Excerpt: The Sun's Other Shore

And now I think I believe that the most beautiful story is the one that is never fully told. I saw you standing at the crown of that tall hill behind the old country church barefoot and empty-handed, a sun-dress sentinel at the fading of the day. The late-date breezes had whipped your loose hair into a auburn corona that caught and reflected the sun's fiery light. You raised your arms to embrace the setting sun, and in that moment I knew you held some secret knowledge that I could never comprehend; some fey union between beauty and the sun. By the next dawn I knew I was lost, had fallen hopelessly for the sun-maiden I had seen you become.

It has been a year since that day. I see the sun-maiden yet, but only in flickers and starts like a candle in a drafty place. There are secrets behind your eyes—I see them—but you blind yourself to any mirrored moment. I wonder now if your raised arms were not an adoration to the sun but a desperate prayer to be set ablaze, and ushered into the midnight bleakness of the sun's other shore. It has been a year since that day, and every dawn breaks a small portion of my heart and my breath quickens at every sunset.

This dream brought to you by Marvel and La Alianza de Liberación

Another curious dream last night.

Deep in a hidden valley in the Colombian Andes, a fenced compound houses the few-dozen members of La Alianza de Liberación (The Liberation Alliance), a revolutionary group attempting to overthrow the Colombian drug lords and restore liberty and order to their country. They are like David trying to take on a mighty Goliath, and so they have not acted yet, but between secret shipments of supplies from the U.S. government and the support of Ironman, they are growing more bold.

Not all is well, however. The drug lords have begun to notice that Ironman has been uncommonly active in their country, and are trying to find out what's going on. It's only a matter of time before La Alianza's hideout is discovered.

One day, after Ironman has left the compound after meeting with La Alianza's leaders, some strangers arrive at the compound. Two young men in a beat-up old pickup truck arrive at the gates, asking for work. The leader, suspicious, says that they may paint the gate in return for some food, but can only paint the outside and may not come inside the compound. They apparently do such a good job that the leader asks if they can come back and paint the compound's other gate as well. Then the following exchange takes place.

((This is not a direct transcript of the conversation between the leader and the painters. With the exception of Ironman, every character spoke Spanish, which is weird and cool because I studied it for a while but I'm not anywhere close to fluent. I could follow the conversations with a little trouble, but I couldn't recite or translate them verbatim. Also, it was a dream.))

"You did a very good job!"
"Thank you. We have been looking for work for a long time, but no one will hire us."
"Would you like to come back next week and paint the other gate?"
The two painters talk between themselves for a moment. "We don't know. We thought we saw Ironman as we were driving around. Is that true?"
"...Yes, Ironman has been here."
"We do not feel safe. What if he attacks us?"
"I will keep him on the opposite side of the compound!"
"We still won't do it. We have seen how he can shoot from his hands. It could even break through the fence."
"If you must, you can return at a time he is not here."

The painters, after a moment's deliberation, agree to this and go on their way. The leader returns to the compound to examine the most recent air-drop from the United States. Automatic weapons, ammunition, and rations. Little does he know that the painters were actually cartel spies, who now not only know where the La Alianza's compound is, but that Ironman is their ally, and that he is not there.

Possible NaNoWriMo intro - Before the Storms Began

This morning, I saw a woman with red hair wearing a flannel shirt. She looked worried and preoccupied, like she was late to something, and the humid weather caused her wild hair to frame her face like a glowing nimbus in the morning sunlight. I saw a woman with red hair wearing a flannel shirt and the only thought I had was, "at least it's not her." That in and of itself was a virtue beyond measure...and the only reason I didn't try to smile and strike up a conversation. By the time I got to work, dark clouds had covered the sun and the still air was heavy with the thought of storms.

Another Sutfield quote

"The darker was the past, the brighter must we shine as beacons, in hope that no one else will ever find themselves lost upon those bleak paths."

- -Ian Beckett Sutfield

One of my favorite snarks of all time =)

Alan: "Burn like lightning - charged, bright, and beyond comprehension."

Brian: "Burn like lightning: swift, skinny, and all-too-predictably seduced by the wink of a cute lightning rod."

Between Friends - dialogue sketch

Isabelle pouted playfully, looking up at Will over her glasses. "Why do you always make fun of me like that? Is it because you don't like me?"

Will dropped the goofy grin he'd been sporting. "Actually, it's because I'm completely, one-hundred percent infatuated with you."

"See? That's what I'm talking about - you're doing it again!"

"No, I'm serious. I never planned to tell you but I guess I just boned that up pretty bad... 'Cause, well, y'know, you're in a relationship, and I have a strict policy about being a homewrecker. 'Don't do it,' actually. That's my policy."

"Oh, wow. I had no idea."

"Really? I'm kind of surprised. Subtlety ain't exactly my string suit."

"I know, I know. I guess I didn't notice because of all my stress from school and practice and no sleep. But, wow...you really like me?"

"Mmhmm. I mean, I wasn't going to tell you or anything." Will pointed toward his eyes, and then his glasses. "I may be mostly blind, but I've got four eyes and sometimes even I catch on about stuff. Like how it's a generally bad idea to hit on someone who's already in a relationship. Besides, there's already a waiting list."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do..." Isabelle threw her arms around Will, hugging him fiercely. "I'm so sorry, darlin'. I wish this situation was different."

"I dunno. If it was different, you might be having this conversation with me instead of the other way around. And I don't think I would wish that on you. And you've got enough going on."

"Meh."

They both stood in silence for a few moments.

"Well...it's late. I need to be going. I have work in the morning. I can walk you back before I go, if you want. Unless you're going over to his place. Then it probably wouldn't be a great idea. Could be funny, though." A wry smile touched his lips.

"Yeah, no... probably not. I'll see you soon, though?"

"Not sure. I don't have another day off until Sunday. Call me if you need anything, though. And good luck with stuff. I hope you get some sleep."

Dreams from last night

I can't remember the whole thing any more, but here are the highlights:

- killing gremlin/smurf/ewok thingies to prove that violence is not, in fact, the answer.
- she asked, "have you ever made out to Rodgers & Hammerstein?" and then put on CCR's Up Around the Bend.
- walking into a crowded theater with a girl balanced on my shoulders and looking around for a seat "tall enough for two". The autoharp player who was performing just looked at us and nodded in approval.
- stealing empty water bottles from the same crowded theater the next day in order to save a golden duck (no autoharp this time).

