The writing process isn't an easy one for me (at least when I'm sober). It requires a lot of sitting and staring into empty space, a huge chunk of motivation, and a ridiculous amount of willpower. I know the willpower things seems weird; after all, I like to write, so why is willpower involved?
Well, the answer is simple. I have about a dozen OCD-like tendencies I need to hammer down if I want to be able to sit down and write, regardless of how, what or where I'm writing. Every paragraph is like a battle with my own brain, not to mention the internal struggle of what to do with it when I'm done.
For starters, I have a mild (read: massive) obsession with efficiency. Efficiency translates different to me than others, however; most people--well, ok, most Americans--see efficiency as the least amount of effort in order to accomplish a task. In most situations, I see it as the most direct or least-time-consuming way of accomplishing something, regardless of how much effort it will take. There's a reason why I refuse to wait on parking spaces and will park WAY down the aisle if there's already a space open, as opposed to the asshole who will block 30 other people to get the space right next to the handicap spot, and it's definitely not because I'm considerate or nice.
Now internally, that takes a bigger twist. Not only do I prefer to do things in ways that use less time, I also feel the need to make the most effective use of every moment. Effective being a very relative term, of course; I don't want to necessarily get things done, but when I'm not getting things done, I should be relaxing, enjoying myself, calming my nerves or otherwise keeping entertained. Staring off into space attempting to brainstorm something out of nothing riddles me with guilt, as it feels like I could be making more effective use of my time, since nothing comes from it for a long period of time. Also invoking guilt for bad-use-of-time: rereading my own work, writing on anything in any format that is slower than 60 wpm (i.e., not a desktop computer, e.g. paper, tablets, phone), smoke breaks during writers blocks.
Oh, hold up a second. Have I explained that yet? That the vast majority of my OCD-like tendencies stem from deep rooted guilt that I have no control over? Yeah, that is AWESOME. I hate my brain sometimes. I mean, I say "OCD-like tendencies" because I feel guilty trying to say I have OCD when I don't have a degree. Hell, I feel guilty posting about getting shit done because I feel like I don't have the authority to tell people to do shit. To be honest, if this gets posted, I'm going to be amazed.
So that's my first internal hurdle to get over. To be honest, I'm writing about this right now because I couldn't come up with something else to write about and I started to feel bad about wasting time thinking about it. So blame having read this far on... well, everything explained so far. Holy crap, I think I just made my own brain implode.
The next hurdle I normally have to deal with is the whole perfectionist bent. I will correct every friggin' grammar and spelling mistake (except friggin', I love that non-word) as I go, assuming I notice it. Should I use parentheses to much, like this, in a paragraph, I must go and find another way to write that sentence before I can even finish the sentence I'm on. I did it just then. Seriously. Only because I thought the joke would be funnier if I didn't use a second parenthetical, but still. I can't stop it.
Finally, there's the defeatist bent. I'm constantly under the impression that most of the stuff I do in writing, or pretty much anything creative for that matter, gets me nothing and nowhere. I couldn't really explain why; I've had fairly consistent positive feedback, and at least a few writings have actually (supposedly) helped people out. Crap, see what I did there? I went back and put in "supposedly" after I finished the sentence. I can't beat the attitude out of me with a stick.
The good thing is, that is the point of these exercises. One of the things I'm slowly teaching myself is that writing is slowly becoming something I do for me, and not with this grand idea of necessarily doing something with it in the future. Don't get me wrong, I would LOVE to do something with one of my stories, or maybe a collection of the shorter works, sometime in the future. The thing is, I need to convince me that doing so is not my reason or motivation, just a pleasant side effect should I succeed sometime down the line.
Almost ten years ago, I hit a real low point in my life. I had hurt a few people that were really close to me, and I was unsure why. I had driven away some people that were having a negative effect on who I was, or at least who I wanted to be. It wasn't anything against them; they've each gone on and made someone else very happy with who they are, and in turn have become happier with themselves than they were with me. My problem was that I didn't understand my reasoning as to why I felt I had the right to cut people out of my life, to pick and choose my friends when it wasn't exactly an easy task to make new friends to begin with. I was more alone than I had been in a long time, and I only had myself to blame.
It was REALLY easy to get depressed. But getting depressed makes me feel guilty, because it's an enormous waste of time. So I did something about it: I started "dating myself." I went out to movies, took myself out to a nice dinner, went and did some touristy shit in Gatlinburg. Mostly, I just showed me that I'm cool to hang out with, and that I have every right to put actual, conscious effort into who I want to be friends with, and not just accept every person who ever nice to me, regardless of how they treat me or change me.
See? Sometimes the crazy works out for the best.
Anyway, it's that same principle I'm applying now. Typing this out actually has made me feel a little better; it's an expression of me that I don't do very often, mostly because I'm often uncomfortable talking about myself in much depth in person. When I do creative writing, especially when it's work or chapter or whatever I finish, I get a feeling of accomplishment; it's also why I set some goals for myself, to help facilitate that feeling. If I can keep that up, and establish in my head the benefit of everything I do here and on my other writing projects, I hope to eventually start writing without having to beat my own conscious brain down with willpower. Or liquor; that's worked quite well in the past too.
I just fixed the word "want" three paragraphs ago because I decided I wanted to be italicized instead of bold. I really think I have a problem.
Maybe I should just start drinking 30 minutes before I want to start writing. I'm too sober for this shit.
P.S. I think I've actually managed to actually write an entire rant that addresses the audience directly without using the pronoun "you" to refer to the audience. I know that seems so small, especially to people who normally write from the first person perspective, but I feel super accomplished right now, so shut up, you.
... I did it just then, didn't I? Sunavabitch.
No Place Like Home
It's been longer than I like since the last time I sat down to write. Admittedly, it's at least partially a good thing, since the reason I haven't written is because I've been out and social a lot lately, something I've been lacking lately. Still, it's frustrating. I really hadn't realized how important writing was to me until I stopped doing it for so long. Now that I've gotten used to it again, I feel like my sanity somewhat hinges on taking the time to put something down in words, even if it's just some observations or sharing ideas.
I haven't got a new story idea today (not that that has stopped me in the past, most of those flash fiction thingies were made up on the spot without any planning), but I do have a few things I want to talk about. There have been quite a few strange occurrences and observations over the last few weeks. For instance, I've noticed an inordinate number of people still confuse the terms "introverted" and "shy." Well, not just shy; sometimes it's confused with introspective, other times with intellectual. That one really gets me, personally, but then it's not the only trait that is applied to that idea. They're assumed to be close-minded, dismissive atheists as well, so I guess I shouldn't be upset about shy.
I could talk about the car, and about driving, and the thousands of frustrations that have resulted from that. There's the strange occurrences lately involving uncharacteristically irrational reactions from many people close to me over the last few weeks, which has caused me to wonder if it's somehow my fault. There was the sudden realization there are a few things happening in my life right now that should be very upsetting to me, and yet somehow I don't have the capacity to actually be upset at things that directly affect me and only me right now.
Despite all of this weirdness, I feel compelled to talk about a singular occurrence, something that just came up and I simply can't stop thinking about. And that is this strange neighborhood here in Seattle that I just arrived in for the first time. Seriously, my brain is farting more than my butt, and I've got worse gas than that 76 station of the interstate in the middle of Bumfuck, Kentucky.
For starters, I think this neighborhood is the inevitable epitome of every single stereotype about Seattle. There are 4 coffee shops on a single block, everyone looks like they're trying out for a Nirvana lookalike contest, and there's the weird air of "We're not poor, just broke" coming from everyone I pass. Despite the fact that I've scene pretty much every race of human here that I'm aware of, they all seem to be getting along fabulously (in both senses of the word), and looking around outside just feels like you're looking not at reality, but in fact at Instagram, specifically someone's profile who is of the firm belief that the sepia filter makes everything seem "gritty" and "real."
Seriously, everything I had ever heard about Seattle is right here. No air conditioning everywhere, pretentiousness practically oozes from the very walls, not to mention the people inside them, and there isn't a person here who hasn't been accused of furthering the liberal agenda. There's more tattoos then you can find at a Grateful Dead concert, and the number of hippy skirts is only outnumbered by the Jesus sandals and (admittedly kickass) light leather boots. It's tucked away in this little corner in the middle of everything, and yet somehow it seems like you can only access it by foot. God forbid you take a car here; if you somehow survive the tiny roads filled with buses and trucks, make it up all of the hills (and yes, it seems like every direction is always uphill from where you are currently), and finally navigate through the myriad of one-ways and pedestrian-only streets, hopefully you've figured how to park your car vertically, because every space is taken by q vehicle that looks like it hasn't been started in at least five years. Not out of neglect of course, but as a statement against the audacity of our culture forcing the need for environment-destroying, gas guzzling monstrosities.
