the point of being a habit more than an obligation; a break, more than a task; what was once Sisyphean has given way to the Elysian. Perhaps it is the way of all things.
With this feeling of being accustomed, I'm not sure that the challenge is such a good idea. Depending on how blogging goes over the next year, I may set aside this monthly challenge altogether; I may feel that there's no point, if I'm blogging regularly enough anyway. What good is a challenge that you know you can accomplish? And anyway, I'm not so sure I like the idea of such a challenge; for the purpose of setting you to a task you wouldn't do normally, I can see the reason behind it. But blogging is something that I'm meant to be doing anyway. Challenging myself to do it more seems like a sad attempt at making up for a lack that's totally natural, like covering the nakedness of a mountain. If I have nothing to write, so be it; I'd rather stand honestly, holding my empty pen, than force myself to find words without any meaning.
Really, this is my reaction to feeling like, with this challenge, I'm discouraged from writing two blog posts in one day; sometimes I have that much to write! It's silly to space it out when I have more to say, and it's silly to squeeze it together when I don't. Thanks for putting up with my silliness; let's all look forward to the time when I write daily because I want to, and not because I've shackled myself to a standard that does little but encourage me to resent writing altogether, and draw forth mediocrity in place of honest silence.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
treasury
Next week, I will travel by myself. This will be my first time really traveling alone since I went to Japan in 2007. Sure, I've ridden the bus and train a few times on my own since then, but my destination was always a person. Aside from Japan, next week will be my only solo journey.
I'm fraught with anticipation over the trip. Not so much what to do when I get there; that part is basically decided, by the nature of the conference I'm attending for work. No, I'm more anxious about the flight -- it's only two hours, but a lot can happen in that time.
My flight back from Japan was in two parts. The first was from Japan to Hawaii; the second, Hawaii to Philadelphia. On the initial leg, I was somehow bumped up to first class, and I was able to experience that joy, likely for the only time in my life. Spoiler alert: it was a comfortable plane ride. When I boarded, there was champagne and orange juice waiting at my seat. I had a lot of leg room. It was nice. A sort of doofy Japanese guy sat next to me and spent most of the flight watching TV (after I showed him how to use the media system). I could have chatted with him, but at that point in my life, I was pretty tired of speaking Japanese.
Sadly, I was back in coach (economy?) for the second half, though I was lucky enough, at first, to be given a couple of seats to myself. Inevitably, though, about halfway through the 12-hour flight, there was some sort of commotion a few seats behind me, and a steward asked me if I'd mind moving my bag from the seat next to mine. Of course I didn't, and the seat was soon filled with a cheerful but doofy teenage girl.
She wanted to chat, and told me a bit about herself, though I recall little of it; I think she was from Hawaii, but on her way to visit family near Philly. I thought she was about 14 or 15 years old, from the way she spoke. I can't remember why she'd had to move her seat; perhaps her initial one had broken, or maybe she got in a fight with her sister? It's a haze to me now.
I had a book that I really wanted to read, but she couldn't take the hint, and kept drawing me back into conversation with her. I started to realize that perhaps she was younger than I'd given her credit for -- I could tell that much of what I was saying was going over her head. It's frustrating to talk when you know you aren't understood, but I soldiered on. She seemed so hungry for conversation, and the book wasn't going anywhere.
After forty minutes or so of polite conversation, she revealed to me that, in truth, she often felt very sad and depressed, because her sisters were often so mean to her. They were older, and liked to treat her cruelly, and exclude her, and make fun of her for all the things she was too young to understand. Being pretty much cast in the mold of an older sibling myself, I couldn't relate much, but I did my best to speak kindly to her.
I only realized how young she was when, in a whisper, she confided that, when her mood had reached its darkest point, she would go up to her room, turn out the lights, and take out her Barbie dolls. She would set them out, and one would be one sister, and one would be the other. She would do her best to pick out clothes and accessories that would match her sister's styles, to make it as authentic as possible. And then, she would explain very quietly and patiently to each what she had done wrong, all the ways she had failed as an older sister and a person. She would force the dolls to sit there as she paraded her grievances before them. She would air out all of her sorrows; she would indict them formally, she would issue a plea for justice.
When her list of woes was exhausted, she would take the part of the dolls, and act out their begging for forgiveness. Speaking for each in turn, she would present the grandest of apologies, the most heartfelt confessions, and the most inspiring statements of love and promises of corrective action. She would listen as they told her all about their plans to become the perfect older sisters. She would have them tell her all the activities they would do together, all the fun games they would play, all the facts about life they would finally teach her, instead of ridiculing her for not knowing already. She would hear all this, and then gather those two dolls up, and give them the biggest, most understanding hug.
Then, she would set them back down and pull their heads off; they deserved it, after all. Having told me this, she lay her own head onto my shocked shoulder, and drifted off to a happy sleep. I couldn't read my book comfortably, with one arm trapped, but I couldn't bring myself to wake her. She was young but fierce, and I felt assured that she would find her own way, somehow.
She woke when we landed, and as we stood to get off the plane, I wished her luck. She looked at me like I had said something very strange. Before she could think of a response, she remembered her family in the back of the plane, and quickly skipped back to them. Her sisters greeted her warmly, and they chatted happily, and I stepped off of the plane and met my future.
I'm fraught with anticipation over the trip. Not so much what to do when I get there; that part is basically decided, by the nature of the conference I'm attending for work. No, I'm more anxious about the flight -- it's only two hours, but a lot can happen in that time.
My flight back from Japan was in two parts. The first was from Japan to Hawaii; the second, Hawaii to Philadelphia. On the initial leg, I was somehow bumped up to first class, and I was able to experience that joy, likely for the only time in my life. Spoiler alert: it was a comfortable plane ride. When I boarded, there was champagne and orange juice waiting at my seat. I had a lot of leg room. It was nice. A sort of doofy Japanese guy sat next to me and spent most of the flight watching TV (after I showed him how to use the media system). I could have chatted with him, but at that point in my life, I was pretty tired of speaking Japanese.
Sadly, I was back in coach (economy?) for the second half, though I was lucky enough, at first, to be given a couple of seats to myself. Inevitably, though, about halfway through the 12-hour flight, there was some sort of commotion a few seats behind me, and a steward asked me if I'd mind moving my bag from the seat next to mine. Of course I didn't, and the seat was soon filled with a cheerful but doofy teenage girl.
She wanted to chat, and told me a bit about herself, though I recall little of it; I think she was from Hawaii, but on her way to visit family near Philly. I thought she was about 14 or 15 years old, from the way she spoke. I can't remember why she'd had to move her seat; perhaps her initial one had broken, or maybe she got in a fight with her sister? It's a haze to me now.
I had a book that I really wanted to read, but she couldn't take the hint, and kept drawing me back into conversation with her. I started to realize that perhaps she was younger than I'd given her credit for -- I could tell that much of what I was saying was going over her head. It's frustrating to talk when you know you aren't understood, but I soldiered on. She seemed so hungry for conversation, and the book wasn't going anywhere.
After forty minutes or so of polite conversation, she revealed to me that, in truth, she often felt very sad and depressed, because her sisters were often so mean to her. They were older, and liked to treat her cruelly, and exclude her, and make fun of her for all the things she was too young to understand. Being pretty much cast in the mold of an older sibling myself, I couldn't relate much, but I did my best to speak kindly to her.