The Brier

I walked alone in a foggy morn looking for a hand to hold
Your eyes were bright, foxfire light glowing in the shadows
You held out your hand
And I took it happily
I wrapped myself around
Your finger dutifully
But as the sun rose higher
The fog turned into fire
And you ran, you ran away

Whither blows the wind, there shall I have already been
And that which is beautiful, shall I have already seen
Hoping to feel
That all-consuming flame
I followed you blindly
Through the tempest and the rain
But you led me to the slaughter
You were the fairy-queen's daughter
And a huntress all the same

Cast your arrows, they wound me not
For I am made of stones
My weakness is but water
That in between them flows
A hundred thousand lands I've seen
They all have come and gone
But now I'm trapped beneath your spell
Just like a baby fawn
Caught in the brier
Caught in the brier

I knew that if I shone bright enough I could break your spell
But every word, every deed, every thought didn't do so well
I sang to the stars
If only I knew what to do
Or give of myself
To gain favor from you
But your soul is a well
That I could never fill
Though I poured myself in just the same

Your eyes flash with a golden light
To melt this heart of stone
Into broken sigh teardrops
That like a river flows
Tinted red from the hungry thorns
That thirst for blood drawn
So strike at me now, my love
Just like a baby fawn
Caught in the brier
Caught in the brier

Caught in the brier

"Magic"

((I'm not sure if this is going to turn into a story or not, but man was it fun to write.))

"Some people are magical. There's just something about them that cuts through the stuff of this world and excites a part of the soul that normally lies dormant. There are some people who look strange when they fall asleep, like they're out of place in this world of human cares; people who, if this world were destroyed in an instant, they would still be there in the empty void, sleeping peacefully."

"Some people are magical, but not everyone is magical in the same way. Some people, like me, are magical because they seek it out. I surround myself with the fantastic, quest for it, seek it out. I wrestle with the world until it gives me magic because I want it that badly. There are other people, though who are magic through and through, to their very essence. She's one of them. Every word she says, every thing she does, even the way she moves and the way her face glows when she smiles, is infused with a spark of fey mystery that no conscious effort could ever reproduce. Every brief encounter tears my defenses to shreds, leaving me ravaged and overcome with an indescribable longing - for her of course, but more so for distant shores and high mountaintops, soaring trees in untouched forests and the riotous colors of heathland in the midst of blooming season. Time becomes meaningless outside the recurring cycle of dawn and dusk, midday and midnight; distance matters only as it measures the separation between me and my goals; actions bow in reverence to quests, and words have power. Not the 'sticks and stones' kind, but real Power of the kind no linguist or physicist could ever hope to explain."

"Some people are magical, but perhaps it is a curse to know them. Can one really become close to someone imbued with that kind of magic? Or is it a fruitless effort, like standing at the top of a hill and trying to embrace the sun?"

Mistaken Identities and the Zen of Academic Time Travel

Mistaken identities are no new game for me. After all, I have a background (however slight!) in acting, and even more substantial experience with roleplaying games and LARPs (go ahead and judge me...I think it's funny, too!), so assuming alter egos is something I'm comfortable with. What's slightly more unusual is when someone else is mistaken for me, or when I'm mistaken for someone I most decidedly am not! A friend thought she saw me over the weekend, but it turned out to be a doppelganger in a different-colored car. Another friend thought she saw me at the school I work at, but it was the same story all over again! (I haven't been able to corroborate those stories yet to see if it might have been the same guy or not).

Once, at a Renaissance Faire, I was mistaken for a vendor while perusing a costume shop, and the customer tried to haggle with me over a very nice overcoat until I was able to convince him I was just a typical "playtron". In college, it took nearly 2 weeks to convince one of my friends and classmates that I was not a fellow English major...I just had a soft spot for Shakespeare and a penchant for vandalizing classic poetry.

But now...things have risen to a new level.

After returning home from work today, I checked the mail and had a fairly substantial package in the mailbox from Emory University. I was a little surprised, but it wasn't entirely unexpected - I get occasional mailings from them because I participated in their YTI summer program back in 2004. I opened the package and was a little perplexed to find that it contained an informational poster and a catalog from the Center for the Study of Law and Religion. Also included was a cover letter which reads, in part:

"Dear Colleagues,

I take the liberty of writing to ask for your help in alerting your students to the work of our Center for the Study of Law and Religion at Emory University and encouraging them to apply to one of our advanced degree programs.

... ... ...

I would be most grateful if you display the enclosed poster and publication catalog for your pre-law and pre-seminary students. ..."

Colleague. Your students. More specifically, your pre-law and pre-seminary students.

Somehow, I seem to have managed to acquire a terminal degree (or two!) and lead a successful (possibly tenured?) professorial career, without even realizing it! And at such a young age, too! I have friends who occasionally remind me that I underestimate myself, and other friends who are quick to tell me I'm an over-achiever, but I didn't realize I was that committed! It's true that in the past I've considered both JD and MDiv as possible degree paths...but I didn't realize I'd already achieved them.

Or maybe this letter is from the future, and is a portent of a nascent career waiting to unfold? I'm sure someone with a background in law and religion, and with a good sense of humor, could find the loopholes in dogmatic law that would allow for time travel, right? ;)

All light-hearted jesting aside, Emory University is a good school, and while I may have received this package in error (even though it was addressed specifically to me), I am happy to pass along the information contained therein.

AND SO...if you have an interest in learning more about Emory's Center for Study of Law and Religion, please check out their website at http://cslr.law.emory.edu/
If you're local, and would look over the information I was sent in person, contact me and we can set up a time to meet and peruse the catalog and visit for a while.

Be well!

Writer's Bloc

There are a lot of reasons (excuses) I give myself not to write, but there's one that stands out as an extension not only of the trouble I have thinking of stories, but also an issue I find myself considering (in various aspects) on a regular basis.

The main purpose of a fictional work, in a traditional sense, is to tell a story about a character, typically focusing on a single character more closely than others even in a story with a stable of protagonists. (I know this is a generalization, and that there are specific examples that break this trend, but I'm making no attempt to cover those specific cases - in my mind I'm addressing literature in general)

The "problem" I run into is that for a story to catch the attention of the readers, the character about with the story is written must be interesting in some way - exceptional in ability, motive, or circumstance...in short, a character who is expressed as an individual, rather than as a thread in a collective narrative.

The collective narrative is the "background" of a story that we, as readers, share with each other and with the characters of that story as being a common set of assumptions about the way the constructed reality of the story works. In general, these assumptions are causal and ubiquitous - in a story set in the modern day, the collective narrative tells us that (barring exceptional circumstances) turning a key in the ignition of a car will cause it to start. Flipping a switch will turn on a lightbulb. Educated people, white people, males, and urban/suburban-dwelling people typically enjoy certain privileges less likely to be shared by their less-educated, non-white, female, and rural counterparts. In a historical setting, the collective narrative might suggest different ethical norms, or different styles of dress. In a fantasy setting, the collective narrative might suggest that—so long as the prescribed formulae are observed—magic works, or that dragons eat peasants. The collective narrative provides the framework (often drawn from tropes already present in the genre, or normative cultural memes) through which the author, the characters, and the reader can come together and create a common understanding of the world the story exists in.

What makes most stories interesting, however, is that the central characters exist beyond the collective narrative - the characters, and consequently the stories, that we enjoy the most are decidedly non-normative. The stories we are drawn to are the stories of characters who defy normativity and pursue, either voluntarily or by necessity, goals that exist outside the realm of their typical experience.