Needless to say, I LOVE it here. The book store I'm sitting in is fantastic. I only looked at the drink menu in the cafe for a minute before I was pretty much told to hurry the fuck up so she could close in fifteen, the old shelves look like they're going to fall on me any minute, and there's a cacophony of voices that seem to be telling me that they're better than me, simultaneously but all in their own, unique way. There is a line that practically wraps around the store simply to get thirty seconds of face time with a celebrity whom I can only describe as internet-famous, and the walls are lined with tiny, self-developed color photos of local street signs and sights, priced as if they were shipped in from Italy. Even the store owner seemed snarky and at least mildly emotionally abusive.
I think I'm in love.
Thoughts in a Food Court
This was done in Evernote, as that's what I had and I was trying something new. Let's see how it works. :)
Perkie and the Steel Forest, 1
It had been days since she had anything to eat. Gathering food in the wood had always seemed so easy, and the few times she had a rough time of it, she could always rely on her friends to help her out. It hadn’t worked that way since she stumbled into this steel forest; none of the trees seemed to produce their own food, and the only things she could find to eat seemed to be carefully guarded by humans or kept strange, bright baskets that prevented her from getting to them.
She came to the steel forest almost two weeks ago. It seemed like fun at first: there were stories about the humans who would come to the wood from there, but no one had gone to where they were from. Well at least not any that she was aware had come back.
The dare seemed innocent enough, but she soon lost her way among the giant trees and the criss-crossing pathways. No matter where she wandered, she never good find even a glimpse of her beloved wood. Sometimes she would see something she thought was it in the distance, but it was never it; the steel forest seemed to have its own small places of green and grass, but there was no hope of finding food or shelter among the small copse of trees.
She had resorted to stealing the human’s foods from their kitchens. She only learned that word a week ago, but it seemed terribly familiar now. The humans dedicated entire rooms to the process they apply to animal fats and vegetables to make it “palatable” to them (which was another word she recently learned, but she still didn’t quite understand what it meant). Until recently, she was able to still find berries or nuts that hadn’t been processed by the humans yet, but that seemed to be next to impossible the last few days.
She found herself staring at some slices of what the Cook had called “white cake.” They were some that were small enough to grab and sneak away without the humans noticing, but she found herself hesitating. She had taken a piece of the human’s changed food before, back when she first arrived, but she had regretted it ever since. Flying was so much harder after eating it for almost a day. She felt heavier, and although she eventually got used to flying again, she never managed to shake the feeling that she had been changed by the experience.
There was little else to be done right now though. If she didn’t eat soon, she’d faint; if she fainted, a human were surely find her, and if that happened, she would certainly be killed, or worse. They didn’t seem to like anything that came from the wood, and tended to chase off, hunt or kill everything they found that wandered into their steel forest from her home.
Many raccoons would come back from the steel forest, talking about the great food they would steal from the bins of scraps they kept by their trees, but these raccoons were always fat and lazy; not many lived for much longer after bragging about their conquests, either dying from the dangers of the wood or from the humans when they try to gather more food from the bins.
Still, she could remember the taste of the last meal she had stolen like this. The strange vegetables that had been dipped in some sort of oil and turned crispy-brown were strange, but good. They did little to compare to the sweetest berries she once had back home, but she could not find them anywhere here. Her stomach would not allow her to go much longer right now, and this smelled so much sweeter than the strange “fries” she had sampled before.
The Cook turned his back. With a flutter, she raced in, grabbing the slice from the leaf upon which it sat. She could lift it; she pulled as hard she could but only managed to break off a piece. She fell backwards onto the leaf, which surprisingly didn’t make the strange “clinking” noise she was used to hearing when she fell on them.
It took her a moment to realize that the leaf had been lifted, and was racing towards the same corner she had just come around. She saw the tiny, stubby fingers of one of a young human, seemingly holding the leaf above their head as they raced out of the room.
The leaf and cake stopped suddenly around the corner. She tried to come up with a plan, but wasn’t able to think of anything. The plate was lowered, and she found herself looking directly into the eyes of a young, female human.
“Whoa,” it said slowly, as its pupils widened. With only a moment’s pause, but without taking her eyes off of the faerie sitting in front of her, the girl grabbed a handful of the cake and began eating. She continued to carry the leaf out of the building, cake and faerie in tow, and sat down in a well lit but unpopulated alleyway and began eating more. All the while, she kept watching and smiling.
“Hi!” the girl said finally. “My name is Carrie. What’s yours?”
The faerie gulped visibly. She stood up on the leaf, bowing formally. “I am Percilla Piper. But please, call me Perkie.”
“Hi, Perkie!” The girl grabbed another handful of food with her stubby fingers, but instead of stuffing more into her face, she instead extended it to the faerie. “Cake?”
Perkie took a bite. It was sweeter than the sweetest berry in the wood.
She came to the steel forest almost two weeks ago. It seemed like fun at first: there were stories about the humans who would come to the wood from there, but no one had gone to where they were from. Well at least not any that she was aware had come back.
The dare seemed innocent enough, but she soon lost her way among the giant trees and the criss-crossing pathways. No matter where she wandered, she never good find even a glimpse of her beloved wood. Sometimes she would see something she thought was it in the distance, but it was never it; the steel forest seemed to have its own small places of green and grass, but there was no hope of finding food or shelter among the small copse of trees.
She had resorted to stealing the human’s foods from their kitchens. She only learned that word a week ago, but it seemed terribly familiar now. The humans dedicated entire rooms to the process they apply to animal fats and vegetables to make it “palatable” to them (which was another word she recently learned, but she still didn’t quite understand what it meant). Until recently, she was able to still find berries or nuts that hadn’t been processed by the humans yet, but that seemed to be next to impossible the last few days.
She found herself staring at some slices of what the Cook had called “white cake.” They were some that were small enough to grab and sneak away without the humans noticing, but she found herself hesitating. She had taken a piece of the human’s changed food before, back when she first arrived, but she had regretted it ever since. Flying was so much harder after eating it for almost a day. She felt heavier, and although she eventually got used to flying again, she never managed to shake the feeling that she had been changed by the experience.
There was little else to be done right now though. If she didn’t eat soon, she’d faint; if she fainted, a human were surely find her, and if that happened, she would certainly be killed, or worse. They didn’t seem to like anything that came from the wood, and tended to chase off, hunt or kill everything they found that wandered into their steel forest from her home.
Many raccoons would come back from the steel forest, talking about the great food they would steal from the bins of scraps they kept by their trees, but these raccoons were always fat and lazy; not many lived for much longer after bragging about their conquests, either dying from the dangers of the wood or from the humans when they try to gather more food from the bins.
Still, she could remember the taste of the last meal she had stolen like this. The strange vegetables that had been dipped in some sort of oil and turned crispy-brown were strange, but good. They did little to compare to the sweetest berries she once had back home, but she could not find them anywhere here. Her stomach would not allow her to go much longer right now, and this smelled so much sweeter than the strange “fries” she had sampled before.
The Cook turned his back. With a flutter, she raced in, grabbing the slice from the leaf upon which it sat. She could lift it; she pulled as hard she could but only managed to break off a piece. She fell backwards onto the leaf, which surprisingly didn’t make the strange “clinking” noise she was used to hearing when she fell on them.
It took her a moment to realize that the leaf had been lifted, and was racing towards the same corner she had just come around. She saw the tiny, stubby fingers of one of a young human, seemingly holding the leaf above their head as they raced out of the room.
The leaf and cake stopped suddenly around the corner. She tried to come up with a plan, but wasn’t able to think of anything. The plate was lowered, and she found herself looking directly into the eyes of a young, female human.
“Whoa,” it said slowly, as its pupils widened. With only a moment’s pause, but without taking her eyes off of the faerie sitting in front of her, the girl grabbed a handful of the cake and began eating. She continued to carry the leaf out of the building, cake and faerie in tow, and sat down in a well lit but unpopulated alleyway and began eating more. All the while, she kept watching and smiling.
“Hi!” the girl said finally. “My name is Carrie. What’s yours?”
The faerie gulped visibly. She stood up on the leaf, bowing formally. “I am Percilla Piper. But please, call me Perkie.”
“Hi, Perkie!” The girl grabbed another handful of food with her stubby fingers, but instead of stuffing more into her face, she instead extended it to the faerie. “Cake?”
Perkie took a bite. It was sweeter than the sweetest berry in the wood.
And I Get By
Comfortable.
There are many words which are commonly referred to as positive words that I disagree with. You can see my long rant on the word Hope for an example. Then there’s the fact that I find Moist to be mildly dirty (I blame How I Met Your Mother), and Pointless to be generally derogatory to ANYONE you may be having a discussion with.
COMFORTABLE. This word is the downfall of so many people, even so much as to be extended to peoples as well. Comfortable is a term which I believe has doomed great men to mediocrity, happiness to contentment, purposeful to a meaningless existence. It is comfort that decides that we are ok with the allotment we have been handed, comfort that drove us to believe that what we have is good enough, despite ideas that may drive us to be better than anything we had accomplished so far.