I only realized how young she was when, in a whisper, she confided that, when her mood had reached its darkest point, she would go up to her room, turn out the lights, and take out her Barbie dolls. She would set them out, and one would be one sister, and one would be the other. She would do her best to pick out clothes and accessories that would match her sister's styles, to make it as authentic as possible. And then, she would explain very quietly and patiently to each what she had done wrong, all the ways she had failed as an older sister and a person. She would force the dolls to sit there as she paraded her grievances before them. She would air out all of her sorrows; she would indict them formally, she would issue a plea for justice.
When her list of woes was exhausted, she would take the part of the dolls, and act out their begging for forgiveness. Speaking for each in turn, she would present the grandest of apologies, the most heartfelt confessions, and the most inspiring statements of love and promises of corrective action. She would listen as they told her all about their plans to become the perfect older sisters. She would have them tell her all the activities they would do together, all the fun games they would play, all the facts about life they would finally teach her, instead of ridiculing her for not knowing already. She would hear all this, and then gather those two dolls up, and give them the biggest, most understanding hug.
Then, she would set them back down and pull their heads off; they deserved it, after all. Having told me this, she lay her own head onto my shocked shoulder, and drifted off to a happy sleep. I couldn't read my book comfortably, with one arm trapped, but I couldn't bring myself to wake her. She was young but fierce, and I felt assured that she would find her own way, somehow.
She woke when we landed, and as we stood to get off the plane, I wished her luck. She looked at me like I had said something very strange. Before she could think of a response, she remembered her family in the back of the plane, and quickly skipped back to them. Her sisters greeted her warmly, and they chatted happily, and I stepped off of the plane and met my future.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
THE 2014 SCOTT AWARDS, PART 2
6. THE DECEMBERISTS - THE KING IS DEAD
This album is short, but oh, is it sweet. It's relatively simple fare from The Decemberists, but what it lacks in complexity, it makes up in raw quality. The songs run the gamut of emotions, but center on the idea of hope for a better tomorrow. Instead of the their last couple themed albums, each song here is distinct and carries its own weight and concept. There's really something for every mood, but it walks you through the hallways of your heart methodically, so you never notice any jarring difference as you swing from elation to sorrow to whatever you feel as you gaze upon the radiant light of a beautiful tomorrow. Let the yoke fall from your shoulders; don't carry it all.
7. DARREN KORB - BASTION
Bastion is a video game, and a good one, but the greatest element of it is by far the soundtrack. Described by its composer as "acoustic frontier trip-hop," it goes past eclectic and out the other side. But before you've even gotten a taste of the driving rhythms and country-style club music, you have to break yourself from the sonorous sway of the voice of the Narrator -- the second-best part of the game. You will want to listen to this guy reminisce all the day long. My favorite tracks, which you should listen to even if you listen to nothing else in this awards show, are Build That Wall, Spike In a Rail, and Mother, I'm Here. Don't leave it undone.
8. PLUMTREE - BEST OF
Here's an album to make you feel bad about how little you've accomplished in life. Plumtree formed in 1993 when four girls, ages 14-16, met up through their music teachers and started a band in Halifax. They broke up in 2000, but their music continues to resonate with people to this day. The Scott Pilgrim character (and series) was named after one of their songs (Scott Pilgrim). They're just...well, they're Canadian, which is not a unique fact for this list, but still worth nothing. Something about frozen north instills a certain lyrical necessity in people, I suppose. Plumtree's music isn't perfect, except when it is. That's what you'll come to realize as you listen; these are a couple 16-year-old girls writing better songs than anybody else could ever hope to write, as a 16-year-old girl. They reach into this perfect paroxysm of time, space, and heart, look those stupid boys in the eye and then kick them in the balls and write a song about it, and I really dig it! They have songs for anybody who ever thought anybody else was cute, and tried to work up the nerve to say it.
9. HIROYUKI SAWANO - KILL la KILL
Kill la Kill is an anime series that is simply one of the most inspiring things I've ever watched or heard. It turns genre conventions on their heads, obliterates your misconceptions about its nature, and relishes in its nature as this entirely unorthodox representation of reality. It does this while presenting a strong story about friendship, rebellion, and freedom. The animation is spectacular, and you're sure to find something to love about it. The soundtrack is no different. All sorts of music is on offer (many of them individual character themes), and it's just...perfectly done. Because the songs were composed with the purpose of using them in separate places and times of the show, there's no real coherent structure to the album, but each song carries you on a journey of its own. How many times in your life have you heard a musical character study? And yet, this album is full of them. My favorites: Before My Body is Dry, Blumenkranz, Light Your Heart Up. It just might take your breath away.
10. THE WEEPIES - BE MY THRILL
Call me crazy, but I never found The Weepies to be all that sad. Their music, though often melancholy, strikes a chord with me so true and visceral that it makes me happy despite its sentiments. There's something unspeakably joyful about realizing that somebody else feels sadness in the same way you do. But they're not just sad; they rebound rapidly between excitement and maudlin, like they're happy in the moment, but just waiting for things to go all wrong. That see-saw effect gives the album an edge that its relatively simple pop-folk tunes could otherwise lack, but, because you never know where they're going next, The Weepies are always able to surprise. I listened to all of their albums this year, but Be My Thrill stuck with me the most. I can't tell you why. No one knows -- a red, red rose.
 |
| Click here to listen. (Grooveshark) |
7. DARREN KORB - BASTION
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| Click here to listen. (Grooveshark) |
8. PLUMTREE - BEST OF
 |
| Click here to listen. (Spotify) |
9. HIROYUKI SAWANO - KILL la KILL
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| Click here to listen. (Give me a break, this was hard to find) |
10. THE WEEPIES - BE MY THRILL
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| Click here to listen. (Grooveshark) |
Monday, September 22, 2014
THE 2014 SCOTT AWARDS, PART 1
I really like listening to lots of different kinds of music. I have my tastes, of course, but I'm always on the lookout for recommendations in genres that I might not traditionally listen to.
My listening style is...holistic. I usually need to listen to an album three or four times before I actually start to enjoy it. A few more times after that, if it's genuinely good, I'll start to love it. I like to listen to albums as a piece, assuming (sometimes wrongly) that there must be some artistic decision behind the specific order and pace of the songs. And when I find an album I love, I can listen to it over and over again, sometimes for weeks on end. That can be very tiring for those around me, and I do eventually get tired of it myself, but that's just how I like to listen.
This approach leaves me very susceptible to earworms, which forms a feedback loop that keeps me listening for as long as I do. To give you some insight into the music that's formed the soundtrack for my life this past year, here are my TOP TEN ALBUMS SCOTT LISTENED TO IN 2013-2014. Note that this list has nothing to do with the release date for the album, although a few were, in fact, released in the past year. It's just a rundown of stuff that's been in my head. In no meaningful order, I'll present the first five today, and the second five tomorrow. Read, listen, and understand.
1. THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS - CHALLENGERS
I'm something of a former fan of the NPs. I don't care much for their first album, but the next three represent something of a crescendo of awesomeness to me. The most recent two, I find to be mostly forgettable poppy nonsense, but something about Challengers hits a sweet spot between meditative and catchy that grabs me and just won't let go. The opening track, My Rights Versus Yours, seizes your attention and sets you down a very specific path. Admittedly, much of the album is hushed and brooding, but it breaks out of that in Myriad Harbour, a magical fusion of the lyric, rhythmic, and melodic. And it finishes on the highest of high notes; Go Places, Mutiny, I Promise You, and Adventures in Solitude start playing the album out in powerfully sad acrimony until The Spirit of Giving steps in to put you to bed with the soothing hum of understanding and forgiveness. It's an enchanting album. Even Todd thinks so, but he and I rarely disagree. It's the first New Pornographers album I stopped listening to, and that makes it the best.