Let's imagine the renown Lord of the Rings trilogy. Would Tolkien's famous story have been nearly as compelling if Frodo had remained in the Shire and pursued the normative goals of his hobbit community, rather than embarking on an adventure that would become a world-saving quest? I suspect most readers would say "hell no!" to this.

And yet, for me, this is one of the hardest parts of writing. Partly by upbringing, and partly by scholastic training (I studied sociology as an undergraduate), I have a strong tendency to seek out and identify institutions and cultural norms, and to try and intuit how they operate individually and collectively. I've developed certain schemata to a level of sophistication so that when a person mentions a certain action in a certain context, my mind immediately begins to identify cultural and institutional factors that would come to play, and probably series of events that would result from the interaction of the person' action, and the collective response to that action. In short, these institutions and norms create a sort of system that informs the collective narrative (in this case, the narrative being real life). And in most instances, the major purpose of the collective narrative is to preserve and iterate itself, to ensure the longevity of the society it reinforces.

With this in mind, every fictional story (and a great deal of non-fiction as well!) becomes, in addition to everything else it is, a story dealing directly with the role of an exceptional individual in a society with a self-defensive resistance to exception. It automatically becomes a narrative relating the conflict of the individual against the collective. By their roles and their actions, the central characters of a story challenge some of the basic assumptions of the collective narrative they exist in.

What still causes a great deal of dissonance to me is that so very often, the central characters of these stories are successful in their endeavors. This doesn't equate with either the schemata I've constructed about the way a collective narrative works, or my own personal experience. And so although I find myself continually returning to written word as a means of expression, and discover powerful ideas locked in my imagination, I have a great deal of trouble committing them to paper because the motion of individual achievement is in conflict with my expectation of a collective narrative that represses individualism in the interest of self-preservation.

Now I want to make it clear that I do not have any objection to exceptionalism, or to individual achievement either in real life or in literature. I get just as invested in stories of triumph against overwhelming odds as do most readers. Rather, as I was thinking about writing and storytelling, I began to realize one of the major reasons I have trouble writing stories that I find satisfying...or finishing stories that I do. Every story contains at least two seeds - the story of individual achievement, and the story of the collective narrative. In my mind, I tend to automatically assume the collective narrative carries more weight than the individual achievement, and so I arbitrarily limit myself not to what the central characters can do, but rather what they could do.

When writing, it's important to keep in mind that the collective narrative is a cohesive system, but it's not a closed system. There is no reason that a character can't challenge a very basic assumption of that narrative through the course of a story, and do so successfully. Interesting characters are liberated from the collective narrative, and given freedom to ignore, break, or even change the "rules" that govern them. Don't let anything limit your imagination! Just be careful about how you handle it - an incomplete narrative can destroy verisimilitude, interrupt the natural flow of a story, and potentially confuse and frustrate readers. If readers can't extrapolate the rules of the collective narrative from your story, then they'll be less able to appreciate when your central characters break those rules.

"If your life had a face, I would punch it"

I saw Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World this week. I loved it.

There, movie review aside, now I can get into what I'm really thinking about.

One of the most interesting elements of the movie to me was the character of Scott Pilgrim himself. In both the movie and the graphic novels upon which they're based, Scott is portrayed generally as a loser, with a serious disconnect from reality. Rather than interacting with his environment directly the way his friends, band members, antagonists, and even his major love interest do (albeit some of them in exceptionally skewed ways - I mean, in addition to being burned pretty bad, you'd also have to be a bit touched to devote the most substantial energies of your life to pursuing revenge against someone who broke your heart), he is consistently portrayed as once-removed from real life - only filtering his experiences through a schema constructed from the debris of classic-era video games.

There's a part of me that wants to say, "What the hell, Scot Pilgrim? What the hell?" This mindset seems like a textbook display of dissociation and anomie (or is that a little strong?) adopted by someone who feels largely alienated by the world they exist in. This coupled with Scott's initial lack of meaningful personal relationships, personal property, his naivety (whether real or affected), and uncommonly bad memory (played mostly for comic effect, but also potentially indicative of greater psychosocial concerns) seem to indicate a personality who has surrendered all existential agency. The recurring videogame metaphor also serves to reinforce this interpretation by implying that Scott, like the reader or viewer, is also part of the audience - an observer of his own life.

From here, it's tempting to go into a blistering tirade about how Scott needs to break through these self-imposed illusions and face life directly, and to critique his path toward maturation across the 6 volumes of the graphic novel or the 2 hours of the movie (although this journey is less obvious on the big screen; I guess that's partly a result of the limitations of transposing a story between media!). But I have to take a breath and pause before I dive into that and remind myself that I do the precise same thing.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that while I enjoy videogames, I didn't get into them until late in my youth, so they never had an extremely high impact on the development of my personal schema. Music and sci-fi/fantasy novels were always more my thing. I should also say that Scott Pilgrim exists as an exceptional case - because of his status as a fictional character, Scott exists as an uncommonly extensive and well-crystallized example of the mindset I'm referring to. However, the fact remains that I, as a young male adult in my early-to-mid 20s, find myself commonly viewing my experiences through a lens cobbled together from themes, tropes, and symbolic constructs of the media with which I most familiar.

In many ways, this is a natural reaction - the enormous complexity of social relationships makes them overwhelming to face without some form of interpretive schema in place - the ages-old concepts of "family", "race", "nation", and "religion" are good examples of interpretive schemata people have used to make social realities into comprehensible, describable units. However, after reading the Scott Pilgrim graphic novels and watching the movie, and then taking a look at my own experiences, I realize that in some instances these schemata become so comprehensive they can be used by the naive or disillusioned as substitutes for experienced reality; i.e., rather than Scott's experiences being compared to a videogame his life becomes a videogame, at least in his own mind.

What I wonder about is the scale and prevalence of these interpretive schemata. To be willing to accept a sufficiently complex schema as a substitute for experienced reality suggests an "experiential fluidity" stemming either from a disillusionment with the importance of one's experienced reality on one's life, or an intentional willingness to accept known fictions as equally (or nearly equally) valid as real events. Perhaps this is due to the explosion of telecommunications networks over the past 20 years, and the proliferation of easy-access news media - on a daily basis, many of us are exposed to a relentless barrage of stories we are expected to accept as true, but which fall largely outside our realm of experience (I remember how difficult it was to fathom the enormity of the Russian wildfires that have been burning through the summer until I was able to relate it to a fire-based experience from my own life, and then extrapolate outward).

Is there a generational component to this mindset? I'm in my early-to-mid 20s, as is Scott. Bryan Lee O'Malley, the author of the Scott Pilgrim series is less than 10 years removed from his protagonist. All three of us have grown up in the media environment I alluded to in the previous paragraph. However, the similarity in ages also points out the necessity for an external reference. Has this pattern of blurring the experience/interpretation line occurred in the past, and we're simply at a new iteration? This seems likely, but what social or cultural circumstances cause it to occur? Compared to past blurrings how does this iteration compare in terms of scale, or proliferation?