Comfort is what drives us to avoid achievement, to revel in in the idea of simply meeting the bar of expectation. And yet, it’s the very definition of the american dream. White picket fence, three bedroom house, and 2.4 children. The failure of sheepish conformity that defines America as the sad middle-ground of the first world and everything we come to define with what we expect from life.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to see what I can do to break out of my comfort zone. Admittedly, I SUCK at this endeavor. I still like my personal bubble (Uh, dude? You just brushed my arm. Buy me dessert or my wife will totally kick your ass.), and I still tend to watch my words around people I don’t know, especially in public. I can’t go a single day outside my apartment without taking a shower, and I still have to avoid every crack in the sidewalk less be attacked by a metric fuck-ton of guilt over the possibility of causing my mother harm.
On the flip side of that, I also try to travel to somewhere I haven’t been at least once a year, I moved across the county because I was simply done with where I was at the time, and I’ve gone out of my way to make new friends despite the fact that I hit 30 a year ago, a time when most people are instead settling in to habits and deciding what they want car they want to buy for their midlife crisis. Meanwhile, I’m planning the next big trip, debating the merits of our current town or moving away, and working my way up (admittedly slowly) towards swimming in the ocean after a 15 year phobia.
So fuck all of ya’ll.
Comfort is a false dream of settling, something that I decided against a long time ago before I ever met my wife. It came from a very solid foundation that unfortunately has been belittled by modern society but that I’ve come to a conclusion that is actually based in fact.
I’m awesome, and moreso than that, I’m as awesome as I’m willing to make myself. I deserve every single ounce of fucking effort I can put into every single thing I do, and saying that I’m not is only belittling myself and all those around me that care about me.
I (VERY FORTUNATELY) hit this realization a good while before I met my wife. I hit a nice stride where I started treating myself when I was single. I took myself out to dinner at fancy restaurants when I needed congratulations for a job well done; I went by myself to see a movie in a theater that I really wanted to see, regardless of company or someone vilifying my desire; I went on road-trips just to see people that I wished to see, regardless of whether I had company or any other preparations. I made a 10 year plan to move across the country slowly, stopping once a year in a pre-planned state with a good job market to work a menial job and meet people.
It was epic and awesome, and for the first time in a long time, I came to love myself without needing an outside image to confirm my own beliefs in myself.
So when I finally met my wife, I realized something that I don’t think many people did: She was actually someone who was perfect for me. She was not filling some hole I needed at the time, I was not settling for someone in order to avoid being alone, and I was not simply conforming to some societal standard of being a couple. I was completely whole and happy by myself. And she somehow made me happier. Not more complete, but more something that I could not have been should I have been without her.
This isn’t some belief in destiny, or fated to meet or anything like that. This was a simply one in a million chance that I was actually ready for, since I had taken the time to develop what that actually was.
Now I don’t think my way is the best way; a lot of people have met “the one” in their own special way. My point is there’s a necessity in breaking habits. No matter how you do anything, whether it’s meeting someone, taking a job, deciding what kind of food it is you really love, nothing will ever be your own personal truth until you break your idea of what’s comfortable or safe and actually make an informed decision based on experience, not inferences or references.
I’ve said this often, in hundreds of formats. Take a look at your worst case scenario. If the worst thing that can happen is that you have to pick up the pieces and start over, then take the risk. Starting over, in almost every situation, can lead to new perspectives that can give you a boost towards a happiness that is forever lost in the American dream of comfort.
Stop looking at the worst case scenario as a sure thing, and start looking at the good that can come from a 10% chance. This isn’t a speech to tell you to go gamble on the lottery. I’m telling you to gamble on yourself, to believe in yourself, and to believe in your own happiness, instead of the happiness you’re told is what you’re destined to get. Destiny or fate or karma, should you believe, is only a stepping stone. Who you are dependent not on what the universe gives you, but what you do with it.
Cave Johnson said it best in these regards. Make the universe rue the day it gave you lemons.
There are many words which are commonly referred to as positive words that I disagree with. You can see my long rant on the word Hope for an example. Then there’s the fact that I find Moist to be mildly dirty (I blame How I Met Your Mother), and Pointless to be generally derogatory to ANYONE you may be having a discussion with.
COMFORTABLE. This word is the downfall of so many people, even so much as to be extended to peoples as well. Comfortable is a term which I believe has doomed great men to mediocrity, happiness to contentment, purposeful to a meaningless existence. It is comfort that decides that we are ok with the allotment we have been handed, comfort that drove us to believe that what we have is good enough, despite ideas that may drive us to be better than anything we had accomplished so far.
Comfort is what drives us to avoid achievement, to revel in in the idea of simply meeting the bar of expectation. And yet, it’s the very definition of the american dream. White picket fence, three bedroom house, and 2.4 children. The failure of sheepish conformity that defines America as the sad middle-ground of the first world and everything we come to define with what we expect from life.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to see what I can do to break out of my comfort zone. Admittedly, I SUCK at this endeavor. I still like my personal bubble (Uh, dude? You just brushed my arm. Buy me dessert or my wife will totally kick your ass.), and I still tend to watch my words around people I don’t know, especially in public. I can’t go a single day outside my apartment without taking a shower, and I still have to avoid every crack in the sidewalk less be attacked by a metric fuck-ton of guilt over the possibility of causing my mother harm.
On the flip side of that, I also try to travel to somewhere I haven’t been at least once a year, I moved across the county because I was simply done with where I was at the time, and I’ve gone out of my way to make new friends despite the fact that I hit 30 a year ago, a time when most people are instead settling in to habits and deciding what they want car they want to buy for their midlife crisis. Meanwhile, I’m planning the next big trip, debating the merits of our current town or moving away, and working my way up (admittedly slowly) towards swimming in the ocean after a 15 year phobia.
So fuck all of ya’ll.
Comfort is a false dream of settling, something that I decided against a long time ago before I ever met my wife. It came from a very solid foundation that unfortunately has been belittled by modern society but that I’ve come to a conclusion that is actually based in fact.
I’m awesome, and moreso than that, I’m as awesome as I’m willing to make myself. I deserve every single ounce of fucking effort I can put into every single thing I do, and saying that I’m not is only belittling myself and all those around me that care about me.
I (VERY FORTUNATELY) hit this realization a good while before I met my wife. I hit a nice stride where I started treating myself when I was single. I took myself out to dinner at fancy restaurants when I needed congratulations for a job well done; I went by myself to see a movie in a theater that I really wanted to see, regardless of company or someone vilifying my desire; I went on road-trips just to see people that I wished to see, regardless of whether I had company or any other preparations. I made a 10 year plan to move across the country slowly, stopping once a year in a pre-planned state with a good job market to work a menial job and meet people.
It was epic and awesome, and for the first time in a long time, I came to love myself without needing an outside image to confirm my own beliefs in myself.
So when I finally met my wife, I realized something that I don’t think many people did: She was actually someone who was perfect for me. She was not filling some hole I needed at the time, I was not settling for someone in order to avoid being alone, and I was not simply conforming to some societal standard of being a couple. I was completely whole and happy by myself. And she somehow made me happier. Not more complete, but more something that I could not have been should I have been without her.
This isn’t some belief in destiny, or fated to meet or anything like that. This was a simply one in a million chance that I was actually ready for, since I had taken the time to develop what that actually was.
Now I don’t think my way is the best way; a lot of people have met “the one” in their own special way. My point is there’s a necessity in breaking habits. No matter how you do anything, whether it’s meeting someone, taking a job, deciding what kind of food it is you really love, nothing will ever be your own personal truth until you break your idea of what’s comfortable or safe and actually make an informed decision based on experience, not inferences or references.
I’ve said this often, in hundreds of formats. Take a look at your worst case scenario. If the worst thing that can happen is that you have to pick up the pieces and start over, then take the risk. Starting over, in almost every situation, can lead to new perspectives that can give you a boost towards a happiness that is forever lost in the American dream of comfort.
Stop looking at the worst case scenario as a sure thing, and start looking at the good that can come from a 10% chance. This isn’t a speech to tell you to go gamble on the lottery. I’m telling you to gamble on yourself, to believe in yourself, and to believe in your own happiness, instead of the happiness you’re told is what you’re destined to get. Destiny or fate or karma, should you believe, is only a stepping stone. Who you are dependent not on what the universe gives you, but what you do with it.
Cave Johnson said it best in these regards. Make the universe rue the day it gave you lemons.
Lux Caelum I
The view from the port window was amazing every time. From far enough way, the petty squabbles of the people below seemed so insignificant. The vast expanses of blue and white, green and brown, made it impossible to even imagine that a war might have been going on, soldiers killing soldiers or murder on the streets of some major city that was maybe a barely noticeable speck from this distance.