2. BLACK PRAIRIE - FORTUNE
"What got you into bluegrass?" the wife asked me when she heard me listening to Black Prairie. I gave her a funny look and told her that I'm not into bluegrass -- I'm into The Decemberists, and BP is at least 80% the same people. Although it gets off to a kind of droning, repetitive start with The 84, the album soon picks up pace; the highs are high, their lows are low, and they prove they don't always need Colin Meloy's earnest whine to carry forth the same emotionally intensity. Perhaps the lyrics aren't as whimsical and thematically impactful as The Decemberists, but comparing Black Prairie to their progenitor band is a fool's errand. There's a unique sound here, and it's kind of like a fiddle with wings. It's fast, it swoops, it soars, and though it isn't perfect, you cannot help but hear it. Be Good.
3. THE SPINTO BAND - BIBA!
The Spinto Band have long been one of my favorite groups; I've seen them perform three or four times, and they always give me the feeling of a band that punches above their weight; I can't, for the life of me, understand how such an excellent group hasn't yet made it big. That's why I was really happy to see them doing a soundtrack for a movie, even if it was a mostly unknown indie documentary. To score this enigmatic exploration of experimental democracy, the Spintos turned out a sometimes rambling exploration of new world themes; southern twangs, Caribbean drums, and Hawaiian lullabies mingle together into something full of heart and humor. It's an album that can't quite believe it exists, and never lets you forget that it's getting away with something wonderful. On top of that, it's probably the least entrancing of their major albums! Vote with your ears.
4. DISNEY - FROZEN
You didn't think you were getting away without this, did you? Yes, the Frozen soundtrack was trapped in my head for a greater part of the year, and I was much the happier for it. I've never been ashamed to love, and sing along to, the great Disney songs. "The Princess and the Frog" was Disney's first foray into consciously reclaiming the glory of the past, but for many people, its self-conscious pandering to tropes fell flat. I was overjoyed to see Frozen sidestep this problem by instead choosing to deconstruct those tropes, and the music is no exception. In fact, it exists in large part as a direct reaction to the musical leitmotifs so entrenched in Disney and other films, and calls them out on their staleness through its thoroughly modern lyrical sensibilities. Of course, the melodies are fun too! And, if you think you've heard it all, perhaps it's time to listen to some of the songs that were cut from the film. Their removal had nothing to do with quality, but actually a major change in the plot that rendered several of the songs unusable; nevertheless, they're excellent! Especially see More than Just the Spare and Life's Too Short for examples of the quality of songwriting that Disney can afford not to use in their movies. That might give you a sense of how great this soundtrack is, both as its own work and as a response to historical Disney music as a whole. I ain't kidding. Listen up.
5. ANAMANAGUCHI - ENDLESS FANTASY
I'm pretty new, as a listener, to the world of chiptunes. Anamanaguchi provides the perfect introduction, since they merge traditional rock instrumentation with the beeps, bloops, and sweeps. This album in particular also brings in a sort of club vibe that would normally distract and dismay me, but coupled with the 8-bit harmonizing, I'm able to appreciate what can make that sort of music great. The only fitting way to describe this album is a "tour de force" -- it never lets up, and it will, at times, overwhelm you with the musical ingenuity and complexity underlying every song. Yes, some are better than others, but it doesn't do the band justice to play them out of order -- each builds on the prior, culminating in a glorious statement of universality and oneness that brings me to tears. It's not just music; it's an entire culture, a way of life, somehow meaningfully condensed into 74 minutes of joy. What are you waiting for?
My listening style is...holistic. I usually need to listen to an album three or four times before I actually start to enjoy it. A few more times after that, if it's genuinely good, I'll start to love it. I like to listen to albums as a piece, assuming (sometimes wrongly) that there must be some artistic decision behind the specific order and pace of the songs. And when I find an album I love, I can listen to it over and over again, sometimes for weeks on end. That can be very tiring for those around me, and I do eventually get tired of it myself, but that's just how I like to listen.
This approach leaves me very susceptible to earworms, which forms a feedback loop that keeps me listening for as long as I do. To give you some insight into the music that's formed the soundtrack for my life this past year, here are my TOP TEN ALBUMS SCOTT LISTENED TO IN 2013-2014. Note that this list has nothing to do with the release date for the album, although a few were, in fact, released in the past year. It's just a rundown of stuff that's been in my head. In no meaningful order, I'll present the first five today, and the second five tomorrow. Read, listen, and understand.
1. THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS - CHALLENGERS
 |
| Click here to listen. (Grooveshark) |
2. BLACK PRAIRIE - FORTUNE
 |
| Click here to listen. (Spotify) |
3. THE SPINTO BAND - BIBA!
 |
| Click here to listen. (Spotify) |
4. DISNEY - FROZEN
 |
| Click here to...who am I kidding. You already have a copy of this. |
5. ANAMANAGUCHI - ENDLESS FANTASY
 |
| Click here to listen. (Grooveshark) |
Sunday, September 21, 2014
behind the curtain
I've always possessed a fondness for murder mystery parties. I played several in high school, from the incomparable How to Host a Murder brand, and each provided a rolicking good time. The puzzle involved in putting the clues together and forming a theory for the murder is always a delight, of course, but what really appeals to me is the opportunity to fully embody my role.
You see, in these sorts of parties, each participant is assigned a character to portray, who will inevitably be more or less involved in some sort of murder plot (though it probably won't be the succesful murder plot). As a participant, you're given a few character notes, including some background, motivations, and character quirks, and then set loose. Some people struggle with the challenge of filling in the blanks and presenting yourself as somebody different; I thrive on it.
I'm not saying I'm an excellent actor. The only reviews I've ever received on my theater acting were pretty negative. But when it comes to improving a part, something in me comes to life. My imagination runs wild with likely possibilities for the character, and I feel able to fully embrace the personality I'm assigned. But who doesn't like to play pretend?
I've only hosted one such party personally, and I felt it was a rousing success. I made a few mistakes with my understanding of the characters' backstories, but aside from that, I knew my character from the inside out. I knew him so well that I was able to guess his eventual part in the plot despite others' insistence that his motivations would be completely different. I felt connected to him as though he were a part of me -- and when the game was over, I was sad to let him go.
I don't think I have multiple personalities, or any such cliché notion. But I have come to accept that my personality is plastic enough to accept an alternate persona pretty easily. In my idle moments, I've caught myself forgetting my own name, so easily could it be anything. Ultimately, if I'm not concentrating on it, my identity is utterly amorphous.
That lack of commitment to any one personality helps immensely in understanding the viewpoints of others. When someone makes a statement that seems questionable, I find it simple to slip into their shoes and see things from that perspective. I truly believe that actors are some of the most compassionate people out there, because their imaginations give them an outlook on the lives of others that might never occur to the theatrically disinclined.
If you've never tried acting, go take an acting class. Try to be someone else; if you don't like it, you'll at least learn to be thankful for who you are, and you might even recognize that others face the same obstacles as you. And if you do like it, then you get the opportunity to be whoever you want.
You see, in these sorts of parties, each participant is assigned a character to portray, who will inevitably be more or less involved in some sort of murder plot (though it probably won't be the succesful murder plot). As a participant, you're given a few character notes, including some background, motivations, and character quirks, and then set loose. Some people struggle with the challenge of filling in the blanks and presenting yourself as somebody different; I thrive on it.
I'm not saying I'm an excellent actor. The only reviews I've ever received on my theater acting were pretty negative. But when it comes to improving a part, something in me comes to life. My imagination runs wild with likely possibilities for the character, and I feel able to fully embrace the personality I'm assigned. But who doesn't like to play pretend?
