Fifty-one weeks since the sky crashed to the ground. Fifty-one weeks since it tore itself apart, crack by branching crack, and crumbled, like an eggshell, into nothing.
Fifty-one weeks since I saw what was behind, those electric-red lines of text, the angry backbone of infinity, the cosmic code. Fifty-one weeks since I discovered the answer, in the air, to the dual riddles of empathy and revenge.
Forty-seven weeks since I admitted what I knew. Forty-seven weeks since I turned my outsides in, locked that door, and threw away the only key I'd ever known.
Forty-seven weeks since the fury of the sky began to dull, cooling into jagged crystals, blue as the night, as comfortable as razors. Forty-seven weeks since I embarked on my lonely vigil. Forty-seven weeks since the answers came to me.
One week left to talk to you. One week left to pierce that tattered veil and recognize, momentarily, the shifting phantasm beneath. One week left to finish the dance, or never know another. One week left to take one last sweet bite, to once more tear into the glistening red skin of that awful fruit. One week left to forget I ever knew you.
And five weeks left to track the time, to revel beneath the emptied sky, to cast my hungry voice to farther shores and near ones. Five weeks left to embrace what I've become. Five weeks left to carry forward this intimate knowledge of death to that new and sorry marker. Five weeks left to see the green for what it was. Five weeks until it was, it was, it was.
Friday, September 18, 2015
Friday, September 11, 2015
a legacy of lies
After 65 hours, I have finished Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain.
My history with the Metal Gear games is a short one (I was only introduced to the series about a year ago by a concerned friend), but nevertheless I consider them a critical part of my foundation as an artist. Which isn't to say I wouldn't consider myself an artist before I became fully aware of what these games are and mean -- sure I was, why not? -- but that they have taken such an important and outsized role in my artistic consciousness, they've basically supplanted dozens of other works.
I won't try to convince you that they're great, or even to play them. I could list hundreds of reasons why they're wonderful, and it would mean nothing. They are games, and must be played to be properly appreciated. And they surely aren't perfect. For most people, I suspect, the transcendental delight I've derived from the experiences in this series will remain utterly opaque, rendered inaccessible by some unfortunate combination of preconceptions, background, and stubbornness. I simply count myself lucky to have grown up with the correct context to draw the maximum benefit from these works.
I use the word 'works' deliberately, short for "literary works." I believe ardently in these games' literary value, not just as cultural artifacts, but as vehicles for plots and themes that strike at the core of many modern existential questions. If nothing else, you could rely on a Metal Gear Solid game to set aside some time for questioning even those norms which inform the most basic assumptions of our interpersonal interactions in a modern context. In a very real sense, these are games about feeling alone in a crowded room.
Until now.
MGSV takes a step back from all of that. It pays lip service to the idea of cohesive thematic storytelling, but in reality, it's a disjointed mess; the plot informs you at the outset that anything you witness might as well be a hallucination. The main character knows he's susceptible to hallucinations, but he lives in a world of outrageous possibilities come to life, and there's no easy way for him to discern the truth from fiction. He copes, it seems, by accepting all the noise as part of the signal. His response to a given situation is constant, and he faces battle against a towering metal monstrosity with the same grim determination as against a camp of common Russian soldiers.
I finished the game and, though it was very fun to play, it contained little-to-none of that classic Metal Gear Solid charm that had so animated me in my anticipation for this. In short, this game feels fundamentally unfinished. The closing sequences, in fact the entire second half of the plot, contain teasing references to words unspoken, and I find myself reaching, in vain, for closure that isn't there. Something is missing, and without it, I can't be whole. Its absence hurts, and nothing I do can fix it.
It's phantom pain. It would be well in character for the series' creator, Hideo Kojima, to embed his theme so fully into the weave of his creation that the experience of the game is indivisible from its theme. At night, I dream about the ending that could have been. But, on awaking, I recognize that I'm missing something that was never real, yearning to reunite with people who were no more than ghosts all along.
But could it still be? There are hints that the true game might have yet to be released, that we could be in store for the greatest creative upset of all time. And it could just as easily be untrue, and one of the most powerful art-induced emotional experiences of my life might be ending on a very sour note. I don't want to believe it, but I don't even know what there is to believe anymore. I have constructed the wrong reality too many times to put much stock in my own perceptions.
Roy: A Life Well Lived
My history with the Metal Gear games is a short one (I was only introduced to the series about a year ago by a concerned friend), but nevertheless I consider them a critical part of my foundation as an artist. Which isn't to say I wouldn't consider myself an artist before I became fully aware of what these games are and mean -- sure I was, why not? -- but that they have taken such an important and outsized role in my artistic consciousness, they've basically supplanted dozens of other works.