Speaking of proliferation, is this mindset prolific at all? There's certainly a personality type that is more likely to adopt this mindset - I think it's a safe argument to make that videogames, music, movies and television, art, and literature provides a more stimulating account than most real-life experiences (especially when you factor in special effects!), and this appeals strongly to imaginative and curious people, as well as those with high sensation-seeking tendencies. Is Scott one of those people? Am I? Is this tendency limited to people expressing those traits, or is it truly spreading throughout our culture as media outlets regularly expose broad audiences to visions of life that, even when mundane, far exceed the sensationalism of most people's experiences?

I have some suspicions on this topic, but mostly I have a handful of observations and another handful of questions. Scott Pilgrim is a character that could be given an interesting treatment from a sociological, psychological, or existential perspective (any senior English majors looking for a thesis project? =P), but that's not my intention with this post. I simply wanted to note how the Scott Pilgrim series revolves around a protagonist who's experience of reality has been replaced, in whole or in part, by an interpretive schema constructed primarily from elements of a fictional medium.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go defeat some Sandwich Gremlins so I can eat lunch!

"Is this the party to whom I am speaking?"

Once in a while, I get a little snarky while I'm on the phone. Here are a couple of novelty greetings I've used in the past few months (don't worry - only on people I know!):

"Down-home Bait Shop and Fish Fry - you hook 'em and we cook 'em. How may I help you?"

"Roadside Bakery and Game Shop - we roll dough while you roll dice. This is Alan speaking."

(And just one more along those lines!) "Deep Blue Jewelers and Exotic Shark Aquarium - we make watches while you watch makos."

"I'm sorry, we're closed."

"This is 1534 - how may'st I help thee?"

What's the cleverest phone greeting you've ever said or heard?

Ian Beckett Sutfield

"Any socialite can tell you that the art of interaction is a performative one. Like any actor, one must commit without investment or else be overwhelmed by the weight of expectation from the others. A relationship, by contrast, is quite the opposite. The pursuit of relationship demands investment with no guarantee—only the hope—of commitment. In a world of isolation perhaps we could all find contentment within ourselves, but as we live necessarily in the company of others, we must consider carefully how we choose to balance performance against affection - self-defense against selfishness. It is in the perfect tension between these two forces that allow us to transcend our own concerns and have any lasting impact on the world."

- -Ian Beckett Sutfield

My life would make an interesting "Syfy" original movie

Yesterday I ran into someone I am almost certain I went to school with about 10 years ago. A check of my 7th grade yearbook confirmed my suspicion (and means that I'm not just imagining the person!)...but aside from that, I haven't been able to find any record of this person at all - it's almost like they don't exist!

If this were a movie, over the weekend that person would probably find a way to get in touch with me through unexpected channels, and reveal themselves to be a spy, an agent for a clandestine organization with mysterious motives, or a space alien. This would in turn result in a tense, action-packed adventure (involving lots of chase scenes and explosions!) that would involve me in some convoluted plot to protect a diplomat's wife, a nation, or the entire world. Since this is real life, though, I guess it just means my search is at an end, and the mystery remains in place.

Oh well - the world needs some good (non-threatening) mysteries in it!

My dreams would make an interesting "Syfy" original movie

I posted this on another site earlier, so it may be a little familiar, but I wanted to put it here so it was in a slightly more permanent medium.

My dreams are...unusually cinematic!

I dreamt that Robert Sean Leonard was the Green Knight, "the impregnable warrior" who could not be wounded, and he was challenged by "The Alien Terror" - a half-predator gladiator from one of the Rim planets (the result of a genetic hybrid program instituted as a last-ditch effort to oppose the Alliance. It resulted in only one viable warrior, however, and he was mentally unstable and had a bestial intelligence, and either escaped or was "liberated" in the chaos at the end of the war) so strong he could go through anyone's stomach with a single punch. Friar Tuck was the leader of the "resistance" that was loosely organized to oppose the Alien Terror and his tyrannical masters. Friar Tuck had been enchanted (cursed?) so that he was half-bear; his robe (which was actually an outer layer of his own flesh) was of living bear hide, and provided him better protection that human skin, but was also scarred and tattered from past fights he'd gotten in.

Dramatic tension ensued when it was discovered that magic was actually a by-product of a future technology that - when finally discovered - would end up destroying the world, and then just before the confrontation between the Green Knight and the Alien Terror, the dream narrator (me, I guess!) was accidentally sent through space and time to 2006, in the town I grew up in. I ended up in the closet of a friend of mine, somehow having interpreted a cryptic statement from Friar Tuck to mean that I had to cause minor changes in history to prevent a falling-out between my friend and her mother that would lead to us not talking for years - a silence that would, somehow, cause her to begin developing the technology that would destroy Earth and other planets (and when accidentally jettisoned in another time era, would become the source of magic).

Over the course of the night I worked as quickly and quietly as I could to make the necessary changes without waking her up, and then retreated back to the closet when she seemed about to wake up. A little while longer passed and I thought I was alone in the room, so I decided it was time to sneak out and try to find a way back to my own post apocalyptic sci-fi-fantasy-western time era. I opened the closet door and stepped out into the room, and my friend said, "thanks for trying to work quietly last night" (she had been sitting - just out of sight - around the corner of her dresser)! But before I could respond to her, or find out if future-me interacting with past-her would cause a time paradox (especially since past-me lived close by), my alarm clock went off and I woke up!

So, obviously I remember parts of the dream better than others, but it was still a very strange experience, and I still remember it almost 12 hours later!

Also, I'm really intrigued about how and why the dream combined so many different fandoms (at the very least there was Firefly, Final Fantasy, Robin Hood, Quantum Leap, Predator, Terminator, and King Arthur), many of which I don't watch or read! O_o

...By its cover

"Angsting in the dark" has become a sort of catchphrase among a certain circle of my friends, a tongue-in-cheek snipe at "emo kids" and people who like black hair dye, Hot Topic, feeling depressed, and goth music. As with any jibe, however, there seems to be a seed of truth to it. I don't know if it's the same for everyone but I know that as far as I'm concerned, nighttime, rainstorms, and cold weather tend to be the times I become most introspective. During bright days and warmer weather, I usually find myself too wrapped up in joie de vivre, "real world" stress, or a lethargic mental state exacerbated by excessive heat to spend too much time introspecting or dwelling on matters of a more existential bent.

I was kind of surprised, then, when I started to realize that this hot, muggy, oppressive spell we've been going through has elicited just that reaction, and through an unexpected medium.

