I might have picked a bad year to jump into another NaNoWriMo - - apparently, at least, the universe has other plans. There are several lessons it seems I need to learn - mostly about Desire, Belief, and Surrendering to the Will of the Wild or something. I'm still learning the questions to these many mysteries that are now waking me up at night; still far from having the answers they allude to.
The quest that presses me forward into publishing has brought some remarkable new friendships into my life, all of whom challenge me in new and deliciously brutal ways. I know it's brutal because I find myself half-longing for the darkness and relative seclusion I once favored. Or perhaps "favored" isn't the right word. I'd come to a point, intellectually and spiritually, where I felt I no longer lacked for dramatic surges in personal growth.
I should have known that was an illusion. Yes, I do get that.
The process of this latest book is forcing me to confront long-concealed self-recriminations, thoughts on my own value (as a person, writing or otherwise) in addition to simply questioning my own skill as a writer. One question I posited this weekend was: why do I write YA Fiction? Is that how I see myself as a writer, or a thinker, or is it just the genre I'm most comfortable in?
Comfort is a thing against which I have to remain on constant vigil - I don't want to become artistically or creatively lazy. I just refuse to take the process for granted.
I suppose this process wouldn't even be a blip on my blogging radar if it didn't seem to be mirrored in my personal foundation of belief and faith. I feel like I'm peeling back the foundation I laid down 15 years ago, when I first began scraping myself out of my old paradyme. and I knew the temporary foundation of faith was only that - temporary. But I appear to have laid a good deal atop it. And now I need to start resolving that ghost of religion past, before I get one of those "tonight you'll be visited by three spirits" conversations.
You know, with all this in mind, maybe it's a good thing I'm only writing YA fiction. Clearly, the adult resolutions are still a little ways out yet. I followed up on a recent suggestion by reading up on some of the work by Bill Plotkin in talking about the nature of the human soul, and the nature of... well, nature. Today, I sit at work (the one which pays me) in a vest and tie and recognize that I'm far from the wild man that wants to throw it all off and dance and sing and howl.
For now, though: stories about young children saving the world. Tomorrow, I'll work on the finer points of the soul. I've already got a couple books addressing that, I'm just not yet ready to write them.
Enough for now. Write on, space cowboy.
Nov 9, 2009
Nov 5, 2009
Painful and Awkward Realizations
I once considered myself a would-be professional musician. I invested a good deal of time and energy into it, put myself out there in bands, solo work, studio sessions, live shows, radio shows.... etc. Have reels of studio recordings, demo recordings and a CD to show for it.
In the end - when life showed me the brutally explicit future my life as such held in store, I chose to step off that path.
Life without a creative outlet was as close to spiritual death as I could have imagined, but I rediscovered the joy of writing - of telling stories, crafting modern re-envisionings of mythologies ancient and contemporary. I'm in the middle of a second of three novels, YA SciFi/Fantasy genre, and I only just now forced myself - or allowed life to force me, more accurately - to see a brutal truth.
These books are not the books I have yet to NEED to write. These are fun books, stories, fantasies and pretends. But there are tales that are more primal to my consciousness, and I'm nowhere near ready to expose those deeper thoughts. The truer fears and founding principles that power me - or restrain me - still exist well out of reach from the fictional yarns I'm weaving.
The question I must ask myself, however, is this:
Can I survive as an author if I do not confront these darkest daemons from my core? Or will they one day claw their way unbidden to my surface? This is not the moment I expected to ask these questions. But, then, does any one of us make an appointment with their inner demons, in an effort to seek a confrontation of convenience?
The rest of this book should prove interesting.
In the end - when life showed me the brutally explicit future my life as such held in store, I chose to step off that path.
Life without a creative outlet was as close to spiritual death as I could have imagined, but I rediscovered the joy of writing - of telling stories, crafting modern re-envisionings of mythologies ancient and contemporary. I'm in the middle of a second of three novels, YA SciFi/Fantasy genre, and I only just now forced myself - or allowed life to force me, more accurately - to see a brutal truth.
These books are not the books I have yet to NEED to write. These are fun books, stories, fantasies and pretends. But there are tales that are more primal to my consciousness, and I'm nowhere near ready to expose those deeper thoughts. The truer fears and founding principles that power me - or restrain me - still exist well out of reach from the fictional yarns I'm weaving.
The question I must ask myself, however, is this:
Can I survive as an author if I do not confront these darkest daemons from my core? Or will they one day claw their way unbidden to my surface? This is not the moment I expected to ask these questions. But, then, does any one of us make an appointment with their inner demons, in an effort to seek a confrontation of convenience?
The rest of this book should prove interesting.
Oct 20, 2009
exerpt from "The Morrow Stone"
Still two streets from the fields, Rom knew her sense was right – the workers were running past her in a chaotic stream, more than one bloodied and obviously injured. After being run into for the third time, she took a deep breath and jumped up and onto the nearest rooftop. From there, she took another relatively small jump and landed just near the edge of the final building towards the fields.
A small gathering of workers seemed focused on something not too far from the city itself – they were clustered in a loose circle, and something large and blue moved quickly among them. Screams and calls for help made their way to her ears. She tapped the bracelet and summoned her shepherd’s crook.
“Hold on tight, this is a long jump,” she said. Mulligan complied.
She kicked off, and the winds rustled through the folds and pleated gathers of the dress – only the sound of the fabric and the wind whistling past them could be heard until she landed, just beyond the men.
“Run!” she yelled to them. “Go on, I’ll take care of this!”
A few of the men were reluctant to leave this young white-haired girl – particularly, the ones who did not see her just leap more than a hundred feet across the sky – but enough did so to give her a clear view of the indigo-furred creature.
It was taller than her at its shoulders, with a black mane and a single horn extending upwards from the tip of his nose. It had the look of a large dog, but with pointed ears and enormous bird’s wings protruding from its back. Its tail was long and flicking about, the end barbed with what looked to be a large assortment of quills.
“A mundaline,” Mulligan whispered. “They’re… really tough,” he said, falling substantially short of the mark for his efforts at nonchalance, but overcompensating as he continued, “but I’m sure you’ll best him.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I feel much better now.”
She slapped the staff into the palm of her hand. “Hey, you! Big blue dog-cat-thing!”
It fixed his attention on her and she began to back away slowly, drawing it away from the group of farmers. They opened the circle into a large curving line, standing as if to defend the city against this wild beast.