I won't try to convince you that they're great, or even to play them. I could list hundreds of reasons why they're wonderful, and it would mean nothing. They are games, and must be played to be properly appreciated. And they surely aren't perfect. For most people, I suspect, the transcendental delight I've derived from the experiences in this series will remain utterly opaque, rendered inaccessible by some unfortunate combination of preconceptions, background, and stubbornness. I simply count myself lucky to have grown up with the correct context to draw the maximum benefit from these works.
I use the word 'works' deliberately, short for "literary works." I believe ardently in these games' literary value, not just as cultural artifacts, but as vehicles for plots and themes that strike at the core of many modern existential questions. If nothing else, you could rely on a Metal Gear Solid game to set aside some time for questioning even those norms which inform the most basic assumptions of our interpersonal interactions in a modern context. In a very real sense, these are games about feeling alone in a crowded room.
Until now.
MGSV takes a step back from all of that. It pays lip service to the idea of cohesive thematic storytelling, but in reality, it's a disjointed mess; the plot informs you at the outset that anything you witness might as well be a hallucination. The main character knows he's susceptible to hallucinations, but he lives in a world of outrageous possibilities come to life, and there's no easy way for him to discern the truth from fiction. He copes, it seems, by accepting all the noise as part of the signal. His response to a given situation is constant, and he faces battle against a towering metal monstrosity with the same grim determination as against a camp of common Russian soldiers.
I finished the game and, though it was very fun to play, it contained little-to-none of that classic Metal Gear Solid charm that had so animated me in my anticipation for this. In short, this game feels fundamentally unfinished. The closing sequences, in fact the entire second half of the plot, contain teasing references to words unspoken, and I find myself reaching, in vain, for closure that isn't there. Something is missing, and without it, I can't be whole. Its absence hurts, and nothing I do can fix it.
It's phantom pain. It would be well in character for the series' creator, Hideo Kojima, to embed his theme so fully into the weave of his creation that the experience of the game is indivisible from its theme. At night, I dream about the ending that could have been. But, on awaking, I recognize that I'm missing something that was never real, yearning to reunite with people who were no more than ghosts all along.
But could it still be? There are hints that the true game might have yet to be released, that we could be in store for the greatest creative upset of all time. And it could just as easily be untrue, and one of the most powerful art-induced emotional experiences of my life might be ending on a very sour note. I don't want to believe it, but I don't even know what there is to believe anymore. I have constructed the wrong reality too many times to put much stock in my own perceptions.
Roy: A Life Well Lived
Thursday, September 3, 2015
scribble penchant
A writing update:
Unlike last year, I did not truly attempt the "31 Plays in 31 Days" challenge this August. I put in a half-hearted effort for the first week, then let it go. I came out of it with one play that I consider to be good, and I offer it to you now: The King's Ague
I don't understand plays. I have trouble wrapping my head around them. In theory, I feel, they should be much the same as writing anything else. Put in a beginning, middle, and end, make sure there's an arc or two, and you should be fine. But all that dialogue bogs me down. It's just too fun to write, and it's hard to get around to actually telling a story.
I do love to hear myself talk.
But it's September now, and that's a bloggin' month. I know it's been all-too-silent this year around these parts, and I can't explain it. The words don't come as they used to. You see, I thrive on novelty of ideation. But as I age, I find, my brain prefers to dwell on just a few subjects. A few years ago, why, I'd hop trains of thought like a hobo, aimlessly excited with each new discovery and where it might take me. And I surely haven't lost my taste for that novelty, but the well-worn routes are comfortable, and it's harder and harder to deviate from the standard patterns...
Of course, that's death. But it's not as if I need to remind you what death looks like.
October, I suspect, I'll take off from writing (except for a Disney review, I hope). That gives me just this month to impress upon you how spectacularly I've grown since the last time I wrote thirty of these things in a row.
You see, marvelously, for the first time in this life of mine, I've found all the words I need! Vocabulary is my magnanimous oyster, my humming sycophant, my obsequious steward. It's not about using big words, of course; that's just showing off. What it is about is using words like a scalpel, not a hammer. Incisively. To maximize impact while minimizing collateral effect, and, ideally, to do so with a positive outcome in mind. That's the way to write.
He was wrong, what called himself a philosopher. For there is no process of discovery in the use of reason, what can be discovered, what is not already there? What can be discovered, what is created new? He was a thinker, and a rational one, but he built up; he should have been whittling down.
Unlike last year, I did not truly attempt the "31 Plays in 31 Days" challenge this August. I put in a half-hearted effort for the first week, then let it go. I came out of it with one play that I consider to be good, and I offer it to you now: The King's Ague
I don't understand plays. I have trouble wrapping my head around them. In theory, I feel, they should be much the same as writing anything else. Put in a beginning, middle, and end, make sure there's an arc or two, and you should be fine. But all that dialogue bogs me down. It's just too fun to write, and it's hard to get around to actually telling a story.
I do love to hear myself talk.