Considering that I've lived with it my entire life, it's kind of amazing how little attention I've ever paid to my skin, but how very much it seems to express. I touch my arms, and my skin feels both cool and hot at the same time, maybe even in the same spot. There's a softness to it in places, while in other spots there's a toughness that takes it as faith and a matter of fact that needles won't prick it, paper won't cut it, and hot steering wheels won't burn it. And the color, which sometimes seems so uniformly pale in the wintertime, becomes vibrant this time of year. My neck has been sun-baked into a permanent terracotta, somewhere between the powdery dirt your feet kick up on bone-dry days, and the heavy red clay native to where I grew up. My arms, my legs, the rest of my body, follows a gradient from pale and sandy to bold, ruddy hues. Across my shoulders where a shirt normally lies, freckles stand out like beacons against the washed-out background, but on my arms and face they sprawl and overlap so you can hardly tell them apart - too proud not to be seen, but too lazy to separate themselves from their peers. Underneath it all are the phantoms and traces of veins, which are visible even at this time of year. Bruises add to and get lost in the calamitous palette, bringing new shades (sometimes striking, sometimes muted) to my shins and knees and elbows. Thin seams of red allude to encounters with blackberry brambles, overly playful dogs, and similar adventures. In the heat and humidity, a thin sheen seems to coat my skin, making my clothes stick uncomfortably, and everything else more difficult to hold. When I itch from mosquito bites, the scratch marks last a while before fading away.

Even when it's ultimately depressing, there always seems something pristine about nighttime introspection. A person can conceive of their "self" as separate from their body, and thoughts and emotions somehow seem more "pure". When you can focus more directly on your thoughts and feelings, they seem more essential, almost monolithic. In the summertime, though, I never seem to be able to achieve this state - the heat and humidity and brightness cause a persistent, mild awareness of my own body that prevents me from achieving a wintry "pristine-ness". My thoughts are more scattered, more banal; less regal and more natural. Instead of the highest echelon of existential creation ("Oh what a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties. . ."), I feel unfinished - only partially formed.

And you know what? That's true. Summertime reminds me that in a field of athletes, I'm just the guy who likes to run around and kick the ball; that in a gallery of fine statues, I'm just a schoolchild's sculpture - a farm animal made of paper-mâché. Never before have I been a complete work, and even now I'm still in the process of becoming - and I have all the inconsistent textures, asymmetries, uneven colors, and gracelessness to prove it.

This summer I've felt like a lot of dirt and sweat and roughness, but that's been a reminder I needed. As lofty and noble as the spires of philosophy are, how can you expect to reach them without a foundation in what it is to be human, a foundation built on dirt and sweat and roughness?

Five lines of frustration

A bit earlier, I was following a conversation about the BP oil spill, and amidst the typical (and, let's face it, pretty dang enticing) anti-BP sentiments, one of the participants made a comment about "kicking them while they're down", which got me thinking about the organization of things.

It's easy to demonize BP in it's entirety, and perhaps the main corporate structure, and the wing of the company that operates drilling and extraction equipment ought to be chastised. But as far as BP filling stations go, most that I'm aware of are owned and operated by independent, small business owners who just happen to contract with BP as their fuel suppliers. Owners of BP filling stations are no more at fault that the owners of Citgo, or Wilco-Hess, or Circle K stations, and many of them are taking serious losses because of an oil drilling catastrophe they're really not at fault for. And this train of thought resulted in the following few lines which, while they probably appear to make light of the whole thing, just barely begin to scratch the surface of my confusion and frustration at the economic reach and complexity of this whole situation.

A big, international oil company

Did some things that caused lots of harrumph-ery

But the huge plume of crude

Gets the little guy screwed

And the whole thing makes me feel quite grumpery.

Weird Greensboro - The Longest Festival of the Year

A bit of a misnomer, the title is, but this past weekend (Sunday, in fact) was Greensboro's Summer Solstice Celebration - a celebration of the longest day of the year and the first day of summer (both of which actually occur today, Monday).

The main draw of the festival, of course, is the shopping. What good is a free festival if someone isn't profiting off jewelry, costume and accent pieces, funky clothing, body art, food and (most importantly) drinks to stave off the oppressiveness of the summer heat? I didn't do a lot of shopping myself - for one thing, it was simply too hot to stand in one place long enough to peruse all the different wares...if you had any intention of moving again, that is!

For those more willing to succumb to the summer heat than I, there were plenty of events to wow the eyes and ears. At the main stage area, there was a constant rotation of live music and dancing exhibitions, mostly traditional and folk dances of non-Western cultures. More music, dance, artistry, and even some acrobatics took place at other performance spaces around the park, and at 6 pm was perhaps the highlight of the festival - the butterfly release. Unfortunately, I neglected to keep an eye on the time so I was near the back of the crowd, but it was a real treat to see a hesitant spray of red- and orange-winged butterflies weaving drunkenly above the heads of the crowd in front of me. One of the little critters must have decided it needed a moment to orient itself and chose my left elbow as a promising perch, but unfortunately flitted off again before I could snag a photo. Not far off, however, a costumed woman had a butterfly light on her own wings (cloth-and-wire fairy wings) and her friends seemed positively thrilled to be able to photograph the occurrence.

Past that, things became an exciting blur. The friends I'd gone to the festival with had left early (their children weren't handling the heat too well), but I unexpectedly ran into quite a few other people that I knew. For the next few hours, I bounced from person to person and group to group, bopping around the festival site like the butterflies from a bit earlier. As the sun finally started to slip behind the trees, lines at the food vendors got longer and longer. Just about anything you would expect to find there was there! Hamburgers and hotdogs seemed like the most popular fare, but cold drinks and cold treats (one child was spotted with a Spongebob Squarepants shaped popsicle, and a friend shared a bite of Nutella flavored gelato—most likely provided by the delectable Gnam Gnam Gelato, located near The Fresh Market on Lawndale—that was positively heavenly!) made a strong showing, and I think I may have even seen a cupcake or two.

What impressed me most were the number of people at the festival that I knew either directly or indirectly. In addition to unexpected friends from high school, Guilford College, and other area schools, I ran into some local crafts people and Renaissance faire aficionados I'd met at other events, photographer Alan Welch, and even the author and artist of webcomic Spike Cartoons, a young woman who's ambition and imagination are sure to take her places.

Once dusk was finally at hand (it takes a while when it's the day before the longest day of the year), the dramatic conclusion of the festivities began as the fire dancing act started. Highlighted by the impressive acrobatic and balancing skills of Kara Chambers and Jacob Felder, and featuring the antics of local fire dancing troupe Flaming Faeries, the show had some impressive displays of fire poi, hoops, fans, umbrellas, and even a set of flaming fairy wings. The show was accompanied by some excellent music as well, including a piece danced to "Marco Polo" by Loreena McKennitt, one of my favorite musical artists.