“Come on, you whatever you are! Come on and fight me!”
“You’re doing great, Rom, he’s definitely doing exactly what you’re telling him to do.”
“Hush, Mully,” she hissed.
“Do you have a plan for this?” he asked nervously.
“A plan for what?” She twirled the staff around a few times to keep its attention on her – the whistling sound created as the curved top cut through the air seemed to work.
His whisper increased in intensity. “What do you mean, a plan for what?”
She sighed. “You need to figure something out about me, Mully.”
“What’s that?”
She stopped moving backwards, and placed one foot back behind her, turning partially away from the creature and holding her staff in one hand, the top pointed low towards the ground. The mundaline paused, lowering itself towards the ground.
“I never plan things out.”
A small gathering of workers seemed focused on something not too far from the city itself – they were clustered in a loose circle, and something large and blue moved quickly among them. Screams and calls for help made their way to her ears. She tapped the bracelet and summoned her shepherd’s crook.
“Hold on tight, this is a long jump,” she said. Mulligan complied.
She kicked off, and the winds rustled through the folds and pleated gathers of the dress – only the sound of the fabric and the wind whistling past them could be heard until she landed, just beyond the men.
“Run!” she yelled to them. “Go on, I’ll take care of this!”
A few of the men were reluctant to leave this young white-haired girl – particularly, the ones who did not see her just leap more than a hundred feet across the sky – but enough did so to give her a clear view of the indigo-furred creature.
It was taller than her at its shoulders, with a black mane and a single horn extending upwards from the tip of his nose. It had the look of a large dog, but with pointed ears and enormous bird’s wings protruding from its back. Its tail was long and flicking about, the end barbed with what looked to be a large assortment of quills.
“A mundaline,” Mulligan whispered. “They’re… really tough,” he said, falling substantially short of the mark for his efforts at nonchalance, but overcompensating as he continued, “but I’m sure you’ll best him.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I feel much better now.”
She slapped the staff into the palm of her hand. “Hey, you! Big blue dog-cat-thing!”
It fixed his attention on her and she began to back away slowly, drawing it away from the group of farmers. They opened the circle into a large curving line, standing as if to defend the city against this wild beast.
“Come on, you whatever you are! Come on and fight me!”
“You’re doing great, Rom, he’s definitely doing exactly what you’re telling him to do.”
“Hush, Mully,” she hissed.
“Do you have a plan for this?” he asked nervously.
“A plan for what?” She twirled the staff around a few times to keep its attention on her – the whistling sound created as the curved top cut through the air seemed to work.
His whisper increased in intensity. “What do you mean, a plan for what?”
She sighed. “You need to figure something out about me, Mully.”
“What’s that?”
She stopped moving backwards, and placed one foot back behind her, turning partially away from the creature and holding her staff in one hand, the top pointed low towards the ground. The mundaline paused, lowering itself towards the ground.
“I never plan things out.”
Aug 21, 2009
I am David's White Blood Cell
I am David’s white blood cell. Just one of a million or so – probably more, if you believe the propaganda – little white blood cells just like me, doing our job. No need to thank me. Though, just between you and me, a little gratitude wouldn’t be a bad thing. Sure, it’s a thankless enough job, running around the veins and arteries and capillaries of this guy day after day, night after night. But I suppose you could say, just like any job, that it has its own rewards.
Long as I can remember, this has been me: microscopic little entity, floating among a stream of other white and red cells, just patching things up as we see them. Been doing this since the beginning, and it’s good enough work, I suppose. Though, originally I really wanted to be one of those guys up in the optic nerve. Now THERE’S a job with a view.
Let me tell you – since I have your attention – about my day. I don’t really sleep – we don’t need to – but I do like to kind of keep track of the days and nights. See, during the night, David’s pretty boring. Not a lot of activity in here, and it gets pretty quiet – but it’s peaceful and means we usually don’t get called up to head here or there, lay some smack down on foreign intruders or whatnot. Some of the bits of the innards get a bit creepy – lots of weird sounds that no one can explain, long miles of, really, nothing to do. You get that much time with nothing to keep you company, you start to really think about stuff. So I do a lot of pretending: I play like I’m a virus and beat up on some of the new Reds - that always screws with the other whiteys, who really don’t know what to make of that. Or I head down to the stomach and count the bubbles. David’s stomach has a lot of bubbles. It’s almost hypnotic, really, all that acid. Makes me wish I could eat an Oreo.
Then David wakes up and it’s back to work. My favorite days are when I get to go down the arms. David has a pretty low-impact job, so really I just watch as he types on his computer – the fingers all move in this weird little dance of language, and when he gets into a groove, that place really gets jumping. The places I don’t like? The ass, as you might expect, is pretty bad – but I haven’t been back there since I was on a written warning from the boss for trying to fake my timecard. I don’t like heading up to the brain, either. Too much electricity from all those neurons, it screws with my iPod. Last time I was up there, it erased my entire Nine Inch Nails playlist. So now when I get called up there, I just phone it in and hang out around David’s thyroid with some enzymes I met last year at a rave in David’s liver. Those girls really know how to party, man.
Hmmm – hold on a second, I need to check something out. Ah, never mind, just a shadow. Today, they’ve sent me down to check on the lungs for a bit, just kind of an employee exchange program they’ve been initiating lately. There were a lot of cut backs last year when David had some work done on his right knee, and everyone’s been really nervous. Turns out they brought in some outside help – cheaper, more affordable labor – but I personally believe that once you start outsourcing, it’s just a matter of time before they outsource everyone. Much as I might dislike my job, it’s the only one I got, and I’m in no hurry to try and spruce up my resume.
Buddy of mine found out that the whole outsourcing plan works both ways – he found an ad for donations, and made his way down to the testes. Never heard from him again. I hope he’s okay. Me, I don’t care for the kind of riff-raff you generally find down there. Maybe when I was younger, sure, but I’m no spring chicken any more – I get enough excitement from surfing the aorta. Honestly, that whole region is trouble, if you ask me. Any time you get too close to the exits, you’re running a pretty big risk of unemployment.
The lungs are a pretty fascinating place. I don’t really understand how this whole “oxygen transfer” thing works, but they come in cold and go out hot, and it seems to work out nicely for them in the long run. It’s pretty odd, really. I can’t imagine being a Red. “Red”. Heh. As if it’s all so easily defined. But anyway, they have such a simple life – from my elevated perspective, right? At least as a white, we’ve got some choice, some sense of variety to our menial existence. Not like the reds. Pick this up. Take it there. Drop it off. Come back to the lungs. Pick up another one. Blah blah blah blah. God, I’d have to shoot myself if that was my job. Ooh. Speaking of my job, I need to be heading back to the chambers again. Come on, we can talk on the way.