The elderly man smiled as he continued to stare out the glass. Even though he knew full well it wasn’t actually glass (one of the engineers on board explained it to him on multiple occasions but he could never recall the actual name), he still preferred to think of it as such. For some reason, the familiarity of the substance made him feel more at home than any sort of knowledge of the safety behind the science of what was actually there.
There was a knock at the door. The man smiled to himself. The knocking was another quaint insistence of his; the tone that the button outside created was so very impersonal. He preferred every guest to knock instead, as it often could tell him so much about what was on the other side. Before they ever came in, he could often tell who it was, what kind of mood they were, and sometimes was even able to figure out what they wanted.
Sure, the screen next to the bed that showed via strategically placed cameras what exactly was on the other side of the door, down to fluctuations in their body temperature and electronic equipment they have on their person, could have easily told him much of the same information. It didn’t feel right though. It was cheating, like a calculator on a math quiz or a map during a survival exercise. Depending on these machines instead of your instincts would only get you killed.
He laughed at his own train of thoughts. This coming from a guy who’s sitting in a space station, completely dependent upon the technology around him to keep him alive.
“Come in, Commander,” he said finally. The door opened a moment afterwards, and Commander Kelsee walked into the room. She stood just inside the doorway as it closed behind her, not saying a word until the admiral turned to face her.
He smiled. Her attention to the little details of protocol was why she was largely his main point of contact on the station. She kept track of everyone’s idiosyncrasies, managing to avoid offending anyone and learn almost everything about someone within moments of meeting them. She exuded perfect control, both over herself and others. Even him.
Most importantly, though, she was trustworthy. She believed in her ideals, and his for that matter, and that made her the most important part of the small team up here.
He turned around to face her. He found the habit of his former superiors to talk to their subordinates with their back turned to be exceedingly rude. It does not matter where you stand; you always stand there because of each person, alive or dead, that followed you there, and forgetting that was the fastest route to betrayal, or worse, complacency.
This time, however, he didn’t say anything immediately after turning around. Her knock was a little faster, a little higher than she gave when she was coming in for appointed rounds. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to know she had something to say. So he waited for her to speak first.
She hesitated before speaking. It wasn’t a good sign. “You have to teach me sometime how you can tell so much just from the sound of a knock.”
She was making small talk. Another bad sign. Still, he smiled his best disarming smile. “It’s easy enough to explain, but noticing the differences really just comes with time and attention. Regardless, I don’t think you came here to discuss knocking.”
Her expression didn’t change. It remained as unreadable as it did when she first arrived. He was reminded once again to never play poker with her.
“The engineers and physicists have gone over the numbers one more time. There’s no way around it; one way or another, we’re going to go out of orbit, regardless of how we use the maneuvering engines.”
He nodded, the grin leaving his face. “No way to get a ship out here to rescue sir?”
“No sir. Communication with anyone on the surface would reveal our position.”
“And the centrifugal plan?”
“Not in our current orbit, sir. We are too far away from moon’s orbit to use it, and our air wouldn’t last long enough to use any other celestial body.”
He leaned against the table in the center of the room. The image from the camera on the bottom of the station showed clearly on the surface the table the land directly below them: a large city, hundreds of buildings and criss-crossing streets filling the entire. The older admiral stared at the table for a long time. He knew why he was selected to lead this mission, and he knew what he would decide to do in the end, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
“We’re all knew what we were getting into when we signed up for the mission, Sir.” The Commander spoke softly to him, as if to someone mourning. “You don’t hold responsibility for all of us; we all made the decision.”
“No offense, Commander, but you don’t have to press the damn button.”
“That’s true, Admiral. Although I will, if you won’t.”
The admiral stayed there for a moment, continuing to stare at the table. Minutes passed before he found himself able to respond, looking up at her. “You don’t have to worry about that, Commander. I know what’s at stake here.”
“It will save hundreds of thousands of lives, and bring--”
“Peace to people who have never known it, yes, I know.” He sighed. “But someone has to show respect for those that are sacrificing their lives to make peace happen. Both us up here, and those down there.” He gestured back to the table at the image on the table.
The commander didn’t respond, outside of a small nod. After another moment of silence, the admiral waved her away, and she left the room.
He sat down at the table, and stared out the window for a little while longer. Peace. It was easy to imagine up here, despite how impossible it was to achieve when he was below just months before. The irony of whole situation settled on him like a cloak of iron, snuggly holding him to the seat of execution.
He looked at the table once more. Then he closed his eyes, and stared at the keypad in front of him. He entered the code he had committed to memory long before he ever left earth’s atmosphere. There was only a short pause before the view from the camera turned white. The delay from the white-washed image and the view of the crater where the city once was took much longer.
He looked out the glass window once more from his chair, as it began to retreat much faster than he had expected it to. He knew they would be traveling fast as the weapon pushed back on the station, but distance was an illusion in space. A part of him was still hopeful up until a moment ago that help might catch up with them, but that seemed unlikely at this rate.
He stood up, heading out of the room. Morale was always at its worse when death is a certainty, and he had a job to do.
The elderly man smiled as he continued to stare out the glass. Even though he knew full well it wasn’t actually glass (one of the engineers on board explained it to him on multiple occasions but he could never recall the actual name), he still preferred to think of it as such. For some reason, the familiarity of the substance made him feel more at home than any sort of knowledge of the safety behind the science of what was actually there.
There was a knock at the door. The man smiled to himself. The knocking was another quaint insistence of his; the tone that the button outside created was so very impersonal. He preferred every guest to knock instead, as it often could tell him so much about what was on the other side. Before they ever came in, he could often tell who it was, what kind of mood they were, and sometimes was even able to figure out what they wanted.
Sure, the screen next to the bed that showed via strategically placed cameras what exactly was on the other side of the door, down to fluctuations in their body temperature and electronic equipment they have on their person, could have easily told him much of the same information. It didn’t feel right though. It was cheating, like a calculator on a math quiz or a map during a survival exercise. Depending on these machines instead of your instincts would only get you killed.
He laughed at his own train of thoughts. This coming from a guy who’s sitting in a space station, completely dependent upon the technology around him to keep him alive.
“Come in, Commander,” he said finally. The door opened a moment afterwards, and Commander Kelsee walked into the room. She stood just inside the doorway as it closed behind her, not saying a word until the admiral turned to face her.
He smiled. Her attention to the little details of protocol was why she was largely his main point of contact on the station. She kept track of everyone’s idiosyncrasies, managing to avoid offending anyone and learn almost everything about someone within moments of meeting them. She exuded perfect control, both over herself and others. Even him.
Most importantly, though, she was trustworthy. She believed in her ideals, and his for that matter, and that made her the most important part of the small team up here.
He turned around to face her. He found the habit of his former superiors to talk to their subordinates with their back turned to be exceedingly rude. It does not matter where you stand; you always stand there because of each person, alive or dead, that followed you there, and forgetting that was the fastest route to betrayal, or worse, complacency.
This time, however, he didn’t say anything immediately after turning around. Her knock was a little faster, a little higher than she gave when she was coming in for appointed rounds. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to know she had something to say. So he waited for her to speak first.
She hesitated before speaking. It wasn’t a good sign. “You have to teach me sometime how you can tell so much just from the sound of a knock.”
She was making small talk. Another bad sign. Still, he smiled his best disarming smile. “It’s easy enough to explain, but noticing the differences really just comes with time and attention. Regardless, I don’t think you came here to discuss knocking.”
Her expression didn’t change. It remained as unreadable as it did when she first arrived. He was reminded once again to never play poker with her.
“The engineers and physicists have gone over the numbers one more time. There’s no way around it; one way or another, we’re going to go out of orbit, regardless of how we use the maneuvering engines.”
He nodded, the grin leaving his face. “No way to get a ship out here to rescue sir?”
“No sir. Communication with anyone on the surface would reveal our position.”
“And the centrifugal plan?”
“Not in our current orbit, sir. We are too far away from moon’s orbit to use it, and our air wouldn’t last long enough to use any other celestial body.”
He leaned against the table in the center of the room. The image from the camera on the bottom of the station showed clearly on the surface the table the land directly below them: a large city, hundreds of buildings and criss-crossing streets filling the entire. The older admiral stared at the table for a long time. He knew why he was selected to lead this mission, and he knew what he would decide to do in the end, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
“We’re all knew what we were getting into when we signed up for the mission, Sir.” The Commander spoke softly to him, as if to someone mourning. “You don’t hold responsibility for all of us; we all made the decision.”
“No offense, Commander, but you don’t have to press the damn button.”
“That’s true, Admiral. Although I will, if you won’t.”
The admiral stayed there for a moment, continuing to stare at the table. Minutes passed before he found himself able to respond, looking up at her. “You don’t have to worry about that, Commander. I know what’s at stake here.”
“It will save hundreds of thousands of lives, and bring--”
“Peace to people who have never known it, yes, I know.” He sighed. “But someone has to show respect for those that are sacrificing their lives to make peace happen. Both us up here, and those down there.” He gestured back to the table at the image on the table.