All in all, the Summer Solstice Celebration is an excellent way to spend an afternoon if you live in the Triad and weren't already having a cookout for Father's Day. Afternoon temperatures and lack of shade across much of the festival area made the early parts of the festival really uncomfortable but once the shadows lengthened, good spirits and fun prevailed. Too bad the solstice cant be celebrated on the equinox, when the weather would be a bit more agreeable. ;)

Recent pursuits

I've been doing my best to read and write more, and have incidentally gotten myself back into gaming along the way. So far it's been entertaining, and a fun challenge to try and figure out plots and storylines that are both accessible to the players in my D&D group, and are interesting to me. Recently I've started wanted to play around with recurring villains, especially clever, scheming ones, but I'm not entirely certain what tack to take with this new challenge. How clever does a scheming villain have to be? When creating a villainous plot, should it be planned down to the very last detail and contingency, and what sort of allowances should be made just to "wing it"? In short, how much more work do I have to do as a GM to run a scheming villain?

If any friends of more game-ish experience have any tips, I'd be very appreciative!

A quick thought on deeper things

I've heard it often said that Jesus was sent to save mankind from the world, but sometimes I wonder if the goal may really have been to save the world from mankind? Jesus' impassioned messages of peace, justice, and harmony echo philosophies found throughout the entire world, on every peopled continent.

Perhaps the purpose of Christ was not to establish Christianity, but to remind those who followed that they too are a part of Creation, and joy and wonder resonate when Creation exists in harmony.

Mistral: A Fairy Tale

((Inspired by a collaborative project by AR and CH))

Once upon a time...

There was an island in the middle of the sea. The island was a place of magic and wonder, for it was the home of many strange and exotic things, things the like of which have not been seen in an age of ages. This island was unlike others that were chained to the sea, for it was free to move about. But while most floating islands could move across the sea, this island had the power to travel in time! No one knew when it would arrive, or when it would depart. The island was a thing of mystery.

On the island lived a fairie. The fairie was quick and bright, for he was made of fire and brass, and he loved to dance. But for all the joy that dancing brought him, he was unhappy. You see, he was in love with a beautiful fairie—one of dew and silk—but he had no voice, so he could not tell her of his love. And he was bound to the magic island with ties of blood. He could not leave the island to search for a voice, for then it would disappear into the mists of time.

The fairie decided that since he could not speak his heart, he would create a potion and give it to his true love. He searched long and hard across the whole island for the items he would need for this potion, and finally he was ready. But when the potion was prepared, something had gone wrong; every fairie on the island had fallen in love with him! They chased him across the island, begging to fly and to dance with him. "No, no!" he wanted to say, but he could not, so he hid from them.

He was saddened by his mistake, and he began to cry. His tears turned to steam as they fell from his eyes and landed on his fiery shoulders, and the steam crystallized into a silver dust that shimmered to the ground. On the ground, the dust formed words.

"Captured heart and bounded soul, the cutting edge shall be found of old."

The fairie wondered at these words, and then pricked his finger, letting a single drop of blood fall to the ground. The silver letters turned red as they drew the power from his blood, then sunk into the ground. The island rocked as it traveled far, far back in time.

In the past, the fairie met a warrior who carried a sword. "This sword is so sharp that it will cut through any bonds!" cried the warrior. "You may have it, but only if you can best me in a contest of skill in music!" The warrior then began to sing, and his voice was strong and pure.

The fairie was sad for he had no voice, but when his time came he had an idea. He took a deep breath, stoking the fire within him, and then pushed the hot air through the brass pipes that made up his bones and his wings. From every part of him resonated the sweetest sounds, as if played by the most beautiful pipes, and the wind swirled around him to accompany the tune. The warrior fell to his knees with tears in his eyes. "You have defeated me! You may go now with my sword and with my blessing!"

With the sword, the fairie returned to the proper time. He gathered all the other fairies around him and with mighty blows, he cut through the magic bonds created by his mistaken potion! Now free, the other fairies flew away one by one. His one true love—the beautiful fairie of dew and silk—flitted up to him and said, "why did you do that? If you loved me, all you needed to do was to kiss me."

And here my friends, is where our story, like all fairy tales, splits into two paths, each ending in it's own way. The first ending is the one we all know and hope for, that the fairie and his one true love lived

Happily ever after.

The other ending is not so sweet, but...well, perhaps I should just tell it to you and let you make up your own minds.

"Why did you do that? If you loved me, all you needed to do was to kiss me." She said these words, and then flew away.

The fairie was heartbroken. He fell to the ground weeping. Once more he breathed deep and the music resonated from him. But this time, the music was sad and lonely, full of loss and pain. So powerful was his hurt that the wind turned into a gale, and blew harshly against everything around. So absorbed in his song of grief was the fairie that he did not notice when his fire began to flicker, and then the mighty wind snuffed it out.

The fairie's body turned to stone, and then crumbled to dust as his last grieving notes were carried away by the wind. The island, now without a master, began to rock and spin, and soon was lost into the mists of time.

All that remained was the wind, still carrying the fairie's song. The wind is cold, since there is no more fire to warm it, and blows fiercely as it searches across the land for the island that was once its home. The people of Province call this wind "mistral" and "mange fange" and say that hearing it can drive a man to grief and madness. And this is the end of my story about the fairie made of fire and brass.

Placeholder - The Fast Food Joint

Once in a while I get in a mood where I want to share things with people. As a follow-up to the post I did a couple months back (November, I think?) here's another short excerpt from a piece I've been working on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes it feels like the only thing that keeps me going is remembering that there's always someone out there whose life sucks more than mine. At least I'm not that guy.

The problem is, the world is full of those guys, and the list can change in a second, and nobody's exempt from it. And at block seven I knew my number was coming up. The first block in the stygian torrent had been a grim camaraderie, a mutual acknowledgment that the rain's bitter path paralleled my own. The second block began the whisperings of betrayal, and by the fifth the rain was battering me as badly as the rest of the city. Weather was a fickle bastard, and I needed a reprieve from its onslaught. I found sanctuary at the next corner, marked by a neon revelation proclaiming

"Fast Food

Open Late"

A half-dozen kids were there, none of them old enough to be out of college, some of them looking like they were still in high school. The girl with braces had a ribbon in her ponytail, and I wondered if she was a cheerleader. I also wondered why she was here. With a figure like hers she could be a hostess at a real restaurant, making twice as much for doing half the work. The guy with braces was wearing expensive glasses, and too much gel in his hair. I wondered if he was gay, or just a big fan of anime. I hadn't seen hair like that since I used to watch Dragonball Z as a kid. He was wearing a tie, so I guessed he must have been the manager. Halfback was joking around with Beanpole in the kitchen (damn open kitchens, no privacy at all), Blondie was scowling while washing things, and...

"Hi there. Can I take your order?"

...Wham. An Angel. Tall, slim, blond, a playful half-smile on her lips that made you want to break out grinning too. And that damn rain outside was puppies and cotton candy if she was a day older than eighteen.

"Er...um...not right now. I just needed to get out of the rain. It's murder tonight."

"Yeah, I can see that. I hope it lets up before too long. I have a test to study for, and I don't want to have to worry about walking home in the rain too."