This job’s really not too hard. It’s just keeping an eye out for trouble, most of the time, calling for a few special forces teams to show up and take care of any undesirables, or to help patch up the occasional leak. Brain gets wind of an ache or twinge or something, they tell us to go check it out, make sure it’s all on the up and up. We don’t have to make the Big Decisions; we just follow orders, write up the reports, and let folks know if things need to be given more attention. Sometimes, we have to hang out on a crime scene, clean things up or whatever, but we usually just boss the little Reds around and make them do it. No, don’t make that face. It’s totally fine, they like to help.
Okay, hold on, we’re hitting the heart now, it’s my favorite part of my day. It’s all in the timing. Just – yeah, lift your feet just like that, keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times - - and YEAH! God, what a rush. I love that place.
Hmm. Okay, see, here’s what I was talking about. A little spot of concern down nearDavid’s left kidney. It’s probably nothing. He had an infection there a couple of years back, and now whenever it’s about to rain, everyone gets all in a huff. A bunch of Nervous Nellies, if you ask me. Now, that over there is the digestive system – that big bloaty part is David’s stomach, like I told you about earlier. It may not look like much from the outside, but if we had time, I’d take you by there for the full effect. I heard someone say earlier that David was thinking about having sushi for lunch. Sushi is the best, I’m not even joking. If this turns out to be a false alarm, I’ll try to swing us back by.
All right, now this is exactly what I figured. See? That whole area ahead of us? That’s where the so-called “Pain Report” is coming from. And….nothing. Not a goddamned thing. Kidney’s fine, no unusual lumps or shapes, no leaks, no breaks. Just business as usual David’s Kidney. After a while, I just don’t even want to show up any more. It’s been nothing but false alarm after false alarm the past few months anyway. A guy never gets a chance to kick his feet up, take a breath, throw back a beer or whatever. And that’s no way to run a body, if you ask me.
We’re going to have to swing the full loop around, now that we’re down here, I might as well show you the sights. That bit over there is the whole “exit” area I was talking about. Nothing but piss, shit and the occasional ejaculation: nothing to write home about. And we’re gonna hang a right at the femoral artery. About this time of day, it’s just bumper to bumper there, and no one ever signals. It’s just an excuse for a hemorrhage, waiting to happen. Mark my words, there’s trouble there.
Now, that’s weird. That, over there – that finger-looking bit of nonsense? That’s David’s appendix. I heard from a guy who said he had to deliver a couple skanky endorphins there a year or so ago, said they’re some top-secret shit that goes down in there. No one ever likes to talk about it, it’s all pretty hush-hush. A couple years back, I might’ve hopped the fence and taken a look about, but, you know, I got myself to think of; a guy can’t take that sort of risk anymore, if you catch my meaning. Anyway, maybe it’s just the beer talking, but I don’t remember it looking quite that…big. Eh. It’s probably nothing. Besides, they don’t pay me to be proactive, that’s a job for David’s Brain.
Moving on, we’re making good time, so let’s head over to the stomach a bit. You hear that – that low rumble? That means the show’s starting. We’re pretty far away from David’s esophagus, but that’s the best view to check out the inbound arrivals. Some Whites buck for that kind of job – up in David’s head. They like to check everything out as it comes in – air, liquids, food, whatever comes down the pipe. I got offered a job up in Customs, but I’m not that ambitious. I prefer to just kind of handle stuff as it happens. Guy can work every day of his life and still not get anywhere, no sense in killing yourself just to try and get a medal pinned on your chest. “Most heroes are awarded posthumously”, as they say.
Geez, there’s a lot of traffic around here, all of a sudden. Seems like everyone’s always in a hurry these days. See that group over there, the bunch of Whites? You can see it in their eyes, the clenching of their jaws – they’re on the job. Got a bunch of their pet platelets along with them, too. I won’t bother asking them what’s up, they’re too busy to sit and chat. Kids. Full of dreams and optimism. Ready to change the world, one little symptom at a time.
Good way to get turned into a scab at an early age, that’s what I say. See? Take a look at those bubbles. That’s a good sight. Mmm… baked salmon rolls. David has good taste.
Damn it. Just when it was getting good. That’s a message from upstairs. Looks like they’re not ready to call that kidney pain a wash just yet, and they want me to go back and check it out again. No, don’t get up just yet. I’m on my lunch break. The kidney’ll still be there after David finishes his food, and we’ll go back for a closer look then. Besides, there’s a million other White Blood Cells, let one of them be the hero today. I’m no hero.
I’m just David’s White Blood Cell.
by Ren Cummins
Long as I can remember, this has been me: microscopic little entity, floating among a stream of other white and red cells, just patching things up as we see them. Been doing this since the beginning, and it’s good enough work, I suppose. Though, originally I really wanted to be one of those guys up in the optic nerve. Now THERE’S a job with a view.
Let me tell you – since I have your attention – about my day. I don’t really sleep – we don’t need to – but I do like to kind of keep track of the days and nights. See, during the night, David’s pretty boring. Not a lot of activity in here, and it gets pretty quiet – but it’s peaceful and means we usually don’t get called up to head here or there, lay some smack down on foreign intruders or whatnot. Some of the bits of the innards get a bit creepy – lots of weird sounds that no one can explain, long miles of, really, nothing to do. You get that much time with nothing to keep you company, you start to really think about stuff. So I do a lot of pretending: I play like I’m a virus and beat up on some of the new Reds - that always screws with the other whiteys, who really don’t know what to make of that. Or I head down to the stomach and count the bubbles. David’s stomach has a lot of bubbles. It’s almost hypnotic, really, all that acid. Makes me wish I could eat an Oreo.
Then David wakes up and it’s back to work. My favorite days are when I get to go down the arms. David has a pretty low-impact job, so really I just watch as he types on his computer – the fingers all move in this weird little dance of language, and when he gets into a groove, that place really gets jumping. The places I don’t like? The ass, as you might expect, is pretty bad – but I haven’t been back there since I was on a written warning from the boss for trying to fake my timecard. I don’t like heading up to the brain, either. Too much electricity from all those neurons, it screws with my iPod. Last time I was up there, it erased my entire Nine Inch Nails playlist. So now when I get called up there, I just phone it in and hang out around David’s thyroid with some enzymes I met last year at a rave in David’s liver. Those girls really know how to party, man.