I've only hosted one such party personally, and I felt it was a rousing success. I made a few mistakes with my understanding of the characters' backstories, but aside from that, I knew my character from the inside out. I knew him so well that I was able to guess his eventual part in the plot despite others' insistence that his motivations would be completely different. I felt connected to him as though he were a part of me -- and when the game was over, I was sad to let him go.
I don't think I have multiple personalities, or any such cliché notion. But I have come to accept that my personality is plastic enough to accept an alternate persona pretty easily. In my idle moments, I've caught myself forgetting my own name, so easily could it be anything. Ultimately, if I'm not concentrating on it, my identity is utterly amorphous.
That lack of commitment to any one personality helps immensely in understanding the viewpoints of others. When someone makes a statement that seems questionable, I find it simple to slip into their shoes and see things from that perspective. I truly believe that actors are some of the most compassionate people out there, because their imaginations give them an outlook on the lives of others that might never occur to the theatrically disinclined.
If you've never tried acting, go take an acting class. Try to be someone else; if you don't like it, you'll at least learn to be thankful for who you are, and you might even recognize that others face the same obstacles as you. And if you do like it, then you get the opportunity to be whoever you want.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
easy answers
For every venture (and I believe this is universal), there is an arc of excitement. The first stages of the enterprise are full of novelty, excitement, vigor and the easy joy of discovery. Nothing can match the complex tangle of delights associated with embarking on something new. For instance, when I began this blog, each post was its own unique challenge to write, and I relished approaching them, as every time I sat down to type out another post, I found something new in the world, and in myself, to analyze, explore, and share.
But every story has its second act. The novelties become routine, and the eagerness with which you set out on the journey fades to a dull ache behind the eyes. Even considering your next step is a slog, and you strain against the very idea that set you on this path. It's a dark, unhappy time, and you are overwhelmed with the desire to simply put it down. It seems like there's no way you'll ever recapture the maddened glee that once animated you.
This is that fabled Moment of Truth. This feeling of despair is a thresher; it is the test by which you will prove yourself either equal to or less than what you hoped to be. It may not last a moment. It may claw at your psyche for days, weeks, or years, depending on the nature of your project. No matter the duration, it will torment you with the belief that your work is futile. Past evidence, the testimony of others, and your own intuitions will amount to nothing in the face of this historical force of mediocrity. Most of you will bow your heads, set aside your burdens, and return to that life you thought you had before.
But that won't be your life, not anymore. Whatever you used to be carried in it the spark of a future that is now given up. As you continue down that road to your particular end, you forever have one thing less to look forward to. One thing less to hope for. And one more painful memory to try to forget.
But if you persevere! Oh, that glorious If; you, happy soul, will then on know that your heart contains more than a speck of the stuff of Truth. And you will at last be able to look on the struggles of others with a kindly eye, since they will finally be more than a stinging reminder of your own hated character. If thou wouldst be a friend to those in need, first must thou doust the flames of thy own amibition -- not through the negligence of pessimistic abandonment, but through the glory of optimistic accomplishment. What art thou to others, if thou'rt not first a goodly lesson to thyself?
But every story has its second act. The novelties become routine, and the eagerness with which you set out on the journey fades to a dull ache behind the eyes. Even considering your next step is a slog, and you strain against the very idea that set you on this path. It's a dark, unhappy time, and you are overwhelmed with the desire to simply put it down. It seems like there's no way you'll ever recapture the maddened glee that once animated you.
This is that fabled Moment of Truth. This feeling of despair is a thresher; it is the test by which you will prove yourself either equal to or less than what you hoped to be. It may not last a moment. It may claw at your psyche for days, weeks, or years, depending on the nature of your project. No matter the duration, it will torment you with the belief that your work is futile. Past evidence, the testimony of others, and your own intuitions will amount to nothing in the face of this historical force of mediocrity. Most of you will bow your heads, set aside your burdens, and return to that life you thought you had before.
But that won't be your life, not anymore. Whatever you used to be carried in it the spark of a future that is now given up. As you continue down that road to your particular end, you forever have one thing less to look forward to. One thing less to hope for. And one more painful memory to try to forget.
But if you persevere! Oh, that glorious If; you, happy soul, will then on know that your heart contains more than a speck of the stuff of Truth. And you will at last be able to look on the struggles of others with a kindly eye, since they will finally be more than a stinging reminder of your own hated character. If thou wouldst be a friend to those in need, first must thou doust the flames of thy own amibition -- not through the negligence of pessimistic abandonment, but through the glory of optimistic accomplishment. What art thou to others, if thou'rt not first a goodly lesson to thyself?
Friday, September 19, 2014
crossroads of destiny
On my drive home today, I came to a 5-way intersection, one where I must turn left (the second left, mind) in order to continue on my way. Thankfully, the lights change quickly at this intersection, so even though it's very busy, the wait is never overlong. Until today!
Today, the traffic going the other way was terrible, and several gleeful individuals took it upon themselves to "block the box." This held me up, and I was annoyed, but I knew the light would eventually change and I'd be able to proceed.
The light did change, and the silly drivers blocking me were gone, but before it was my turn to turn, I had to let the cross traffic pass. A truck to my right made its own left turn, and the driver willfully, knowingly, voluntarily blocked the entire intersection!
The door was barred to further progress -- not just my own, but everyone in the intersection. This single individual was responsible for shutting down traffic on four separate roadways. And he just sat there, unashamed and unwilling to wait for his space to be green.
He took exactly what he wanted, and he had the power to do so, in his mighty truck. He took from all of us waiting patiently. Why did he do it? Did he feel justified in his action? Should I have tried to drive under his trailer?
My light came, and still he sat there. I finally grew frustrated and went the long way around, driving the shape of a question mark. And that shape mirrored my own feelings...I was puzzled. Here, a man saw what he wanted, and he took it with no regard for others. It was not admirable. I want to say I can't accept that behavior, even if it didn't affect me directly.
But then...did he have any other choice? If everything is blocking your way, is the right decision to just stand still? Or does there come a moment when you have to shove it all aside and claim something for yourself, regardless of the consequences for others? Maybe you just have to trust that people will find a way to go around.
Today, the traffic going the other way was terrible, and several gleeful individuals took it upon themselves to "block the box." This held me up, and I was annoyed, but I knew the light would eventually change and I'd be able to proceed.
The light did change, and the silly drivers blocking me were gone, but before it was my turn to turn, I had to let the cross traffic pass. A truck to my right made its own left turn, and the driver willfully, knowingly, voluntarily blocked the entire intersection!
The door was barred to further progress -- not just my own, but everyone in the intersection. This single individual was responsible for shutting down traffic on four separate roadways. And he just sat there, unashamed and unwilling to wait for his space to be green.
He took exactly what he wanted, and he had the power to do so, in his mighty truck. He took from all of us waiting patiently. Why did he do it? Did he feel justified in his action? Should I have tried to drive under his trailer?
My light came, and still he sat there. I finally grew frustrated and went the long way around, driving the shape of a question mark. And that shape mirrored my own feelings...I was puzzled. Here, a man saw what he wanted, and he took it with no regard for others. It was not admirable. I want to say I can't accept that behavior, even if it didn't affect me directly.
But then...did he have any other choice? If everything is blocking your way, is the right decision to just stand still? Or does there come a moment when you have to shove it all aside and claim something for yourself, regardless of the consequences for others? Maybe you just have to trust that people will find a way to go around.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
the tyranny of stuff
The early morning sun gives coy hints about the contents of this room. Partially refracted by the dust hanging heavily in the air, the light wavers, undecided, and the room takes on a stagnant pallor.