The commander didn’t respond, outside of a small nod. After another moment of silence, the admiral waved her away, and she left the room.
He sat down at the table, and stared out the window for a little while longer. Peace. It was easy to imagine up here, despite how impossible it was to achieve when he was below just months before. The irony of whole situation settled on him like a cloak of iron, snuggly holding him to the seat of execution.
He looked at the table once more. Then he closed his eyes, and stared at the keypad in front of him. He entered the code he had committed to memory long before he ever left earth’s atmosphere. There was only a short pause before the view from the camera turned white. The delay from the white-washed image and the view of the crater where the city once was took much longer.
He looked out the glass window once more from his chair, as it began to retreat much faster than he had expected it to. He knew they would be traveling fast as the weapon pushed back on the station, but distance was an illusion in space. A part of him was still hopeful up until a moment ago that help might catch up with them, but that seemed unlikely at this rate.
He stood up, heading out of the room. Morale was always at its worse when death is a certainty, and he had a job to do.
The Heart of the Princess
She watched intently as the knight approached the castle. He appeared wary, but confident. She scowled. They came regularly, each one as smug as the one before. She grew tired of the charade, but a promise was made. Her closest friend--her only friend, really--asked her long ago to secure her away, to ensure none would control her life, that not even her family could decide watch direction she would take.
She loved her princess so. There was little she wouldn’t do should the princess ask. So when the princess asked to be taken away, to a place far away where none would look, she happily obliged. The castle they found was far from anything, long abandoned by anyone would care, a relic from a long forgotten war.
Still, they came to their doorstep. Many a knight found themselves daunted by the steep climb, unable to cross the moat, stopped by the unscalable walls. Still, they came.
Her princess asked for protection from the knights that sought her. She sought an army, but none would help a woman on her own, hiding from the kings and knights that sought her princess.
Instead, she sought a witch, a practitioner of power who would understand her plight. The witch offered her the strength to turn away any knight. She gladly accepted.
Man after man died by her decision, as she protected her princess from any who would seize her. Still, they came. There was no faltering; no matter how many she killed, no matter how much terror she caused in the hearts from all those who were once near, still they came. They each wore the same look. They knew to fear, but they still did not fear as they should.
Like many before him, he climbed the cliffs and forded the moat. He forced his way through the gate, and avoided the traps in the hall. She knew not how each learned how all the knights had learned such about her castle, but they did and she had not the hands to change them any longer.
As many before, he entered the chamber where gatherings were once held, staring at dais which still held an old throne, no longer in use. Unlike many of the most recent knights had, he waited at the entrance to the chamber, behind the vast doors. He knew the princess was in the tower as all who came before him did. She knew they intended to force her princess away, to bring the princess to a life unwanted. Yet this one knew what awaited him in the chamber, and waited.
She leapt down, spreading her vast wings to slow her descent, landing heavily below, crunching the familiar stone beneath her claws.
He smiled from his helm, his visor still open, showing his boyish face.
“Dragon,” he spoke, as if in greeting. He drew a long, thin sword from his hip, a large shield from his back.
“Good knight,” she replied. She snorted as the end, wisp of smoke coming from her snout that had become too familiar in the last year.
“I had heard you could speak,” he said, surprising her once again. “Must we fight? Surely you must grow tired of this.”
“I have my duty.”
“As do I. I must allow the princess to leave this place.”
She laughed. A lick of flame stretched towards the knight, but did not reach him. “You know not what the princess wants. Do not assume, good knight.”
He frowned, looking concerned. Then the look turned sad, and he closed his visor, raised his shield and stepped forward.
She lowered her head to be even with the doorway and let loose with a heavy breath. Flames enveloped the knight; afraid he might have ducked behind the doorway, she kept her head low, engulfing the hallway beyond in heat and light.
When she had no more breath to let out, she was very surprised to see the night directly in front of her mouth, shield held steadily in front of him.
She tried to pull her face back, but was too slow. The sword flashed out, tearing a part of her jaw asunder. She yowled in pain, rearing back. None before had managed to strike her so; they either died from claw or flame, or their swords bounced harmlessly off her thick scales. None had dared to attack the inside of her mouth.
Fear and dread filled her mind; this was not the same as the others.
She turned her head, to look down at where the knight was, but he was no longer there. She tried to close her loosely hanging jaw, but could not; it seemed the knight had done something that caused it to not function normally. She lifted a clawed hand to force it shut.
A white hot fire erupted from inside her head. Too late, she realized he was inside her mouth, waiting for the opportunity to reach her soft palate.
She howled, and fell to her side. The hot pain continued as the sword her tore apart from the inside. The fight had left her; she was in too much pain, and now she realized that she was dying.
The knight came forth from within, lifting her jaw from the ground with his shield, and walked around to her eye. He opened his visor once more.
“It is not I that misunderstood. I fear you may--”
Her body convulsed. She felt a new pain, one that she had felt only once before, when the witch gave her new form. She was returning to that form she once had, a year before she had spent so much time as a monster, a life she could barely remember.
“A woman,” he spoke, shocked as she appeared before her as she once were, naked and dying, her head almost destroyed and bleeding out from a gaping wound in her neck. “A curse, a trick most foul.”
She found herself looking at the boy, unable to turn away. He looked at her in pity. “I am sorry. If I had known, perhaps--”
Suddenly, the princess entered her view, leaping at the knight who dropped sword and shield to ensure that the princess did not fall. To her surprise, the princess laughed in the knights arm, happy to be received so gallantly.
“I knew, for many years,” the princess said, “that the only knight I would love, would be the one who would save me from a dragon.”
She lay dying, her life blood draining, her head feeling as if it were cleaved in two. Yet she knew no pain greater than the knowledge of this moment. This was her princess, the one she was born to, had served lovingly all her life. She had sacrificed all, her home, her family, her very body and soul for the protection and favor she had been asked.
Now her final sacrifice had been made. Her heart broke.
She tried to yell, to scream, to tell of the betrayal, to warn the knight of the evil that she now knew to lurk in the princess’s heart. Her mouth would not obey her. Her throat would not pass the air to form the words.
Her sight faded. She heard them, as if from a distance, moving about. The last sounds she heard, words echoing within the last remnants of her consciousness, whispered softly in her ear. The last words her princess would speak to her:
“That’s enough, Sophie. You may rest now.”
Sophie. That was her name, wasn’t it? It had been so long.
She loved her princess so. There was little she wouldn’t do should the princess ask. So when the princess asked to be taken away, to a place far away where none would look, she happily obliged. The castle they found was far from anything, long abandoned by anyone would care, a relic from a long forgotten war.
Still, they came to their doorstep. Many a knight found themselves daunted by the steep climb, unable to cross the moat, stopped by the unscalable walls. Still, they came.
Her princess asked for protection from the knights that sought her. She sought an army, but none would help a woman on her own, hiding from the kings and knights that sought her princess.
Instead, she sought a witch, a practitioner of power who would understand her plight. The witch offered her the strength to turn away any knight. She gladly accepted.
Man after man died by her decision, as she protected her princess from any who would seize her. Still, they came. There was no faltering; no matter how many she killed, no matter how much terror she caused in the hearts from all those who were once near, still they came. They each wore the same look. They knew to fear, but they still did not fear as they should.
Like many before him, he climbed the cliffs and forded the moat. He forced his way through the gate, and avoided the traps in the hall. She knew not how each learned how all the knights had learned such about her castle, but they did and she had not the hands to change them any longer.
As many before, he entered the chamber where gatherings were once held, staring at dais which still held an old throne, no longer in use. Unlike many of the most recent knights had, he waited at the entrance to the chamber, behind the vast doors. He knew the princess was in the tower as all who came before him did. She knew they intended to force her princess away, to bring the princess to a life unwanted. Yet this one knew what awaited him in the chamber, and waited.
She leapt down, spreading her vast wings to slow her descent, landing heavily below, crunching the familiar stone beneath her claws.
He smiled from his helm, his visor still open, showing his boyish face.
“Dragon,” he spoke, as if in greeting. He drew a long, thin sword from his hip, a large shield from his back.
“Good knight,” she replied. She snorted as the end, wisp of smoke coming from her snout that had become too familiar in the last year.
“I had heard you could speak,” he said, surprising her once again. “Must we fight? Surely you must grow tired of this.”
“I have my duty.”
“As do I. I must allow the princess to leave this place.”
She laughed. A lick of flame stretched towards the knight, but did not reach him. “You know not what the princess wants. Do not assume, good knight.”
He frowned, looking concerned. Then the look turned sad, and he closed his visor, raised his shield and stepped forward.
She lowered her head to be even with the doorway and let loose with a heavy breath. Flames enveloped the knight; afraid he might have ducked behind the doorway, she kept her head low, engulfing the hallway beyond in heat and light.