Hmmm – hold on a second, I need to check something out. Ah, never mind, just a shadow. Today, they’ve sent me down to check on the lungs for a bit, just kind of an employee exchange program they’ve been initiating lately. There were a lot of cut backs last year when David had some work done on his right knee, and everyone’s been really nervous. Turns out they brought in some outside help – cheaper, more affordable labor – but I personally believe that once you start outsourcing, it’s just a matter of time before they outsource everyone. Much as I might dislike my job, it’s the only one I got, and I’m in no hurry to try and spruce up my resume.
Buddy of mine found out that the whole outsourcing plan works both ways – he found an ad for donations, and made his way down to the testes. Never heard from him again. I hope he’s okay. Me, I don’t care for the kind of riff-raff you generally find down there. Maybe when I was younger, sure, but I’m no spring chicken any more – I get enough excitement from surfing the aorta. Honestly, that whole region is trouble, if you ask me. Any time you get too close to the exits, you’re running a pretty big risk of unemployment.
The lungs are a pretty fascinating place. I don’t really understand how this whole “oxygen transfer” thing works, but they come in cold and go out hot, and it seems to work out nicely for them in the long run. It’s pretty odd, really. I can’t imagine being a Red. “Red”. Heh. As if it’s all so easily defined. But anyway, they have such a simple life – from my elevated perspective, right? At least as a white, we’ve got some choice, some sense of variety to our menial existence. Not like the reds. Pick this up. Take it there. Drop it off. Come back to the lungs. Pick up another one. Blah blah blah blah. God, I’d have to shoot myself if that was my job. Ooh. Speaking of my job, I need to be heading back to the chambers again. Come on, we can talk on the way.
This job’s really not too hard. It’s just keeping an eye out for trouble, most of the time, calling for a few special forces teams to show up and take care of any undesirables, or to help patch up the occasional leak. Brain gets wind of an ache or twinge or something, they tell us to go check it out, make sure it’s all on the up and up. We don’t have to make the Big Decisions; we just follow orders, write up the reports, and let folks know if things need to be given more attention. Sometimes, we have to hang out on a crime scene, clean things up or whatever, but we usually just boss the little Reds around and make them do it. No, don’t make that face. It’s totally fine, they like to help.
Okay, hold on, we’re hitting the heart now, it’s my favorite part of my day. It’s all in the timing. Just – yeah, lift your feet just like that, keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times - - and YEAH! God, what a rush. I love that place.
Hmm. Okay, see, here’s what I was talking about. A little spot of concern down nearDavid’s left kidney. It’s probably nothing. He had an infection there a couple of years back, and now whenever it’s about to rain, everyone gets all in a huff. A bunch of Nervous Nellies, if you ask me. Now, that over there is the digestive system – that big bloaty part is David’s stomach, like I told you about earlier. It may not look like much from the outside, but if we had time, I’d take you by there for the full effect. I heard someone say earlier that David was thinking about having sushi for lunch. Sushi is the best, I’m not even joking. If this turns out to be a false alarm, I’ll try to swing us back by.
All right, now this is exactly what I figured. See? That whole area ahead of us? That’s where the so-called “Pain Report” is coming from. And….nothing. Not a goddamned thing. Kidney’s fine, no unusual lumps or shapes, no leaks, no breaks. Just business as usual David’s Kidney. After a while, I just don’t even want to show up any more. It’s been nothing but false alarm after false alarm the past few months anyway. A guy never gets a chance to kick his feet up, take a breath, throw back a beer or whatever. And that’s no way to run a body, if you ask me.
We’re going to have to swing the full loop around, now that we’re down here, I might as well show you the sights. That bit over there is the whole “exit” area I was talking about. Nothing but piss, shit and the occasional ejaculation: nothing to write home about. And we’re gonna hang a right at the femoral artery. About this time of day, it’s just bumper to bumper there, and no one ever signals. It’s just an excuse for a hemorrhage, waiting to happen. Mark my words, there’s trouble there.
Now, that’s weird. That, over there – that finger-looking bit of nonsense? That’s David’s appendix. I heard from a guy who said he had to deliver a couple skanky endorphins there a year or so ago, said they’re some top-secret shit that goes down in there. No one ever likes to talk about it, it’s all pretty hush-hush. A couple years back, I might’ve hopped the fence and taken a look about, but, you know, I got myself to think of; a guy can’t take that sort of risk anymore, if you catch my meaning. Anyway, maybe it’s just the beer talking, but I don’t remember it looking quite that…big. Eh. It’s probably nothing. Besides, they don’t pay me to be proactive, that’s a job for David’s Brain.
Moving on, we’re making good time, so let’s head over to the stomach a bit. You hear that – that low rumble? That means the show’s starting. We’re pretty far away from David’s esophagus, but that’s the best view to check out the inbound arrivals. Some Whites buck for that kind of job – up in David’s head. They like to check everything out as it comes in – air, liquids, food, whatever comes down the pipe. I got offered a job up in Customs, but I’m not that ambitious. I prefer to just kind of handle stuff as it happens. Guy can work every day of his life and still not get anywhere, no sense in killing yourself just to try and get a medal pinned on your chest. “Most heroes are awarded posthumously”, as they say.
Geez, there’s a lot of traffic around here, all of a sudden. Seems like everyone’s always in a hurry these days. See that group over there, the bunch of Whites? You can see it in their eyes, the clenching of their jaws – they’re on the job. Got a bunch of their pet platelets along with them, too. I won’t bother asking them what’s up, they’re too busy to sit and chat. Kids. Full of dreams and optimism. Ready to change the world, one little symptom at a time.
Good way to get turned into a scab at an early age, that’s what I say. See? Take a look at those bubbles. That’s a good sight. Mmm… baked salmon rolls. David has good taste.
Damn it. Just when it was getting good. That’s a message from upstairs. Looks like they’re not ready to call that kidney pain a wash just yet, and they want me to go back and check it out again. No, don’t get up just yet. I’m on my lunch break. The kidney’ll still be there after David finishes his food, and we’ll go back for a closer look then. Besides, there’s a million other White Blood Cells, let one of them be the hero today. I’m no hero.