But it's September now, and that's a bloggin' month. I know it's been all-too-silent this year around these parts, and I can't explain it. The words don't come as they used to. You see, I thrive on novelty of ideation. But as I age, I find, my brain prefers to dwell on just a few subjects. A few years ago, why, I'd hop trains of thought like a hobo, aimlessly excited with each new discovery and where it might take me. And I surely haven't lost my taste for that novelty, but the well-worn routes are comfortable, and it's harder and harder to deviate from the standard patterns...
Of course, that's death. But it's not as if I need to remind you what death looks like.
October, I suspect, I'll take off from writing (except for a Disney review, I hope). That gives me just this month to impress upon you how spectacularly I've grown since the last time I wrote thirty of these things in a row.
You see, marvelously, for the first time in this life of mine, I've found all the words I need! Vocabulary is my magnanimous oyster, my humming sycophant, my obsequious steward. It's not about using big words, of course; that's just showing off. What it is about is using words like a scalpel, not a hammer. Incisively. To maximize impact while minimizing collateral effect, and, ideally, to do so with a positive outcome in mind. That's the way to write.
He was wrong, what called himself a philosopher. For there is no process of discovery in the use of reason, what can be discovered, what is not already there? What can be discovered, what is created new? He was a thinker, and a rational one, but he built up; he should have been whittling down.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
desistance
Desistance
It glows amber, warm from subtle friction,
A matchhead slowly drawn, never lit,
Stretched over a thousand smiles.
It's the space between us, the vexing gulf,
The humble paradox of distance never closed,
A desolate, welcome comfort.
In the commercial curve of your neck,
In your familiar clothes and skin,
At last I conjoin affection and grace.
I do not mind the lack of fire,
Or the infrequent, incidental brush of hands.
I starve for them. I relish their absence.
I am a creature flush with inverse desire.
When twinkling eyes set my fingers to trembling,
I will them still. I do not reach,
Even in that too-soft moment in the fading light,
As your hair spills across your eyes and halts my voice.
I refuse the golden mercy reflected in your lips.
I turn away. I tend my chilly embers,
Stirring the seeds of a flame that will never burn.
But let them simmer, and warm me from within.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
a time for goodbyes
Last September was a doozy! This one is shaping up to be substantially more important, in the scheme of things. You'll hear all about that very soon, but for now, there is only my persistent, impossible rambling.
You might see the ninth month as a time for beginnings -- in the US, it's when we go back to school, and it calls ahead to the Holiday Season (including Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's....).
But if it's the beginning of anything, it's the beginning of the end. Summer passes, winter beckons, and we stand in the threshold. The leaves turning is a beautiful sight, but it's nothing more than a particularly pretty marker of death.
Autumn is a time of change. We gather up what little we've managed to grow this year, and we hope it's enough to carry us forward into the next. In the process, we learn a little more about ourselves, and decide whether we'll do things differently next time.
Winters can be easy or hard, and not everyone survives. Autumn is always easy in comparison. In times of plenty, it can feel right to celebrate the excess, rather than save up. You've earned it, yes. And so you earn whatever winter brings. It can be life, it can be death; neither matters. The lesson is what's important.
All it means to survive -- all you get from lasting through the winter -- is a chance to do it again. A self-serving reason, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Learning begets the desire to learn. There's a certain evolutionary inevitability to it. And all you want is to stop needing to learn, right? That's what knowledge must be.
Hello, September, and goodbye. Ave atque vale. You were the mostly month, the one that promised much less than it delivered. You were the stolid, able companion of my compassion, which is gone. Come and go like the waves, and I'll be here.
You might see the ninth month as a time for beginnings -- in the US, it's when we go back to school, and it calls ahead to the Holiday Season (including Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's....).
But if it's the beginning of anything, it's the beginning of the end. Summer passes, winter beckons, and we stand in the threshold. The leaves turning is a beautiful sight, but it's nothing more than a particularly pretty marker of death.
Autumn is a time of change. We gather up what little we've managed to grow this year, and we hope it's enough to carry us forward into the next. In the process, we learn a little more about ourselves, and decide whether we'll do things differently next time.
Winters can be easy or hard, and not everyone survives. Autumn is always easy in comparison. In times of plenty, it can feel right to celebrate the excess, rather than save up. You've earned it, yes. And so you earn whatever winter brings. It can be life, it can be death; neither matters. The lesson is what's important.
All it means to survive -- all you get from lasting through the winter -- is a chance to do it again. A self-serving reason, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Learning begets the desire to learn. There's a certain evolutionary inevitability to it. And all you want is to stop needing to learn, right? That's what knowledge must be.
Hello, September, and goodbye. Ave atque vale. You were the mostly month, the one that promised much less than it delivered. You were the stolid, able companion of my compassion, which is gone. Come and go like the waves, and I'll be here.
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