When she had no more breath to let out, she was very surprised to see the night directly in front of her mouth, shield held steadily in front of him.
She tried to pull her face back, but was too slow. The sword flashed out, tearing a part of her jaw asunder. She yowled in pain, rearing back. None before had managed to strike her so; they either died from claw or flame, or their swords bounced harmlessly off her thick scales. None had dared to attack the inside of her mouth.
Fear and dread filled her mind; this was not the same as the others.
She turned her head, to look down at where the knight was, but he was no longer there. She tried to close her loosely hanging jaw, but could not; it seemed the knight had done something that caused it to not function normally. She lifted a clawed hand to force it shut.
A white hot fire erupted from inside her head. Too late, she realized he was inside her mouth, waiting for the opportunity to reach her soft palate.
She howled, and fell to her side. The hot pain continued as the sword her tore apart from the inside. The fight had left her; she was in too much pain, and now she realized that she was dying.
The knight came forth from within, lifting her jaw from the ground with his shield, and walked around to her eye. He opened his visor once more.
“It is not I that misunderstood. I fear you may--”
Her body convulsed. She felt a new pain, one that she had felt only once before, when the witch gave her new form. She was returning to that form she once had, a year before she had spent so much time as a monster, a life she could barely remember.
“A woman,” he spoke, shocked as she appeared before her as she once were, naked and dying, her head almost destroyed and bleeding out from a gaping wound in her neck. “A curse, a trick most foul.”
She found herself looking at the boy, unable to turn away. He looked at her in pity. “I am sorry. If I had known, perhaps--”
Suddenly, the princess entered her view, leaping at the knight who dropped sword and shield to ensure that the princess did not fall. To her surprise, the princess laughed in the knights arm, happy to be received so gallantly.
“I knew, for many years,” the princess said, “that the only knight I would love, would be the one who would save me from a dragon.”
She lay dying, her life blood draining, her head feeling as if it were cleaved in two. Yet she knew no pain greater than the knowledge of this moment. This was her princess, the one she was born to, had served lovingly all her life. She had sacrificed all, her home, her family, her very body and soul for the protection and favor she had been asked.
Now her final sacrifice had been made. Her heart broke.
She tried to yell, to scream, to tell of the betrayal, to warn the knight of the evil that she now knew to lurk in the princess’s heart. Her mouth would not obey her. Her throat would not pass the air to form the words.
Her sight faded. She heard them, as if from a distance, moving about. The last sounds she heard, words echoing within the last remnants of her consciousness, whispered softly in her ear. The last words her princess would speak to her:
“That’s enough, Sophie. You may rest now.”
Sophie. That was her name, wasn’t it? It had been so long.
Dancer of the Red Stage
The drums pounded, the flutes played their lilting melodies, the horns their counter bravado. It is unknown how long they had played; time had little meaning anymore. All the matter was the music was playing. All that mattered was that the dance had begun. Like every performance before, once the music began, there was little else she could think upon outside of her performance.
She had practiced and performed her dance thousands of times before. Not only physically; when she sat, when she ate, when slept, she thought only of the dance. Every flitting step, every flick of her wrist, all of it had become rote. She had memorized the feeling of every landing, the pressure on her ankles and the precise timing of every turn.
It is for that reason she wept during this dance. For the first time since she started dancing, she was forced to dance with a partner.
She should have felt elated; her partner was amazing, graceful, flawless. Every move he made ran perfectly counter to hers, memorizing in its graceful but simple movements, each touch between them guiding her lightly without stopping her, and she guiding him with every movement of her hips, their feet matching at every cross step and gesture.
In reality, however, all she could feel was pain and fear. She had never met one who could dance as well as she. Her performance, her future, was in jeopardy. There was nothing else outside of the dance for her. She was certain she was not getting worse; her performance was somehow better every time. She was told many times her dance was perfected, but somehow she managed to improve upon it every time.
This time, someone had matched her dance. Someone whom she had never met before managed to dance as well as she. In fact, this must have been his first time. He must be better! There is no other explanation in her mind then: he was there to take her dance. The only way to keep dancing is to outdo him.
The musicians were growing tired; the horns ceased their bravado, blaring indiscriminately. The flutes left their lilting, playing boring melodies of low notes. Eventually, even the rhythm of the drums faded; the musicians were exhausted, and could play no more.
Man and woman ceased their performance. They stood, facing each other, open space kept in between as they both heaved their chests, catching a breath they did not know they had lost somewhere in their movements.
“You dance beautifully,” he spoke between gasps. “I never thought to find such a performance out on the field, amongst so much ugliness.”
She gestured to the corpses littered around her. “I did not bring the ugliness. You did. Should you have not brought so many bodies with you, perhaps they would not litter the ground here. Then my dance could have simply continued on its beautiful stage.”
He smiled at her. It was full of warmth. “I could never have matched your dance, if I had not seen it before.”
Finally, she smiled as well. He was not better than her; he watched much, and like her, danced in his head often before performing. “You are wise, but foolish. My dance is inevitable for all. You will join the Dance, or you will become part of the stage as well.”
He nodded, although he did not show a hint of understanding otherwise. “There is another option. The music does not end at my home. You could come dance for me.”
She looked at the man curiously. Music does not end? This seemed unlikely. “You will die. All who come to my dance will die. Do you truly wish this?”
He laughed. “Not all dances lead to death, darling. Not all music leads to dancing. Don’t you wish to listen, dove? Music can be its own end, and dancing need not be done with a blade.”
She stood, staring at the man. Her sword, dripping with blood, now laid limply at her side. A drop fell on her foot; it was warm, and she could feel it move slowly around her toe, seeking the earth and solace, freedom and rest.
The director’s words were harsh, although she did not understand them. The drums picked up once again, the flutes played quickly, the horns bayed her to return to the dance.
The sword dropped from her side. She closed her eyes. She felt the music, deeper than she ever had before, and it felt good to listen.
The man came up to her, dropping his sword as did. He took her arms, and lead in her a dance--a different dance, one she had not done before. She danced with him, her movements not counter to his but with them. She had no name for the feeling it brought to her.
There was shouting, but her eyes remained closed. The music slowly died.
“It is time to go home, my swan. Your dance is now your own; you can open your eyes.”
She took her time, enjoying the darkness and the dance for some time, even after the music had ended. The light was far brighter than she remembered.
She had practiced and performed her dance thousands of times before. Not only physically; when she sat, when she ate, when slept, she thought only of the dance. Every flitting step, every flick of her wrist, all of it had become rote. She had memorized the feeling of every landing, the pressure on her ankles and the precise timing of every turn.
It is for that reason she wept during this dance. For the first time since she started dancing, she was forced to dance with a partner.
She should have felt elated; her partner was amazing, graceful, flawless. Every move he made ran perfectly counter to hers, memorizing in its graceful but simple movements, each touch between them guiding her lightly without stopping her, and she guiding him with every movement of her hips, their feet matching at every cross step and gesture.
In reality, however, all she could feel was pain and fear. She had never met one who could dance as well as she. Her performance, her future, was in jeopardy. There was nothing else outside of the dance for her. She was certain she was not getting worse; her performance was somehow better every time. She was told many times her dance was perfected, but somehow she managed to improve upon it every time.
This time, someone had matched her dance. Someone whom she had never met before managed to dance as well as she. In fact, this must have been his first time. He must be better! There is no other explanation in her mind then: he was there to take her dance. The only way to keep dancing is to outdo him.
The musicians were growing tired; the horns ceased their bravado, blaring indiscriminately. The flutes left their lilting, playing boring melodies of low notes. Eventually, even the rhythm of the drums faded; the musicians were exhausted, and could play no more.
Man and woman ceased their performance. They stood, facing each other, open space kept in between as they both heaved their chests, catching a breath they did not know they had lost somewhere in their movements.
“You dance beautifully,” he spoke between gasps. “I never thought to find such a performance out on the field, amongst so much ugliness.”
She gestured to the corpses littered around her. “I did not bring the ugliness. You did. Should you have not brought so many bodies with you, perhaps they would not litter the ground here. Then my dance could have simply continued on its beautiful stage.”
He smiled at her. It was full of warmth. “I could never have matched your dance, if I had not seen it before.”
Finally, she smiled as well. He was not better than her; he watched much, and like her, danced in his head often before performing. “You are wise, but foolish. My dance is inevitable for all. You will join the Dance, or you will become part of the stage as well.”
He nodded, although he did not show a hint of understanding otherwise. “There is another option. The music does not end at my home. You could come dance for me.”
She looked at the man curiously. Music does not end? This seemed unlikely. “You will die. All who come to my dance will die. Do you truly wish this?”
He laughed. “Not all dances lead to death, darling. Not all music leads to dancing. Don’t you wish to listen, dove? Music can be its own end, and dancing need not be done with a blade.”
She stood, staring at the man. Her sword, dripping with blood, now laid limply at her side. A drop fell on her foot; it was warm, and she could feel it move slowly around her toe, seeking the earth and solace, freedom and rest.