I’m just David’s White Blood Cell.
by Ren Cummins
Jul 27, 2009
You May Rely On It
Gary almost laughed when his eyes fixed themselves on the dusty black sphere on the back row of items on the shelf. He’d come in here looking for a nice accent piece for his new cube at work – something with a bit of character to it, maybe something artistic. Maggie had suggested one of those electric meditation fountains, but those just made him need to pee. He’d driven past this old antique shop – why are there never new antique shops, he’d mused – various times on his way to or from work, and he simply felt the jones to swing by and check it out today. A sort of celebratory tour in honor of his recent promotion, he decided.
It was a nice – if not mildly overpriced – selection in the musty store. Mostly handmade and well-worn items from the 1920s, some WWII memorabilia and signage, a slightly wobbly coat rack and loads of furniture. He blinked, trying to rationalize the appearance of this silly toy from the 1980s. But his eyes weren’t deceiving him – it was a magic eight ball. He reached out and picked it up, blowing the thin layer of dust which had collected on it from presumable months of being overlooked. The faded and handwritten orange sticker listed the price at $1.00. He smiled, shaking it lightly and wondering to himself, should I buy you, little eight ball?
He turned it over and nearly dropped it when he read the words float to the surface of the deep indigo liquid: Yes, you should.
He looked up, feeling a little strange. He’d never owned one of these back then, but he couldn’t remember that having been one of the phrases on the plastic geodesic widgets inside of these toys. “Whoa,” he breathed. “That’s creepy.”
The owner of the store was an older gentleman, likely retired, with a blue shirt and grey slacks which were held up by a pair of dark green suspenders. His thin reading glasses sat further down on his pointy nose than would likely have been helpful, and Gary had the momentary suspicion that he only wore them to add a sense of dignity to his appearance. He was shuffling about near the front window displays with a feather duster, meticulously adding a few million motes to the already cluttered air. The sunlight outside the window seemed almost helpless to penetrate the countless floating specks. The old man looked over at Gary, half-smiled and returned to his task.
Gary was shaking up the ball again, muttering to himself. “Why even bother? The place is just gonna get dusty again in five seconds.” He grinned at his pessimistic observation, but stopped instantly when he saw the words floating up on the surface of the eight ball: I know exactly what you mean.
He extended his hand, suddenly uneasy with the toy. But before he could replace it, he decided to give it one more test. He closed his eyes, inverting the ball and giving it a gentle shake. Do you really know what I’m thinking?
He held his breath, turned it back over and read: Of course I do.
He bit his lower lip, furrowed his brow and thought again, giving the ball another spin. “How much do you cost?” he whispered.
When he spun it upright to read the spindle, he gasped. It read: One Dollar.
He paid the dollar in cash and left the store.
Gary’s apartment was your standard Seattle flat – small bedroom, small living room, small kitchen, with an even smaller bathroom tucked off to the side. He’d been living here for about two years now, and remained among the more affordable parts of his current lifestyle. Though the Capitol Hill area had its random incidents, the local flavor and proximity to his work kept it favorable, and the price had miraculously remained lower than most apartments in the northwest – to say nothing of the downtown housing in general.
They also had a single floor of underground assigned parking – the parking alone was worth its weight in gold. Gary pulled into his space, locked the car and went upstairs, his messenger bag held tightly under his arm.
Up in his apartment, he went about his usual homecoming routine – bag on the couch, keys by the door, wallet on the end table. He microwaved a simple dinner, some flavorless box of something resembling meat with vegetables and some sort of opaque sauce. The light on the answering machine was flashing, but for some reasons he didn’t feel like checking it. His eyes returned to the bag each time he walked back through the living room, and, after a few minutes, he finally settled down on the couch next to it. He unsnapped the latch and drew out the black plastic ball.
Holding it in his left hand, he used his thumbnail to scrape off the price sticker. “I’ll say one thing for you, you really don’t look like an unusual toy,” he muttered. “Just like any other random magic eight ball.”
He flipped it over, and read the words as they floated to the top.
Ask a question.
Chuckling, he turned it back over, and asked, “What makes you so special?”
The ball then read: I always tell the truth.
“Always?”
You may rely on it.
“Good touch,” Gary laughed. “But it’s kind of... weird. You don’t mind if I put you to the test or something?”
It’s up to you.
“Okay, then…hmmm…” Gary looked around the room, finally grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. CNN faded into life, the talking head there sharing the screen with a graphic of a meteor or something, and talking about ‘most favorable conditions’ or whatnot. “What’s on TV right now?” he asked the ball.
The News, the ball responded.
“Whoa. Cool.” Gary flipped a few channels, stopping on a football game: Patriots versus the Oilers. The Pats were up by three with only seconds remaining. “Who’s winning?”
The Oilers.
Gary’s smile froze. He looked from the ball to the screen a couple times. “Okay, well, you’re wrong. That’s, just… weird.”
Wait for it.
At that moment, there was a commotion on the screen. Gary looked up to see one of the Oilers’ defensive lineman pick up a fumble and run the ball all the way to their end zone, a few seconds after the time ran out. Final score now showed the Oilers winning by three points.
“Oh my god. That’s amazing! How’d you do that?”
Hello. Magic Eight Ball.
“But seriously, that’s really cool. Um… what should I do now?” he asked, unable to think of anything at the moment.
Take a shower.
“What? Why?”
You stink.
“Nice. I meant, was there some reason in particular?”
Big day tomorrow.
“What kind of ‘big day’? Am I gonna win the lottery?”
You don’t play the lottery.
“Well, if I was going to win, I’d play,” Gary explained. “Though I suppose that kind of defeats the purpose of gambling, doesn’t it?”
Good answer.
“So you’re not going to tell me what’s going to happen, besides telling me it’s a big day?”
Bingo.
Gary frowned. “I can’t even play ‘hot or cold’ or something?”
Quit stalling.
“Geez. For a plastic oracle, you’re pretty pushy.”
You should meet my sister.
He laughed, delicately set the ball back on the table and went off to the bathroom. Whatever this “big day” was all about, it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Morning. 5:30 am. Gary turned off the alarm and practically jumped out of bed. Dressed and cleaned up in record time, he walked into the living room and went straight to the magic eight ball. He’d picked it up before he’d even realized he didn’t know what to ask. He grimaced a moment, then simply turned the ball over.
You’re going to be late.