The light snakes its way across the floor to the walls, where cards, letters, words of encouragement have been taped onto unfazed plaster. Stretched as though on the rack, each missive threatens to pull apart; the hills and valleys of their individual hands flatten and unite into an enormous, rambling, exasperating morass of empty, ignorant goodwill. The clock ticks.
Between each curling sheet, picture frames grant the wall a true topography, their simple shining edges blocking out the words from the thousands. Each proffers its own vision of the hated past: a forced smile at a forgotten party, a late capture of a beauty lost before the aperture, a stinging reminder of the insignificant smallness of Man before Nature. Dust cakes on all of it, has caked, will cake.
There, the desk where I traced those troubled scrawlings that eventually banished me from this place. There, the chair whose shape my back will strive to match, to my anguish, until I die. There, the broken cup. And there, the carved enforcer of my solitude, there, where the sun now falls.
My eyes would look elsewhere, the books, the mottled ceiling, the crooked blinds, but all is drawn back to the cup. The cup, the cup, the cup, the cup! The light reaches even there, and curves around the broken lip, still shining in its vicious sharpened edge. Its deep, slow curve, its tender descent into the well where you can find -- yes -- you can find a single crimson drop. Blood or wine, it doesn't matter.
But look! Here I stored a globe, until the neighbor remembered it; and here, a parrot perched one day, after flying in my window, and spoke to me politely in perfect Mandarin; and here, the children of my brother set themselves to play, and damaged the cheap little Turkish rug I had bought at the farmer's market, and I was cross, but still I laughed...
And here, at last, the chair in which you sat, and I offered you the cup, and you knocked it away, to splinter on the empty piece of wood I called a desk, and there to stay!
But now the sun moves on its way, and I on mine; the light is past, and all is clothed in the grim and heady shadows of yesterday. The walls, the floors, the books, the glass of the window and my keepsake of you; to the touch, all is dust, and I must bid it farewell -- or stay, and quietly give myself over to my own accumulations.
The light snakes its way across the floor to the walls, where cards, letters, words of encouragement have been taped onto unfazed plaster. Stretched as though on the rack, each missive threatens to pull apart; the hills and valleys of their individual hands flatten and unite into an enormous, rambling, exasperating morass of empty, ignorant goodwill. The clock ticks.
Between each curling sheet, picture frames grant the wall a true topography, their simple shining edges blocking out the words from the thousands. Each proffers its own vision of the hated past: a forced smile at a forgotten party, a late capture of a beauty lost before the aperture, a stinging reminder of the insignificant smallness of Man before Nature. Dust cakes on all of it, has caked, will cake.
There, the desk where I traced those troubled scrawlings that eventually banished me from this place. There, the chair whose shape my back will strive to match, to my anguish, until I die. There, the broken cup. And there, the carved enforcer of my solitude, there, where the sun now falls.
My eyes would look elsewhere, the books, the mottled ceiling, the crooked blinds, but all is drawn back to the cup. The cup, the cup, the cup, the cup! The light reaches even there, and curves around the broken lip, still shining in its vicious sharpened edge. Its deep, slow curve, its tender descent into the well where you can find -- yes -- you can find a single crimson drop. Blood or wine, it doesn't matter.
But look! Here I stored a globe, until the neighbor remembered it; and here, a parrot perched one day, after flying in my window, and spoke to me politely in perfect Mandarin; and here, the children of my brother set themselves to play, and damaged the cheap little Turkish rug I had bought at the farmer's market, and I was cross, but still I laughed...
And here, at last, the chair in which you sat, and I offered you the cup, and you knocked it away, to splinter on the empty piece of wood I called a desk, and there to stay!
But now the sun moves on its way, and I on mine; the light is past, and all is clothed in the grim and heady shadows of yesterday. The walls, the floors, the books, the glass of the window and my keepsake of you; to the touch, all is dust, and I must bid it farewell -- or stay, and quietly give myself over to my own accumulations.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
the fine lines
Heave to, good fellows, and spend a moment with me in solemn thought. Or happy thought! Let's just think together, for once, for all.
I've been thinking about work lately. Ideally, what function should it take in my life? Some people place work in the forefront of their lives; all else is subservient to the Almighty Job. For these people, taking a day off may be considered a personal failure. Anything less than slavish devotion is unthinkable. It really doesn't matter what kind of job these people find; they will sacrifice themselves at the altar of its success. These people work because all they know is to work. This is a very admirable ethic, from an employer's perspective.
For others, work is a nuisance, anything from a minor inconvenience to a hateful disruption of "real life." These people work because they believe they must, usually for the money, and are eager to finish the work day having done the bare minimum necessary to stay in good standing. Everyone has a different definition of "in good standing," of course; I place myself in this group, although I work very hard at my job. I believe that, in the long run, it is easier to work lightly when all around can see you working hard. These people can be found in every non-creative job; their willingness to trade their lives for money is what allows our society, as presently structured, to exist. Ultimately, they affect nothing. Employers are broadly very accepting of this attitude, because most of them share it.
Then there are those who have found their vocations. These people derive such satisfaction from their work that they'd make it a hobby if they couldn't get paid for it. They sometimes feel guilty that that they do get paid, just for following their passions. You find these in the most demanding professions -- teachers, doctors, lawyers -- but generally you will find them only at the bottom and the top of their professional hierarchies. The politics, gladhanding, and little distractions of life tend to weed out or alter the believers early on, and only the greatest adherents to the principles of these professions survive with the desire to reach the heights (instead of just retiring "happily").
I can recall, though I cannot find a reference to it, the great film critic Roger Ebert once saying something along these lines: "The secret to happiness is to find what you love doing and make it your job." Most of us will never achieve that ideal, but it's essential to bear it in mind. If you were to inherit a billion dollars next week, would you keep working at your job? If your answer is no, then why is that your job? And when are you going to switch to one that actually matters to you?
I don't have any passion for my current job, but I see it as a stepping stone to something that's important to me. Keep your path in mind. Chart your course. And move towards it with all the speed you can muster.
I've been thinking about work lately. Ideally, what function should it take in my life? Some people place work in the forefront of their lives; all else is subservient to the Almighty Job. For these people, taking a day off may be considered a personal failure. Anything less than slavish devotion is unthinkable. It really doesn't matter what kind of job these people find; they will sacrifice themselves at the altar of its success. These people work because all they know is to work. This is a very admirable ethic, from an employer's perspective.
For others, work is a nuisance, anything from a minor inconvenience to a hateful disruption of "real life." These people work because they believe they must, usually for the money, and are eager to finish the work day having done the bare minimum necessary to stay in good standing. Everyone has a different definition of "in good standing," of course; I place myself in this group, although I work very hard at my job. I believe that, in the long run, it is easier to work lightly when all around can see you working hard. These people can be found in every non-creative job; their willingness to trade their lives for money is what allows our society, as presently structured, to exist. Ultimately, they affect nothing. Employers are broadly very accepting of this attitude, because most of them share it.
Then there are those who have found their vocations. These people derive such satisfaction from their work that they'd make it a hobby if they couldn't get paid for it. They sometimes feel guilty that that they do get paid, just for following their passions. You find these in the most demanding professions -- teachers, doctors, lawyers -- but generally you will find them only at the bottom and the top of their professional hierarchies. The politics, gladhanding, and little distractions of life tend to weed out or alter the believers early on, and only the greatest adherents to the principles of these professions survive with the desire to reach the heights (instead of just retiring "happily").