"Oh...yeah. I know what you mean. I'm in the same boat. I mean, no test or anything, but I'm trying to wait it out if I can."

"That's a good idea."

Shit, THIS was the guy who's life sucked more than mine? This pretty little girl? Something about that made me very uncomfortable.

Hairgel called Angel over for something. "I'll be right back. If you decide you want anything, let me know." Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, but that playful, knowing smirk never left her lips. She turned around and bounced over to Hairgel, and I could feel an embarrassed heat crawling across my cheeks.

"Thanks, yeah..."

Halfback looked in my direction, then turned back to Beanpole. I looked for a booth in the furthest-back corner I could find and crashed in it. I could feel prickling heat rising up my neck and onto my face. I crossed my arms and lay my dripping head down on the table. What the hell, man? What the hell?...

Rhodes vs. Card, round 3

For those of you who have known me for any length of time, you almost certainly know that I'm embroiled in a long, bitter, and utterly fictitious feud with notable author and professor Orson Scott Card.

We've had a few face-to-face encounters, both of them dramatic. In 2006, I attended the Summit Players production of Romeo & Juliet he directed (mentioned after the first "*" page break. I was in the audience). Last spring, he came to see me perform in New Day at First Baptist Church (look for it after the second "*" page break, although the review of Star Trek that makes up the bulk of the article is also an interesting read).

This weekend, it was time for round 3. Orson Scott Card was offering the one-day workshop Roads Into Writing, and I knew I couldn't give up the opportunity to learn Mr. Card's deepest secrets and use them against him. My fiery temper was quelled when I arrived at the workshop and realized he's brought a posse along with him, the estimable writers Edmund R. Schubert, Aaron Johnston, and Brandon Mull. I would just have to sit and observe; the challenge would have to wait for another day.

The deadly quartet—cleverly disguising themselves as a "panel"—introduced themselves to the attendees, a mixed group representing a range of ages, ideologies, and interests (although many were identifiable as SVU students). As the introductions wound down, I knew it was time to prepare myself for the main event.

Pen clutched like a dagger at the ready and notebook brandished like a shield, Orson Scott Card himself led off with a vicious double-header. Back-to-back discussions on "Viewpoint & Structure" and "Inventing the Story" with but a brief break in between left me reeling, and even that break barely gave me a chance to catch my breath, as I scrabbled furiously with dagger and shield to prove, along with the other greenhorns, that I knew the subtle but effective "Third Person Limited" technique. As the second session came to a close, we were commanded to share our training with our peers during the mid-day break. At the table I had infiltrated, I and my other colleagues seemed satisfied with each person's mastery of this technique. For our efforts, we were rewarded with lunch (and even a brownie!).

After this precious period of repose, Aaron Johnston demonstrated his own formidable expertise in "Finding Time to Write". Having heard of his background in improvisational theater, my attention was rapt since I knew I may not know what to expect from him, and when. And that attention was well-warranted as he managed to divide a typical schedule into "have-to-dos", "like-to-dos", and "time wasters", then proceeded to perform combinations on "have-to-dos" to decimate their numbers, and then like a master of t'ai chi to use the momentum of their own inevitability to change "have-to-dos" into writing opportunities. Johnston's assault continued as he demonstrated how to viciously cut "like-to-dos", and to eliminate all "time wasters".

Appropriately impressed, my initial dire intent was tempered by humility as Brandon Mull took the stage. His presentation—"Essential Elements of Story"—wasn't as insidious or complex as Aaron's, but his mastery of the basics marked him a true expert. Characters-Relationships-Trouble-Decisions-Consequences! As he demonstrated how each of these five fundamental tenets of writing interwove with the others to create a story, my admiration only grew.

The last of Card's companions was Edmund Schubert. Edmund was wounded; a pulled tendon in his shoulder kept his arm in a sling for most of the day. He took the stage however, and removed the sling, eliciting a collective gasp from his captive audience. Even injured, Ed would allow himself no limits.* His discussion on "Query Letters" revealed him as a man who was no stranger to intricate tactics, and he discussed the advantages and drawbacks of such maneuvers as multiple and simultaneous submissions, submitting query letters, and the importance of "knowing thy enemy/agencies/publishers/editors". To most effectively deal with these individuals, it is essential to know their submission guidelines and follow them. This will allow you to approach closer to the agencies, publishers, and editors safely. If their guidelines are not followed, you will never be allowed to approach close enough to demonstrate your skill. He also warned to beware bogus agents; fiendish mercenaries who prey on the weak and inexperienced.

As the day ended, I knew that in this arena, at least, I was no match for my nemesis, Orson Scott Card. My challenge to him would have to wait for another day, and our raging feud to be set aside for a brief time. Humbled, I began the 3 hour journey back home.

*To alleviate potential concerns, Mr. Schubert did clarify to us that he was recovering nicely from the injury and that the sling was no longer necessary; he was wearing it more as a reminder not to over-extend himself. Removing the sling allowed him to more comfortably write on the chalkboard while holding the microphone.

The crazy things we remember

When I was in junior high, a classmate asked some of us one afternoon, "what do you like better—tight clothes or loose clothes?" I said "loose". Another classmate said "tight". A third classmate said "I would wear tight shirts and loose pants."

I can't remember the identity of the person that said it, or why on earth it stuck in my memory like that...but it did, and now I tend to actually dress that way. Just think - an inexplicably remembered random snatch of conversation from 10-12 years ago has had an impact on my life. It was probably during a social studies class. I don't remember anything else from junior high school social studies. Well, except for the "I ran around a rock" mnemonic to help teach Middle East geography.

PLUR!

Unprecedented political blog post

So, healthcare reform legislation passed the House, albeit by a slim margin. I have opinions on the matter. Regardless of what I think, though, there is one inevitable truth to keep in mind - the legislation was passed on a majority vote, by a body of elected representatives.

This is democracy.

This is what our government is SUPPOSED to do.

This is what it means to be American, and it's both terrifying and exhilarating.

The World Wide Web is brimming with information

I have to write a "webliography" on a topic of my choice for a class assignment, but I'm having a lot of trouble thinking of a topic! A self-analysis of my Internet usage showed me that these days I'm more likely to go on-line to find out how to achieve a specific end - I look to the Internet more in order to "learn to do", rather than to "learn just to know".

Don't worry, though - me and Wikipedia are still tight. :-P

I still have a day or so to come up with a topic. It sure would be nice to already have one, though!

Be seeing you

March is a really capricious month, with moods and whims that seem to change with the day, or even the passing hour. Warm sun passes quickly to chill rain, and no matter what else the weather, there's always the wind. I love March, though. In part because of the surprises it brings day to day and hour to hour, but also because it brings the promise that a more stable sort of weather is soon to follow, and that when my infatuation with the capricious whims of March finally comes to an end, I'll have the stable warmth of April to fall into.