He looked at the clock, which showed ten minutes before 6. Normally, he ran out the door around 6:10, and still got to work on time. “You’re off your mind, man. I’m totally early.” His mind flashed back to the last-second, come-from-behind win in the football game. Frowning, he turned the ball over. “Why am I going to be late?”
You’ll miss the bus.
“Some prophet you are,” he laughed. He placed the ball in his messenger bag and picked up the ring of keys by the door. “It’s called owning a car, mister Wizard.”
He locked up behind himself, took the elevator down to the parking level of his building, and stood for five minutes in front of his empty parking space.
“You could’ve told me the car was stolen,” he muttered. “In fact, you could’ve warned me that the car was going to be stolen.” He looked down his shoulder at the bag. “No, I can already bet what you’re going to say. ‘You didn’t ask.’”
Snapping his fingers, he unzipped the bag and pulled out the ball. “Where’s my car?”
It’s called car theft.
“Smart ass. Now what?”
You’ll miss the bus.
He could already hear the bus arriving at the corner as he ran from the parking lot entrance. He stopped at the corner, bent over with his hands on his knees, panting heavily. He didn’t waste time with the ball; most likely, it already knew what he was thinking.
He finally got to work fifteen minutes late, tossed his messenger bag on the desk and sat at his computer. For having a miraculous prognosticating ball, his day was off to a fairly craptacular beginning. Shaking his head, he pulled up his email – the most recent one was from his girlfriend, Maggie.
“Didn’t hear from you last night. Is everything okay? Bad news, I can’t make it to dinner today, I got called into an emergency office planning meeting. Call me later?
– Mags”
He sighed. They’d been dating on and off for a couple years now, and with their time being dedicated so much of late to their respective jobs, they didn’t see each other very much at all. He’d half thought the ball’s promise of today being a “big day” might even be a hint at some new direction in their relationship. His head rested down on his desktop. This day was not going well.
“You okay, Gary?”
He sat up. It was Amy, from two cubes down. They’d engaged in casual “office flirting” for the past few months, ever since she’d broken up with her boyfriend. She was attractive, but he hadn’t really given it any serious thought. But now… He smiled. “Yeah, just a little winded. Someone stole my car and I missed the bus and…” he chuckled. “But I’m here, so that’s something.”
“I’m going downstairs for a coffee. Want to come with?”
He took a slow breath. “Nnnoooo, I think I better get to work, I’m already late.” He added, after a moment of mentally kicking himself, “but thanks. Maybe next time?”
She nodded, smiling. She had a nice smile. “Okay. Be right back, then.”
He sat back in his seat, shaking his head. His hand reached into his bag, pulled out the 8 ball.
“Moron or hero?” he asked, mostly to himself.
Moron.
“We’re gonna talk about my car when I get back,” he muttered, putting the ball down and jumping up. He called out after Amy, catching up to her as she held the elevator door for him.
She did have a very nice smile.
The rest of day was lively. He and Amy chatted over instant messenger, and it was actually enjoyable – any guilt he might have otherwise felt was fading fast under the barrage of Amy’s obvious interest.
Before he knew it, it was getting close to lunchtime. He looked from his email window to his instant message window and, from there, to the magic eight ball. He found himself hoping for a specific answer to his unspoken question before he even touched the ball.
Ask Amy.
He had a small thrill of excitement when she messaged him “yes”, even though the ball had already told him she’d accept.
They decided to go to a nearby diner – it was pleasant and cozy, and the food wasn’t bad. They took a booth near the window and made small talk. Things went nicely – the gentle tingle of potential attraction was intoxicating, and a good enhancement to the meal.
About five minutes before the check arrived, Gary got that sinking feeling – the strange “someone is looking at me” vibe, the herald of doom, if ever it had a name. He looked out the window to see Maggie and two of her friends standing, staring at him. He couldn’t tell if Maggie was about to cry or throw one of her friends through the window at him.
Needless to say, the lunch ended poorly. He’d run after Maggie and tried to talk to her, but her friends ran interference until one of the chefs from the restaurant caught up with him and threatened to call the police on Gary for running out on the bill. In the commotion, Maggie and friends made their escape. Gary went with the chef back to the restaurant in time for Amy to slap him across the face and leave. He settled the bill and slowly made his way back to work.
His manager met him on his way back to his desk, and they had a brief conversation regarding interoffice relationships and his repeated tardiness. He slumped into his chair and glared at the magic eight ball. Snapping it up from the desk, he tried to calm himself.
It’s not my fault.
“What do you mean it’s not your fault?” he whispered. “You said to ask Amy!”
That’s right.
“But it ruined everything! Now she hates me, Maggie hates me, and my job’s in danger!”
That’s also right.
“Wait…” he frowned, “are you just trying to ruin my life, or is this one of those things where you trim out all the bad things so that I get something good?”
Trust me.
Gary sighed. “Well, we still need to figure out where my car is.”
The widget seemed to take its time rising to the surface. Don’t worry about it.
His eyes narrowed and a long breath made its way from his nostrils. “Easy for you to say, all you have to do is tell the future.” If the ball answered him, he didn’t waste any time reading it. He had four more hours on the clock to try and salvage his job, and would probably need every available second of it.
At some point after 5:30, he capped off a pretty horrible day with some reasonably impressive reports, and watched his manager reluctantly concede that Gary’d still have a future with the company, which, at this point, Gary was prepared to accept as a victory. Amy had already left, so thankfully he didn’t have to avoid eye contact on his way to the elevator.
He was already halfway across the parking lot before he remembered that his car had been stolen, and, having no better ideas, sat down on the parking block and pulled out the magic eight ball. It was a cloudy evening, unusually warm with the sky the gentle orange of sunset. He looked across the street at a convenience store. The word “Lotto” blazed at him, its undeniable temptation feeding into his frustration.
“Should I start playing the lottery?” he asked. A woman was leaving the store at that moment, a small nylon bag of groceries in her hand.
Don’t bother.
“What, you’re not going to help me win quick cash? Some help you are. Is there some rule or something that won’t let you help me get rich?”
That’s not it.
“Then why?” The woman had turned the corner, leaving Gary alone with his increasing frustration.
She has the winning ticket.
Gary closed his eyes. He could probably hit the far wall from here with this stupid ball.
Yes, you probably could.
The widget rolled of its own accord, changing to read: But please don’t.
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t! My whole life is ruined – I’ve lost my car, my girlfriend, and almost lost my job, all from listening to you.”