I can recall, though I cannot find a reference to it, the great film critic Roger Ebert once saying something along these lines: "The secret to happiness is to find what you love doing and make it your job." Most of us will never achieve that ideal, but it's essential to bear it in mind. If you were to inherit a billion dollars next week, would you keep working at your job? If your answer is no, then why is that your job? And when are you going to switch to one that actually matters to you?
I don't have any passion for my current job, but I see it as a stepping stone to something that's important to me. Keep your path in mind. Chart your course. And move towards it with all the speed you can muster.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
false idles
You gotta write something, you know. You work, come home, scarf down whatever meal is there and then stare at the screen. Is there inspiration? There's always inspiration. It tickles the corners of your eyes, it shouts into a towel right behind your ear, it twists your nosehairs around and skates up and down the insides of your arms. And it waits inside that bowl of chili, offering its agonizing promises up with every crunchy jalapeño seed...
Sometimes you're too tired to notice it. More often, you're too tired to write it down, and instead you just allow yourself to be bombarded with the cries of a million mewling children, each furious in its desperation to not be overlooked. How do you choose? Who deserves to be born?
The creative act is the spark of the divine. No cosmic balancing force, no sapient embodiment of wrath, and no forgiving light or warmth are here to be found. But we can each duplicate that prismatic act of forming something from what we find. That includes the only true judgment that is possible -- the pre-judgment, the artist tearing out the pieces that don't belong.
An artist's works are infinitely more his children than any biological offpring he might sire. The creator chooses with care all elements that make up his creation, but the parent is, at best, a majority shareholder in the corporate entity his child will someday grow into. But people still blame themselves! It's a wide world out there, friends; save your self-castigation for the truer reflections of yourself.
The wife frets about it regularly, but I'm not at all concerned with the possibility that I might prove to be a poor parent when the time comes. After all, at times, don't the worst parents produce some truly wonderful children, and the best parents some truly terrible ones? I'll do my best, of course, but there's only so much control you can hope to exert over a person. Trying too hard to influence somebody just makes everybody miserable. When that child springs out of the nest into What's Next, there comes a point when you just have to relinquish responsibility. You can't chart a course for someone you love; if you try, you'll find out that you only really ever loved yourself.
Working at a university, I deal with a fair few student issues; it's part of the job, and I sure don't mind. What really grates on me is when I get parents contacting me about their kids' problems -- parents who seemingly want to involve themselves in every mildly adverse situation their kids might encounter. The popular word has been "helicopter parent," but that's been superseded by the idea of the "snowplow parent," so called because they "clear the way" for their children. That calls to mind a certain fable of the struggle of the butterfly, but I understand why they do it. These parents are terrified, but they aren't truly terrified that their kids will fail. No, they're afraid that their kids will fail and it will reflect poorly on them as parents.
Failure is important. It's critical! My post yesterday was, in large part, a matter of learning to come to grips with our failures. But the easiest way to do that, the best way to learn from them, is to recognize them as necessary steps on the road to improvement. A steady stream of little successes is a nice and pleasing idea, but just a handful of well-meant but ultimately disastrous calamities will teach you more than a lifetime spent putting one foot in front of the other. Better to leap than walk, and if you're scared of falling, learn to tumble.
Sometimes you're too tired to notice it. More often, you're too tired to write it down, and instead you just allow yourself to be bombarded with the cries of a million mewling children, each furious in its desperation to not be overlooked. How do you choose? Who deserves to be born?
The creative act is the spark of the divine. No cosmic balancing force, no sapient embodiment of wrath, and no forgiving light or warmth are here to be found. But we can each duplicate that prismatic act of forming something from what we find. That includes the only true judgment that is possible -- the pre-judgment, the artist tearing out the pieces that don't belong.
 |
| That's right, I referenced a Dilbert strip from 1991. I took on The Game. Whatch'all got?? |
The wife frets about it regularly, but I'm not at all concerned with the possibility that I might prove to be a poor parent when the time comes. After all, at times, don't the worst parents produce some truly wonderful children, and the best parents some truly terrible ones? I'll do my best, of course, but there's only so much control you can hope to exert over a person. Trying too hard to influence somebody just makes everybody miserable. When that child springs out of the nest into What's Next, there comes a point when you just have to relinquish responsibility. You can't chart a course for someone you love; if you try, you'll find out that you only really ever loved yourself.
Working at a university, I deal with a fair few student issues; it's part of the job, and I sure don't mind. What really grates on me is when I get parents contacting me about their kids' problems -- parents who seemingly want to involve themselves in every mildly adverse situation their kids might encounter. The popular word has been "helicopter parent," but that's been superseded by the idea of the "snowplow parent," so called because they "clear the way" for their children. That calls to mind a certain fable of the struggle of the butterfly, but I understand why they do it. These parents are terrified, but they aren't truly terrified that their kids will fail. No, they're afraid that their kids will fail and it will reflect poorly on them as parents.
Failure is important. It's critical! My post yesterday was, in large part, a matter of learning to come to grips with our failures. But the easiest way to do that, the best way to learn from them, is to recognize them as necessary steps on the road to improvement. A steady stream of little successes is a nice and pleasing idea, but just a handful of well-meant but ultimately disastrous calamities will teach you more than a lifetime spent putting one foot in front of the other. Better to leap than walk, and if you're scared of falling, learn to tumble.
Monday, September 15, 2014
imperfect
We're now halfway through this experiment in interrupted silence. Has anything been learned? Anything gained? Lost?
Here is a tweet from a writer I respect as much as any other, Chris Onstad (creator of Achewood):
Here is a tweet from a writer I respect as much as any other, Chris Onstad (creator of Achewood):
Why does man need to invent Hell when he already has the past?
— achewood (@achewood) August 19, 2014
The past haunts everyone. Unbidden, little nuggets of shame worm their way up through the bedrock of memory to flail distractingly at the conscious mind. Rather than resign myself to this pain, I've long sought to confront it directly, hoping thereby to gain some measure of control over, and resistance to, these demons of recall.
How do you begin to confront your past, though? A distant enough memory seems as though it happened to somebody else. You laugh about it, no matter how embarrassed or miserable you were at the time, because you recognize that it was an unavoidable consequence of your life up to that point. You're glad that isn't you anymore, because the current you would never make such a mortifying error. It isn't close, so it isn't painful. But then, where's the value in confronting it? Is it even possible?
I don't think so. I think that there's no point in looking back at things so remote in our experiences that we're dissociated from our old selves. Whatever lesson it may have taught has already been thoroughly baked into our personas. All that's left is to look closer, at things that still cause us pain. It's difficult to do; that's why the word "confront" is so appropriate. Because our selves from those recent memories are present enough to look back at us, and argue their cases.
Recently, I loaded up the blog that I kept in high school and most of college. Even though I started it over twelve years ago, much of the pain is still fresh. Maybe that means I haven't moved forward enough; I don't know. But it was very difficult to read through. Even though I provided the link above, that's just for the sake of completeness; I actually want to discourage you from reading it. It's often excruciating, rarely interesting, and primarily a catalogue of minor irritation and deliberate obtuseness. It's littered with references to people I've lost touch with; it doesn't make sense, and it's mostly annoying. It improves a little as it goes on (the maturing process in action), but that's the best that can be said for it.
The author of those posts was, in almost every meaningful way, a child. I have almost no common ground with him. But I remember, vividly, every detail that motivated him into writing the way he did. I recognize that, as I grew from the seed he represented, the basic form of what he was lies dormant within me. I need to be careful, I need to be smart, and I need to be honest to avoid letting out into the world more of what he was.