...And I'd by lying if I didn't say that I wasn't also looking forward to being able to take a layer of covers off my bed, and start wearing brighter colors, too. :)

The best thing EVER to wake up to

This morning, rather than my alarm, my phone woke me up, telling me I had a SMS text message. The following conversation ensued.

"I think we should do a collection of looney toons singing beatles songs. Picture sylvester: 'i believe in yethterdayyy...' :)"

"Hahaha, I bet I know a few real life loonie toons, too! How bout Daffy singing Yellow Submarine? :p"

"Tom and jerry singing all you need is love"

"Porky Pig - Its Bibadabibadabibeen a Hard Days Night!"

"YESSSS. Pepe lepew singing i wanna hold your hand, elmer fudd singing happiness is a warm gun."

"Also by Elmer Fudd - Eweanor Wigby!
Yosimite Sam could also sing Happiness is a Warm Gun. Duet? :)"

"Definitely. For some reason i really want to hear foghorn leghorn sing lady madonna"

"I REALLY want someone to sing Paperback Writer, but I cant think of whom!"

"I was having the same problem! With the same song!
I want bugs to sing obladi, obladah."

"YESSS! Tweetie singing Blackbird? Wile E Coyote and Roadrunner singing Hello Goodbye?"

"Yes yes yes! Marvin the martian would be across the universe"

"Bugs would also do a great Penny Lane, I think!"

"Wile E would sing help -- a friend from work gave me that one. He loves the beatles. :)"

"I...Im running out of ideas!"

If you've got any great ideas, feel free to add 'em to the list! Be seeing you!

"I am not a number!..."

After I encountered a handful of really poignant quotes from "The Prisoner" a week or two ago, my curiosity was extremely piqued. A friend was extremely generous, and lent me the original series and I've been watching it in my spare time. I've been absolutely LOVING it, and can't decide if I'm excited for or dreading the time when I finish the final episode.

Anyhow, for anyone who's seen "The Prisoner", or knows something about it, and is interested in this sort of thing, what do you think of the idea of a "Number 2" costume party? If there is interest, I think I would like to work with someone to plan one.

Be seeing you!

Life, the universe, and everything

It's nice having a few moments to breathe now. Last week was kind of rocky getting back into a regular schedule in the aftermath of WTH!?Con at Guilford College, but in spite of the incredible amount of investment I end up putting into the convention every year (and it's all self-imposed. I'm in no position of authority, so I don't actually have a reason to invest myself into the Con as much as I do...but for some reason I am absolutely committed to making it the best experience I can, in what few ways I am able, for everyone involved) I had an absolute blast! The charity Geek Auction was a smash hit, and from the last figures I heard, almost $700 were raised to be donated to Child's Play! Way to go, guys! I was in the auction, as I am every year, but this time I took a drastically different approach than in years past. Gone were Ren Faire garb and medieval-themed raps from years past (although I'll admit that I was loathe to give up the "rapping bard" bit - even if no one else likes it, I have so much fun with it!), and in it's place were a smart sweater vest and a towel...that's right! I went up for auction as Ford Prefect from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy universe! It was a tremendous amount of fun, especially considering that I had the full endorsement of the emcees and auctioneers!

As always, the convention was a chance to reconnect with friends I haven't seen in a long time, and to make some new acquaintances as well! I was especially pleased to get to meet Alan Welsh of Reverie Realm, and also the fine people from Chained Elegance!

There are plenty of other things I wanted to say about the convention, the people there, and the week since then, but I've got to leave for work in 10 minutes so I'll have to pick up where I left off later!

An open apology to everyone, forever

Dear everyone, forever,

I am a little over a week from the busiest 4 days of the year. I've got to prepare a full presentation for class on that Thursday, the rest of the weekend will be almost totally devoted to WTH?!Con activities, I have to plan an event for first thing Sunday morning, help with Con break-down, and then gear up for the Superbowl. I do not anticipate getting much sleep during or before that weekend. It is very likely that I will not be my normal gregarious (most of the time), charming (I hope), witty (debatable) self unless you are a customer or I am trying to impress you for some reason.

I wish to offer a full apology, in advance, if I am a jerk, a tool, or an angst ridden whine-o-tron to you at any point in the following week and a half. I promise I'll do everything I can to make it up to you after I have a few days to catch up on sleep.

Sincerely,

- - An apologetic redhead

An open letter to modern-day movie producers

Dear Avatar,

Jurassic Park is almost 17 years old, and your special effects are almost as good as its were. I'm just sayin'.

Love,

- -A movie goer.

Prayer of the Idealistic Grad Student

"God grant me the strength to change those things I cannot accept, the serenity to rejoice in those things I do, and the intelligence to heap cultural and literary allusions upon all the rest until they are palatable to my tastes. Amen."

I didn't actually intend to do a 2009 retrospective...

...but I came across some stuff that I hadn't thought about in months, and it made me start thinking about all the things I did in 2009. There are times when I feel like I didn't DO much with the past year, but it turns out I got a lot more accomplished than I was willing to give myself credit for. In 2009 I...

- Started grad school
- worked 3 different jobs (although they were all part-time, and 2 were temporary/contract positions)
- was in a stage performance for the first time since high school.
- Did I mention that this stage performance was a musical?
- THAT MY FATHER WROTE
- I was very proud of my dad, and still am
- I went to go see some of my favorite bands live in concert and some sweet classic rock, too! - Ludo, Styx and REO Speedwagon, Plushgun, Indigo Girls, and Journey.
- I worked my way through some years-old emotional baggage. Well, sort of. Umm...maybe I'm still working on it. [chuckles]
- I went on my first beach vacation in YEARS with "Moms" and "Miss Lady" (my mother and lil sis)
- Also, a trip to the zoo. TWICE. (personal record)
- Speaking of things I haven't done in years, I started writing again. After dealing with burnout and writer's block extending from back when I was a sophomore in college or so, I was able to pick up a pen and write something for my own gratification, and it was a glorious and liberating experience!
- I was mistaken for an English major.
- I LARPed. Two of my most favorite role-playing characters of all time either began or ended their existence in 2009.
- I dressed up as a bard and rapped nursery rhymes (yes, RAPPED) in front of a confused audience.
- Speaking of WTH!?Con, I ran my second "As Inspired by Tracy Hickman: A D&D Killer Breakfast", with more than double attendence from the previous year. Let's keep up the pace, guys!
- I reconnected with some old friends I wasn't expecting, and made new friends as well!
- I went to a club for the first time since I came back from England.

I'm sure there must be more...but my brain is starting to run out of steam. I'm not sayin' that 2009 is the best year I've ever had, but looking back on all the things I actually did accomplish (many of which I didn't intend or expect to do at the beginning of the year!), it makes me feel that maybe the bad rap a lot of people have given 2009 may not be entirely deserved.

2010, let's see if we can't do at least as good! Hopefully I won't pull a Macbeth and succumb to my own "o'erreaching ambition", but maybe I can keep going down this writing path I've been on...