The director’s words were harsh, although she did not understand them. The drums picked up once again, the flutes played quickly, the horns bayed her to return to the dance.
The sword dropped from her side. She closed her eyes. She felt the music, deeper than she ever had before, and it felt good to listen.
The man came up to her, dropping his sword as did. He took her arms, and lead in her a dance--a different dance, one she had not done before. She danced with him, her movements not counter to his but with them. She had no name for the feeling it brought to her.
There was shouting, but her eyes remained closed. The music slowly died.
“It is time to go home, my swan. Your dance is now your own; you can open your eyes.”
She took her time, enjoying the darkness and the dance for some time, even after the music had ended. The light was far brighter than she remembered.
Last Wish of the Djinni
The lamp looked to be something straight out of the stories. Covered in sand, sitting by itself in the middle of nowhere, gilded gold and gems adorning the outside. The young boy stared at it for some time, unbelieving what he was seeing. He loosened the wrapping around his face for a moment, trying to get a better look at it. Unable to contain his curiosity, he lifted the lamp for a closer look.
He first tried to lift the top off. It would not budge; unlike a normal lamp, the top seemed sealed. He got more and more excited; why would anyone prevent the top from opening, unless it’s not a normal lamp?
It took him two tries to get his courage up to rub the lamp with his sleeve, cleaning it off. The dust that arose from him made him cough, like a sudden sandstorm had come from the lamp itself. He dropped the lamp, shutting his eyes against the sand that erupted.
When he finally was able to open his eyes again, a man appeared before him. The dark-skinned, well-dressed man was missing everything below the waist, having it replaced by a small whirlwind of dust and sand. The cone cause sand to kick up at its base, but little else now.
“What is your wish, young one?” The man spoke in even tones, as if repeating something he’s said innumerable times.
“What do you mean?” the boy asked. He did not need to force the nervousness in his voice, although he did feign the ignorance.
“You may have any three wishes granted that your heart may desire,” the Djinn said with immeasurable patience. “You may never have more than three wishes, no matter what you say or do, and you may not give a wish to another. You may have anything that is within my power to give you; however, you may not wish to influence the mind or heart of another of your kind.”
The boy was smart, and thoughtful, and caring. He had heard many tales of the Djinn in all forms, from stories told in his town to things he read in books from foreign lands. Even the times he played with his friends, new stories of the Djinn would appear. None would end well for the one making the wish, and sometimes even worse for those around him.
“My first wish,” the boy said after much thought, “is for you to answer a question from me truthfully.”
“As you wish,” the Djinn said. His expression and tone changed little, as yet only showing patience.
“Is what they say true, that many have asked you of wishes, and it ends poorly every time?” The boy rushed his words, unable to disguise his hope that stories were just fables of caution.
“It is true, I am afraid.” The Djinn frowned, dejected at his own answer but pleased to deal with such an honest patron.
The boy stood with his bowed, obviously upset by the answer and wishing to take his time to decide just what his few remaining wishes should be.
“My second wish,” the boy said, raising his head to look at the Djinn in the eye once more, “is for you to answer another question from me truthfully.”
The Djinn looked at him, unable to hide the dubious expression. “As you wish,” he responded after a moment.
“Why? Why do people who have their wishes granted always regret it being so?”
The Djinn smiled. This was indeed a smart boy. “Because no person truly knows their desires; they only perceive problems, and wish for such things to fixed without effort. No one’s problems can ever be simply fixed however; no person’s life is so simple.”
The boy thought about this. It was hard to understand, but he believed the Djinn’s word, and strived to do so. “So, then the problem is not the one who grants the wishes, or the nature of the wishes, but the desire to have wishes granted.”
“It is so.” The Djinn crossed his arms, wondering what the boy could possibly have for his last wish.
The boy nodded, a serious look on his face. “Then for sake for all who follow, there is only one wish that my heart will allow me to make.
“I wish that none that find this lamp, from this time on until time ends, will ever have a wish granted.”
The sandstorm below the Djinn died suddenly. He fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, gasping in pain, struggling to draw breath. He looked at the boy, anger in his eyes. The boy stared at the writhing Djinn, coldly.
“Do not blame me,” he told the dying form beneath him. “You could have told any of those before me what you told me. Perhaps they would have been wise enough to turn you down, perhaps not; but this is the only end for those of you who lay curses among us willingly.”
“Don’t believe yourself righteous, child,” the djinn said, with its final breaths. “Don’t believe yourself a savior. I am not the only Djinn; your kind will forever seek us, for they are forever corrupted, and must always see their folly.”
The Djinn finally let go its corporeal form, becoming so much sand and joining the desert around them in which the boy had found it. “Then I shall find your kin,” the boy swore to desert, “and I will wish them all to the Desert, so that ‘my kind’ can instead find their wishes in hard work and purposeful effort.”
He picked up the lantern, dusting it off. No further dust spewed from the lantern, no sandstorm erupted from within. He took its loop, running it through his belt so it hung from his waist, a reminder and trophy of his new quest of vengeance. He wrapped his head in cloth once more, and took the first steps in his new life and purpose.
He first tried to lift the top off. It would not budge; unlike a normal lamp, the top seemed sealed. He got more and more excited; why would anyone prevent the top from opening, unless it’s not a normal lamp?
It took him two tries to get his courage up to rub the lamp with his sleeve, cleaning it off. The dust that arose from him made him cough, like a sudden sandstorm had come from the lamp itself. He dropped the lamp, shutting his eyes against the sand that erupted.
When he finally was able to open his eyes again, a man appeared before him. The dark-skinned, well-dressed man was missing everything below the waist, having it replaced by a small whirlwind of dust and sand. The cone cause sand to kick up at its base, but little else now.
“What is your wish, young one?” The man spoke in even tones, as if repeating something he’s said innumerable times.
“What do you mean?” the boy asked. He did not need to force the nervousness in his voice, although he did feign the ignorance.
“You may have any three wishes granted that your heart may desire,” the Djinn said with immeasurable patience. “You may never have more than three wishes, no matter what you say or do, and you may not give a wish to another. You may have anything that is within my power to give you; however, you may not wish to influence the mind or heart of another of your kind.”
The boy was smart, and thoughtful, and caring. He had heard many tales of the Djinn in all forms, from stories told in his town to things he read in books from foreign lands. Even the times he played with his friends, new stories of the Djinn would appear. None would end well for the one making the wish, and sometimes even worse for those around him.
“My first wish,” the boy said after much thought, “is for you to answer a question from me truthfully.”
“As you wish,” the Djinn said. His expression and tone changed little, as yet only showing patience.
“Is what they say true, that many have asked you of wishes, and it ends poorly every time?” The boy rushed his words, unable to disguise his hope that stories were just fables of caution.
“It is true, I am afraid.” The Djinn frowned, dejected at his own answer but pleased to deal with such an honest patron.
The boy stood with his bowed, obviously upset by the answer and wishing to take his time to decide just what his few remaining wishes should be.
“My second wish,” the boy said, raising his head to look at the Djinn in the eye once more, “is for you to answer another question from me truthfully.”
The Djinn looked at him, unable to hide the dubious expression. “As you wish,” he responded after a moment.
“Why? Why do people who have their wishes granted always regret it being so?”
The Djinn smiled. This was indeed a smart boy. “Because no person truly knows their desires; they only perceive problems, and wish for such things to fixed without effort. No one’s problems can ever be simply fixed however; no person’s life is so simple.”
The boy thought about this. It was hard to understand, but he believed the Djinn’s word, and strived to do so. “So, then the problem is not the one who grants the wishes, or the nature of the wishes, but the desire to have wishes granted.”
“It is so.” The Djinn crossed his arms, wondering what the boy could possibly have for his last wish.
The boy nodded, a serious look on his face. “Then for sake for all who follow, there is only one wish that my heart will allow me to make.
“I wish that none that find this lamp, from this time on until time ends, will ever have a wish granted.”
The sandstorm below the Djinn died suddenly. He fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, gasping in pain, struggling to draw breath. He looked at the boy, anger in his eyes. The boy stared at the writhing Djinn, coldly.
“Do not blame me,” he told the dying form beneath him. “You could have told any of those before me what you told me. Perhaps they would have been wise enough to turn you down, perhaps not; but this is the only end for those of you who lay curses among us willingly.”
“Don’t believe yourself righteous, child,” the djinn said, with its final breaths. “Don’t believe yourself a savior. I am not the only Djinn; your kind will forever seek us, for they are forever corrupted, and must always see their folly.”
The Djinn finally let go its corporeal form, becoming so much sand and joining the desert around them in which the boy had found it. “Then I shall find your kin,” the boy swore to desert, “and I will wish them all to the Desert, so that ‘my kind’ can instead find their wishes in hard work and purposeful effort.”