Early on in the old blog, I graduated from high school. At that time in my life, I had a girlfriend. I worked full-time (for that summer, at least). I drove, I planned for my future, and I tried to write to make sense of it all. The superficial structure of my life then was nearly identical to it now, and yet the person inside seems almost unrecognizable. It's not that I don't relate to him, it's that I don't want to. He personifies and apologizes for a variety of traits that are, to the current me, indefensible. Because he is, at his core, something I describe as childish, and I believe (as he did!) that the current me is not.
I've been thinking hard about childhood and adulthood lately; what each of them represent, where to draw the line between the two, and what (if anything) in either is worth aspiring to. I expect to have a child of my own within the next couple of years, and this expectation raises immediate and serious questions about my own nature and identity.
At what point can we really consider somebody an adult? It can't be anything represented by my 18-year-old self, because that guy is clearly a child. But I don't really believe it's marriage, parenthood, or any sort of major life milestone, either, because there are plenty of people who've bypassed those who still manage to shoulder the burden of maturity and act like adults.
The thing that bugs me the most about my past self is how evasive he is. He seems to believe he's opening his heart in that blog, when he's really doing nothing more but telling everybody that he has a bunch of secrets. There's no hint given what those secrets might be, and it's obnoxious. It's incomplete and, at its core, it's dishonest. There's no greater crime for a writer.
But honesty can't be what makes you an adult, can it? Unless the entire notion of "adulthood" is an intellectually bankrupt exercise, which I reject. Everyone, everywhere is dishonest somehow.
Maybe adults just wish they didn't have to be.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
friendly futures
March 19th, 2049
By-and-By the Rising Tide
Upland, Penn's Woodland, The New World
My General, My Leader, My Liege,
Today has been more remarkable than most in the old Hansen house-hold! The sovereign lady of the estate awoke with a fiery thirst for cider, which no mortal reason could o'erpow'r. Deaf to my protests, she forbade its absence with a truly regal wave of her hand, and off I went to the store, lickety-split! I, who once thought myself something of a Lothario, am now reduced to nothing more than a LABRADOR. I wish I could report that the tragic injustice went fully answered, but yours truly returned in due course from the market with one fine jug of the stuff in each hand (for good measure). The piquant thirst of the lady satisfied, I was at last able to begin my day in earnest, and would have gotten a fair heft of work out of the way if it weren't for her infernal glug-glugging! I confess to you, my earnest and discreet friend, that little of the fabric of marriage gets woven on the classical weft of love and kisses. The greater part of it is, I've learned, hand-sewn from irritants, bad habits, and a bit of cartilage.
The old bag appeased, I set my sights hungrily on my favorite of breakfasts, the story enclosed in your latest epistle. As expected from your seasoned pen, "The Crime of Eliot Doveman" is quite pleasing, quite pleasing indeed! I devoured it all in one gulp, and the lady found me smacking my lips happily shortly thereafter. Your sense for the mysterious and suspenseful is as masterful as ever; to boot, your handling of swordfights and similarly wild scenes has grown tremendously. As I read, I caught myself ducking to avoid the blows of your "bedeviling ruffians"! Yes, a bit of the schoolyard bravo came back to me; I rose from my chair to engage the world, and nearly knocked out the floor-lamp! But do not confuse me with old Don Quijote! This old man is not about to give up the fight!
I received a note the other day from our Boy Down South, inviting me to take a week or so to visit down there and take in the sights. I normally wouldn't brave the heat, as you know, but I have yet to see the new layout since the Great Rearrangement, and there's a piece of adventure to it, as well. The wife has put her imprimatur; all that's left is for you to jump in as well, O Caius! There's room enough for three, or four, or five!
Lastly, hmph -- thou knowest well how this blustering sage lives, and it's without focusing overmuch on hisself. I proceed along much ever as I have. My eyes open, and it's all downhill from there. But the dreams I have, such dreams! Take note for when I've gone, my friendly -- Freud himself could not interpret my visions, nor any other somnial sage. Avast! You and I each carry secrets, if the world only knew! I've half a mind that mine are premonitions, but the future's in code, and I'm no cipher. Lucky Nostradamus, who never knew he did not know!
Welp, the Summer Moon rises, the Winter Sun sets, and the Harvest Boots are out to dry on the patio. I'm off for that conference we'd discussed, the one with too many baguettes and not enough bagels. Woe to me, that I should think of two instances of travel in the same letter! Much trust and love to you for your generous offer to oversee our little rodents -- if they give you any trouble, the little "Barbecule" and I are only a tin-can phone-call away. Now shove off, you rappscallion! You're scarin' the fishes!!!
With deepest respect & unending servitiude, YRS,
Bartholomew Logjam II
Saturday, September 13, 2014
inner self
Today, I beat Antichamber.
Antichamber is a brilliant, extraordinary game; one that challenges all of your intuitions about three-dimensional space through a series of increasingly abstruse puzzles. It's the hardest first-person puzzle game I've ever played, and I've played Dr. Brain: Action Reaction.
Actually, that image above doesn't do this game justice. Try this.
So you see? There's a fourth dimension at work here, and I don't mean time. The spatial relationships between objects that we take for granted are completely disregarded, and you have to create an entirely new system of understanding "place".
The game is also littered with cute little pictures that reveal sage words when you approach them, like this:
Some of these are profound, some are silly, and some are just confusing. But all of them comment or hint at the solution to a nearby puzzle, giving you some insight into what you are temporally proximate to solving.
The stark aesthetic of the game does wonders for the mind. Without the distractions of a visually busy world, your brain is free to focus all of its energy on solving whatever problem is at hand. In fact, the "exhibit" area, above, has more visual variety than any other spot in the game. Most of it is just sheets of single unbroken colors, bordered by the occasional think black line.
I've always been interested in map projections. Once you start learning about the mathematics that go into presenting a three-dimensional surface in two dimensions, you question a lot about something that may have seemed obvious to you before. One of my favorite professors in law school had a phrase he liked to use whenever we came to an unresolved controversy: "reasonable minds can differ." The same goes for the higher questions of almost every field; you reach a point where wrongness ceases to be a factor in discussion, where every answer is equally wrong. The reason there are so many map projections is because some are good for representing certain features, and some are good for others. When you reduce the dimensions of something, you can't show it perfectly. Compromises have to be made. People argue about which parts of the thing are best to lose, but everybody's losing something.
The next time you get into an argument with someone, stop and reflect on this fact. Is the other person wrong, or just seeing things from a different perspective? More importantly: if you can't bring yourself to see from their perspective, it just may be that they have a better vantage point than you.
Antichamber is a brilliant, extraordinary game; one that challenges all of your intuitions about three-dimensional space through a series of increasingly abstruse puzzles. It's the hardest first-person puzzle game I've ever played, and I've played Dr. Brain: Action Reaction.
Actually, that image above doesn't do this game justice. Try this.
So you see? There's a fourth dimension at work here, and I don't mean time. The spatial relationships between objects that we take for granted are completely disregarded, and you have to create an entirely new system of understanding "place".
The game is also littered with cute little pictures that reveal sage words when you approach them, like this:
 |
| Duck? Or rabbit? |
Some of these are profound, some are silly, and some are just confusing. But all of them comment or hint at the solution to a nearby puzzle, giving you some insight into what you are temporally proximate to solving.
The stark aesthetic of the game does wonders for the mind. Without the distractions of a visually busy world, your brain is free to focus all of its energy on solving whatever problem is at hand. In fact, the "exhibit" area, above, has more visual variety than any other spot in the game. Most of it is just sheets of single unbroken colors, bordered by the occasional think black line.