It’s for the best.
Gary sighed. “Yeah, and now you’re gonna tell me how I’m going to do something really big in the future that will save the world or something, and it’s all because of all the crap you’ve helped happen now.”
No. Not at all.
“Not really helping your case, man.”
Your car was a piece of crap.
“Dude. Totally uncalled for.”
I'm sorry. But I'm right.
Gary sighed. It was a piece of crap. It was paid off, but it was starting to nickel and dime him. Still, it was paid off and that meant something.
“Fine, I’ll agree with that, but Maggie?”
You didn’t love her.
Gary stopped as he was about to argue with the ball. As much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t really love her. They’d been together for a long time, but he really didn’t see the relationship going anywhere. Maybe it was for the best that they broke up and she found someone else who really cared for her like she deserved.
Exactly.
“Okay, fine. So you haven’t totally ruined my life, then. But at least she’d be able to come give me a ride home.”
Also true.
“So, see? That would’ve been a good thing, then.”
Not for her.
He shook his head. “Thanks, that’s really nice. I get that she deserves better, but it’s not like giving me a ride home would’ve killed her.”
Funny you should say that.
Gary read this latest response twice. “What do you mean?”
Nothing. Don’t worry about it.
“Oh no, you don’t. You meant something.” He shook the ball. “You said you always tell the truth. What did you mean by that?”
The little widget again seemed to take its time in floating to the surface. When it finally slid into place against the clear plastic, Gary nearly dropped the ball.
You’re going to die.
Gary’s throat nearly closed. “Wha- what? When? How?”
Now.
He blinked at the unexpected revelation. “No way. You’ve got to be joking or…something. Right?”
I’m sorry.
“But - - -but how?” The words “I’m sorry” repeated on the ball. Gary shook it again, harder. “Tell me!”
It doesn’t matter.
“It matters to me!”
You can’t avoid it.
“At least tell me! I can try to… I don’t know, change it, or something!”
No, you can’t.
“Don’t you tell me that!” he screamed. He stood up, oblivious to the people pausing briefly in passing to stare at the man’s apparent argument with a small black plastic sphere.
“I’ve watched those movies, there’s always a way to change the future or something!”
I only tell the truth.
Gary looked into the ball. It all seemed darker, somehow, like all the light had gone out of the world. He felt defeated, exhausted. The air tasted like ash in his mouth, the air felt dry and bitter. His eyes welled up, and he looked back at the crystal ball in his hands.
Don’t look up, it read.
Gary didn’t.
Ren, 2008
It was a nice – if not mildly overpriced – selection in the musty store. Mostly handmade and well-worn items from the 1920s, some WWII memorabilia and signage, a slightly wobbly coat rack and loads of furniture. He blinked, trying to rationalize the appearance of this silly toy from the 1980s. But his eyes weren’t deceiving him – it was a magic eight ball. He reached out and picked it up, blowing the thin layer of dust which had collected on it from presumable months of being overlooked. The faded and handwritten orange sticker listed the price at $1.00. He smiled, shaking it lightly and wondering to himself, should I buy you, little eight ball?
He turned it over and nearly dropped it when he read the words float to the surface of the deep indigo liquid: Yes, you should.
He looked up, feeling a little strange. He’d never owned one of these back then, but he couldn’t remember that having been one of the phrases on the plastic geodesic widgets inside of these toys. “Whoa,” he breathed. “That’s creepy.”
The owner of the store was an older gentleman, likely retired, with a blue shirt and grey slacks which were held up by a pair of dark green suspenders. His thin reading glasses sat further down on his pointy nose than would likely have been helpful, and Gary had the momentary suspicion that he only wore them to add a sense of dignity to his appearance. He was shuffling about near the front window displays with a feather duster, meticulously adding a few million motes to the already cluttered air. The sunlight outside the window seemed almost helpless to penetrate the countless floating specks. The old man looked over at Gary, half-smiled and returned to his task.
Gary was shaking up the ball again, muttering to himself. “Why even bother? The place is just gonna get dusty again in five seconds.” He grinned at his pessimistic observation, but stopped instantly when he saw the words floating up on the surface of the eight ball: I know exactly what you mean.
He extended his hand, suddenly uneasy with the toy. But before he could replace it, he decided to give it one more test. He closed his eyes, inverting the ball and giving it a gentle shake. Do you really know what I’m thinking?
He held his breath, turned it back over and read: Of course I do.
He bit his lower lip, furrowed his brow and thought again, giving the ball another spin. “How much do you cost?” he whispered.
When he spun it upright to read the spindle, he gasped. It read: One Dollar.
He paid the dollar in cash and left the store.
Gary’s apartment was your standard Seattle flat – small bedroom, small living room, small kitchen, with an even smaller bathroom tucked off to the side. He’d been living here for about two years now, and remained among the more affordable parts of his current lifestyle. Though the Capitol Hill area had its random incidents, the local flavor and proximity to his work kept it favorable, and the price had miraculously remained lower than most apartments in the northwest – to say nothing of the downtown housing in general.
They also had a single floor of underground assigned parking – the parking alone was worth its weight in gold. Gary pulled into his space, locked the car and went upstairs, his messenger bag held tightly under his arm.
Up in his apartment, he went about his usual homecoming routine – bag on the couch, keys by the door, wallet on the end table. He microwaved a simple dinner, some flavorless box of something resembling meat with vegetables and some sort of opaque sauce. The light on the answering machine was flashing, but for some reasons he didn’t feel like checking it. His eyes returned to the bag each time he walked back through the living room, and, after a few minutes, he finally settled down on the couch next to it. He unsnapped the latch and drew out the black plastic ball.
Holding it in his left hand, he used his thumbnail to scrape off the price sticker. “I’ll say one thing for you, you really don’t look like an unusual toy,” he muttered. “Just like any other random magic eight ball.”
He flipped it over, and read the words as they floated to the top.
Ask a question.
Chuckling, he turned it back over, and asked, “What makes you so special?”
The ball then read: I always tell the truth.
“Always?”
You may rely on it.
“Good touch,” Gary laughed. “But it’s kind of... weird. You don’t mind if I put you to the test or something?”
It’s up to you.
“Okay, then…hmmm…” Gary looked around the room, finally grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. CNN faded into life, the talking head there sharing the screen with a graphic of a meteor or something, and talking about ‘most favorable conditions’ or whatnot. “What’s on TV right now?” he asked the ball.