He picked up the lantern, dusting it off. No further dust spewed from the lantern, no sandstorm erupted from within. He took its loop, running it through his belt so it hung from his waist, a reminder and trophy of his new quest of vengeance. He wrapped his head in cloth once more, and took the first steps in his new life and purpose.
Monkey Leather
I didn’t even have a moment to open it before it was snatched from my hands. The figure that leapt away only stayed in my sight for a moment, ducking around a corner. I shrugged; it wasn’t my wallet after all, and chasing after someone who could have easily arrived shortly before I did seemed like more trouble than it would be worth. The metallic sound from the alleyway meant that he was either jumping a fence or climbing onto the fire escape of the building, so either way I didn’t stand much of a chance catching him.
So you can imagine my surprise when, rounding the next corner on the same block, I find the wallet on the ground in front of me, lazily laying on the sidewalk as if it were tired of waiting for me. It took me a moment to notice the nearby pool of blood that didn’t quite make it all the way to the soft brown leather. I picked up the wallet once again and followed the path. Afraid to look but unable to stop myself, I pushed myself around the corner to look down the nearby alleyway. All I managed to see before I pulled myself back was a human body, broken on the ground, its head twisted at an impossible angle and far smaller than it should have been.
The police station was only two blocks away, and I don’t believe I have run faster in my life. I escorted an officer to the scene, explaining what had happened and handing over the wallet afterward. She was quite kind, doing her best to make sure I was ok after encountering my first dead body. After checking with a few people who were standing nearby, she insisted I go home.
Knowing she was one of the few good police officers I had dealt with in my life made it that much harder when I found her body near my front door, two small, neat holes steaming in her chest right near her heart. The wallet stood nonchalantly nearby in the grass, open curiously but with no signs of being disturbed.
I looked inside. There were few identifying objects; no credit cards, no license, just a few of those discount grocer deals and a few business cards, none of which matched. One of them stood out: a collectibles shop that seemed to sell leather items. Seemed as good a place to start as any.
The owner of the place seemed as confused as I was when I showed him the wallet. He did manage to tell me one thing before the display of swords behind him dropped suddenly off the wall, a well-honed katana slicing his hand off at the wrist, the wallet tumbling from his grip and coming to a gentle rest against the inside of my foot.
He told me that the leather was made from the hide of a monkey. It was enough told that I was not surprised when his hand stood up and ran off on its own long before the paramedics arrived to try and save him.
So please, guy with the gun outside the subway station, I’m telling you one last time, for your own sake: Do not take my wallet.
Rant at people ranting at ME3 ending
Ok, if it wasn't obvious to those reading my G+ post, I'm a little peeved about this whole "Let's bitch at Bioware for the ending they put into the game that I love!" rant that seemingly everyone with the Internet as decided to get behind. it's absolutely ridiculous on many, many levels.
I'm not going to cross post it, so if you want to read my original rant, go here.
Let me put a warning here: I'm going to be spoilerific. The reason why I'm posting this on my blog is so that I CAN be spoilerific. For the most part, I don't think people are going to come read this unless they expect this, so if somehow, you've gotten this far and don't want to read on about the endings of Mass Effect 3, STOP READING NOW. Thank you.
Now, I've done a little more research, having a few more in-depth conversations with people, read a few blogs, looked up some rants on Youtube, checked out a few more of the endings myself, etc. I get it a bit more. I can sort of see why a lot of people are angry.
It's still REALLY DUMB. But I get it. If I made a bunch of stupid assumptions about what was going on without examining anything for myself, or decided to make enormous jumps in my conclusions as to what things mean, sure, I'd be pissed too. I'd be stupid, but I'd be pissed (but then, those two tend to go hand in hand pretty often).
There are a few, specific issues that have been brought up multiple times in multiple ways that I simply feel are inaccurate at best, and presumptive at worse. I'm going to start with the simpler ones.
There's been a lot of complaints that Shepherd's team somehow "miraculously" made it back to Normandy. Despite a clearing of the hot-zone you performed not too long ago, the fact that there are multiple Makos and other vehicles in the area, and the fact that the team all left you in the damn ship when it last exploded, seemingly everyone is SHOCKED that somehow, for some reason, your surviving team left for and made it to the Normandy while you died. Not sure how this is surprising, nor why people had to make up stories about teleporters.
Many people complained about the emotional connection, that they wouldn't have left it in that situation. Well, I'm sorry, but it came down to two things. Your team either saw you dead, or they saw you limp your way into the lift. The lift that took you to the Citadel, where you most likely weren't going to be returning to Earth unless the Citadel crashed. You limped through that damn place for the better part of an hour. It's not suprising that, when someone gave the order to retreat, your damn team beat feet.
The next issue I had is with people wanting to tell the little robot-child-thing off, shoot it or otherwise do something else than submit to the choices in that situation. My question is: what the fuck do you want Shepherd to do?? Bleed on it? It's a hologram! It's a program! It's NOT THERE!! You want to kill it? Well, low and behold, that's one of the GORRAM CHOICES!! Destroying the Repears destroys it too (and if you think about it, you're actually doing it the other way around: destory IT is what destroys the Reapers)! This isn't hard, people.
Seriously, what the hell else would Shepherd do in that situation?? Bleed out? The longer you wait, the more people die. Decisions are made. And when you're stuck in a room, dying, with a few decisions in front of you, not making a decision, or telling the child to fuck off without doing anything, is dying, and condemning everyone else to dying. Seriously, what else do you want? Getting three options (assuming you came fully prepared) was a bit shocking, in my opinion.
Ok, now to get all pseudo-gaming-science all up in this bitch.
First of all: This whole "People are stranded here" thing.
They have said MULTIPLE TIMES throughout the games--twice in ME3 alone!!--that FTL travel between systems is entirely possible. it just takes years, instead of seconds. The relays were a convenience more than anything else... In fact, some times when you escape a system from the Reapers, Evi says, "Faster than light jump successful."
So, they're not fucking stranded. If the ships they are using can use the stupid relays, they can use FTL. Granted, it's just gonna take the better part of a decade (for some, like the Quarians and the Geth, it's could take almost half a century, but they're the best equipped to handle it anyway). Seriously, if you think they're stranded their, either (a) you haven't been paying attention the entire game, or (b) you're stupid, and you're not thinking about it.
Ok, second: Joker running away.
First of all, if I saw a giant wave of destructive energy shooting out at me, and Shepherd was confirmed dead... HELL YEAH I'D RUN!! His loyalty is to the friggin' ship. That was made obvious at the beginning.
My only problem is that he was smiling when he got off the crashed ship. He should have been pissed, and definitely shouldn't be the first one off the ship.
Setting that aside...
The reviews and rants I have read lead me to believe that everyone assumes Joker went to a Mass Effect relay and jumped. Assuming he did so, yeah, this entire ending would be ridiculous. With this assumption, you also had to be assuming that Joker pretty much had to start running almost as soon as Shepherd got hit with the laser-blast-thing.
Ok, let's just assume this is wrong because it's stupid. Why would anyone write an ending where that kind of simple physics issue is overlooked? Heck, they even mentioned something in game about on-board sound-synthesizers that make it sound like an explosion happens in space when there isn't one (although, scientifically, that's still in question). If you take away that assumption, and just assume that Joker hit the ship's FTL when crazy-ray-of-WTF-ness started happening, it doesn't seem that illogical anymore, right? Why did anyone even jump to this conclusion?
To make it worse, the ending pretty much takes us by the hand, doing its best to try to show us that this didn't happen in a Mass Relay jump.
Three considerations: One, he's making adjustments and piloting. This means he is NOT traveling via the Relays, as that is near-instantaneous, and he's said before that he makes all adjustments for jumps before he touches the relay. Two: the beam *caught him*. No way it could do that in near-instantaneous travel. Three: The beam that caught him was a wave, not the destructive-looking-lazer-thing shot out by the relays, but the wave that came of the Crucible. That means he's not on the relay's path.
The only logical thing was that, as crazy shit started to go down, he hit FTL tried to escape with the fleet, and got caught in the blast from the Crucible. Regardless of which ending you choose, the subsequent change to Edi would mess with the ship, pull it out of FTL, and cause the ship to crash.
Ok, that is done.
So this pretty much reduces the complaints the fact that they haven't wrapped up everyone elses' stories (which I hope they do in comics and books, and not in this game, because I loved the other media), the lack of more variation in the endings (ok, seriously, I don't know what you were expecting here, high quality CG is expensive especially in design, and what they pulled off was great-looking, and IMO it all had to end somewhat the same way anyway), and the fact that the endings were color-coded.
I do have to admit, I am kind of irritated by the color-coded-morality endings (although I don't think they correspond entirely). Still, I understand why they did it: Because they took us by the fucking hand while trying to still do a decent, somewhat artistic ending, and we still didn't get it.
So shut up. However much I don't like including myself in this, it's our fault this crap is happening, and our bitching and whining just means we're going to have more Navis in our future.
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