I've always been interested in map projections. Once you start learning about the mathematics that go into presenting a three-dimensional surface in two dimensions, you question a lot about something that may have seemed obvious to you before. One of my favorite professors in law school had a phrase he liked to use whenever we came to an unresolved controversy: "reasonable minds can differ." The same goes for the higher questions of almost every field; you reach a point where wrongness ceases to be a factor in discussion, where every answer is equally wrong. The reason there are so many map projections is because some are good for representing certain features, and some are good for others. When you reduce the dimensions of something, you can't show it perfectly. Compromises have to be made. People argue about which parts of the thing are best to lose, but everybody's losing something.
The next time you get into an argument with someone, stop and reflect on this fact. Is the other person wrong, or just seeing things from a different perspective? More importantly: if you can't bring yourself to see from their perspective, it just may be that they have a better vantage point than you.
Friday, September 12, 2014
meat is meet
Today I learned that there is such a thing as cowboy poetry. While it's far from what I aspire to, we should all appreciate the contributions cowboy poets have made to the American literary landscape.
Be careful following the trail of Baxter Black -- that man could talk you into an ouroboros. His piece about bovine uterine prolapse is particularly entrancing (the words "whopping big burrito" feature prominently).
Now, as to the above, I've never been much for vegetarianism. The word alone is enough to get my hackles up. There are many seemingly good reasons a person might choose not to eat meat -- not wanting to participate in industrialized or spiritual suffering, fearful about health concerns, desiring to feel superior to others -- but these are all fatally flawed.
To exist is to perpetuate and prolong the suffering of others. We are just misery distributors, at the bottom of it all. Beyond that, there is zero metaphysical value to "causing suffering." It is a non-factor. Stab a man, stab yourself, or just give everybody hugs. The end is the same. Your purchase of a piece of cow doesn't change that.
My little rant aside, there's a deeper point to make. Where does the value of a life come from? If a cow lives its whole life in a pen before being slaughtered, would it have been better off it it'd never been born? Does the pain it feels negate any of the joys it might have felt at eating, or even the simple pleasure of being alive?
More importantly, if there's value in those little joys, then there must be less value if there are less fewer. And if people don't buy meat, then fewer cows will be bred -- less joy overall. The only consistent viewpoint, as far as pain is concerned, is to think of animals as metaphysical pain machines -- capable of nothing but feeding humans meat and guilt.
As to the health aspects of eating meat, we must recognize that the body is agnostic when it comes to the source of the food going in. Digestion is a series of chemical processes, and all that matters, really, is quantities. If you're bad at limiting your intake of certain foods, fine, but it's a mistake to act as if certain foods are straight-up bad for you. Everything's bad for you in certain quantities, and some things take less of those quantities than others before they start affecting your health adversely. But you gotta get protein somewhere, and never eating meat is a somewhat draconian approach to monitoring your diet.
I can't argue with the aspect of superiority, though. If you want to think you are better than others, vegetarianism is a great start. You will get a lot of support from the like-minded. I only hope that this little post, to some extent, reduces the value of that position.
You better believe Baxter Black eats meat, though, and you know what that guy is about.
Be careful following the trail of Baxter Black -- that man could talk you into an ouroboros. His piece about bovine uterine prolapse is particularly entrancing (the words "whopping big burrito" feature prominently).
Now, as to the above, I've never been much for vegetarianism. The word alone is enough to get my hackles up. There are many seemingly good reasons a person might choose not to eat meat -- not wanting to participate in industrialized or spiritual suffering, fearful about health concerns, desiring to feel superior to others -- but these are all fatally flawed.
To exist is to perpetuate and prolong the suffering of others. We are just misery distributors, at the bottom of it all. Beyond that, there is zero metaphysical value to "causing suffering." It is a non-factor. Stab a man, stab yourself, or just give everybody hugs. The end is the same. Your purchase of a piece of cow doesn't change that.
My little rant aside, there's a deeper point to make. Where does the value of a life come from? If a cow lives its whole life in a pen before being slaughtered, would it have been better off it it'd never been born? Does the pain it feels negate any of the joys it might have felt at eating, or even the simple pleasure of being alive?
More importantly, if there's value in those little joys, then there must be less value if there are less fewer. And if people don't buy meat, then fewer cows will be bred -- less joy overall. The only consistent viewpoint, as far as pain is concerned, is to think of animals as metaphysical pain machines -- capable of nothing but feeding humans meat and guilt.
As to the health aspects of eating meat, we must recognize that the body is agnostic when it comes to the source of the food going in. Digestion is a series of chemical processes, and all that matters, really, is quantities. If you're bad at limiting your intake of certain foods, fine, but it's a mistake to act as if certain foods are straight-up bad for you. Everything's bad for you in certain quantities, and some things take less of those quantities than others before they start affecting your health adversely. But you gotta get protein somewhere, and never eating meat is a somewhat draconian approach to monitoring your diet.
I can't argue with the aspect of superiority, though. If you want to think you are better than others, vegetarianism is a great start. You will get a lot of support from the like-minded. I only hope that this little post, to some extent, reduces the value of that position.
You better believe Baxter Black eats meat, though, and you know what that guy is about.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
la lune, selene, élan
O, Moon! Unbidden, but you come. Untethered, but you circle. What man did not gaze upon your pockmarked shimmering beauty and desire to possess you?
You are the silken pearl that calls to dreamers everywhere with the vision of your ancient radiance. Yours is the voice that summons us to the highest points always. Yours is the visage that pulls at the bottom-most depths of our hearts, drawing us higher and higher into the heavens. Where would we be without you, but on the ground?
And when I stare, sullen and alone, into the inkpot sea, it is your smile that buoys me, and your gentle tides that point me back to home.
And when I stop in the cornfield and remember too sharply, it is your shining grin, O Moon, that jostles me from reflection into life.
For do you not dance, circling endlessly, our silent partner in the night?
Do you not face us, guarding your secrets closely, daring us to explore?
We feel you from afar, but would you have us touch?
Never was there a spot, O Moon, that a man looked upon and did not wish to stand there. So it is! So you are! Far, distant, remote, vague but not unreachable!
That is your greatest mystery, O Moon, the tale you would not tell. A man can go to you and then return, and think of other things again.
But, as for me, I will not go -- and so, not going, can think of nothing else. Nothing but your luminance, the silver path you carve in the sky, your ceaseless, wanton beckoning...
I am yours, O Moon, though you are larger in my heart than in the sky. Yours, forever wrapped within your crystal light. Yours, until I go to you, and then return.
You are the silken pearl that calls to dreamers everywhere with the vision of your ancient radiance. Yours is the voice that summons us to the highest points always. Yours is the visage that pulls at the bottom-most depths of our hearts, drawing us higher and higher into the heavens. Where would we be without you, but on the ground?
And when I stare, sullen and alone, into the inkpot sea, it is your smile that buoys me, and your gentle tides that point me back to home.
And when I stop in the cornfield and remember too sharply, it is your shining grin, O Moon, that jostles me from reflection into life.
For do you not dance, circling endlessly, our silent partner in the night?
Do you not face us, guarding your secrets closely, daring us to explore?
We feel you from afar, but would you have us touch?
Never was there a spot, O Moon, that a man looked upon and did not wish to stand there. So it is! So you are! Far, distant, remote, vague but not unreachable!
That is your greatest mystery, O Moon, the tale you would not tell. A man can go to you and then return, and think of other things again.
But, as for me, I will not go -- and so, not going, can think of nothing else. Nothing but your luminance, the silver path you carve in the sky, your ceaseless, wanton beckoning...
I am yours, O Moon, though you are larger in my heart than in the sky. Yours, forever wrapped within your crystal light. Yours, until I go to you, and then return.
 |
| The Moon - Salvador Dali |
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