The News, the ball responded.
“Whoa. Cool.” Gary flipped a few channels, stopping on a football game: Patriots versus the Oilers. The Pats were up by three with only seconds remaining. “Who’s winning?”
The Oilers.
Gary’s smile froze. He looked from the ball to the screen a couple times. “Okay, well, you’re wrong. That’s, just… weird.”
Wait for it.
At that moment, there was a commotion on the screen. Gary looked up to see one of the Oilers’ defensive lineman pick up a fumble and run the ball all the way to their end zone, a few seconds after the time ran out. Final score now showed the Oilers winning by three points.
“Oh my god. That’s amazing! How’d you do that?”
Hello. Magic Eight Ball.
“But seriously, that’s really cool. Um… what should I do now?” he asked, unable to think of anything at the moment.
Take a shower.
“What? Why?”
You stink.
“Nice. I meant, was there some reason in particular?”
Big day tomorrow.
“What kind of ‘big day’? Am I gonna win the lottery?”
You don’t play the lottery.
“Well, if I was going to win, I’d play,” Gary explained. “Though I suppose that kind of defeats the purpose of gambling, doesn’t it?”
Good answer.
“So you’re not going to tell me what’s going to happen, besides telling me it’s a big day?”
Bingo.
Gary frowned. “I can’t even play ‘hot or cold’ or something?”
Quit stalling.
“Geez. For a plastic oracle, you’re pretty pushy.”
You should meet my sister.
He laughed, delicately set the ball back on the table and went off to the bathroom. Whatever this “big day” was all about, it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Morning. 5:30 am. Gary turned off the alarm and practically jumped out of bed. Dressed and cleaned up in record time, he walked into the living room and went straight to the magic eight ball. He’d picked it up before he’d even realized he didn’t know what to ask. He grimaced a moment, then simply turned the ball over.
You’re going to be late.
He looked at the clock, which showed ten minutes before 6. Normally, he ran out the door around 6:10, and still got to work on time. “You’re off your mind, man. I’m totally early.” His mind flashed back to the last-second, come-from-behind win in the football game. Frowning, he turned the ball over. “Why am I going to be late?”
You’ll miss the bus.
“Some prophet you are,” he laughed. He placed the ball in his messenger bag and picked up the ring of keys by the door. “It’s called owning a car, mister Wizard.”
He locked up behind himself, took the elevator down to the parking level of his building, and stood for five minutes in front of his empty parking space.
“You could’ve told me the car was stolen,” he muttered. “In fact, you could’ve warned me that the car was going to be stolen.” He looked down his shoulder at the bag. “No, I can already bet what you’re going to say. ‘You didn’t ask.’”
Snapping his fingers, he unzipped the bag and pulled out the ball. “Where’s my car?”
It’s called car theft.
“Smart ass. Now what?”
You’ll miss the bus.
He could already hear the bus arriving at the corner as he ran from the parking lot entrance. He stopped at the corner, bent over with his hands on his knees, panting heavily. He didn’t waste time with the ball; most likely, it already knew what he was thinking.
He finally got to work fifteen minutes late, tossed his messenger bag on the desk and sat at his computer. For having a miraculous prognosticating ball, his day was off to a fairly craptacular beginning. Shaking his head, he pulled up his email – the most recent one was from his girlfriend, Maggie.
“Didn’t hear from you last night. Is everything okay? Bad news, I can’t make it to dinner today, I got called into an emergency office planning meeting. Call me later?
– Mags”
He sighed. They’d been dating on and off for a couple years now, and with their time being dedicated so much of late to their respective jobs, they didn’t see each other very much at all. He’d half thought the ball’s promise of today being a “big day” might even be a hint at some new direction in their relationship. His head rested down on his desktop. This day was not going well.
“You okay, Gary?”
He sat up. It was Amy, from two cubes down. They’d engaged in casual “office flirting” for the past few months, ever since she’d broken up with her boyfriend. She was attractive, but he hadn’t really given it any serious thought. But now… He smiled. “Yeah, just a little winded. Someone stole my car and I missed the bus and…” he chuckled. “But I’m here, so that’s something.”
“I’m going downstairs for a coffee. Want to come with?”
He took a slow breath. “Nnnoooo, I think I better get to work, I’m already late.” He added, after a moment of mentally kicking himself, “but thanks. Maybe next time?”
She nodded, smiling. She had a nice smile. “Okay. Be right back, then.”
He sat back in his seat, shaking his head. His hand reached into his bag, pulled out the 8 ball.
“Moron or hero?” he asked, mostly to himself.
Moron.
“We’re gonna talk about my car when I get back,” he muttered, putting the ball down and jumping up. He called out after Amy, catching up to her as she held the elevator door for him.
She did have a very nice smile.
The rest of day was lively. He and Amy chatted over instant messenger, and it was actually enjoyable – any guilt he might have otherwise felt was fading fast under the barrage of Amy’s obvious interest.
Before he knew it, it was getting close to lunchtime. He looked from his email window to his instant message window and, from there, to the magic eight ball. He found himself hoping for a specific answer to his unspoken question before he even touched the ball.
Ask Amy.
He had a small thrill of excitement when she messaged him “yes”, even though the ball had already told him she’d accept.
They decided to go to a nearby diner – it was pleasant and cozy, and the food wasn’t bad. They took a booth near the window and made small talk. Things went nicely – the gentle tingle of potential attraction was intoxicating, and a good enhancement to the meal.
About five minutes before the check arrived, Gary got that sinking feeling – the strange “someone is looking at me” vibe, the herald of doom, if ever it had a name. He looked out the window to see Maggie and two of her friends standing, staring at him. He couldn’t tell if Maggie was about to cry or throw one of her friends through the window at him.
Needless to say, the lunch ended poorly. He’d run after Maggie and tried to talk to her, but her friends ran interference until one of the chefs from the restaurant caught up with him and threatened to call the police on Gary for running out on the bill. In the commotion, Maggie and friends made their escape. Gary went with the chef back to the restaurant in time for Amy to slap him across the face and leave. He settled the bill and slowly made his way back to work.
His manager met him on his way back to his desk, and they had a brief conversation regarding interoffice relationships and his repeated tardiness. He slumped into his chair and glared at the magic eight ball. Snapping it up from the desk, he tried to calm himself.
It’s not my fault.
“What do you mean it’s not your fault?” he whispered. “You said to ask Amy!”
That’s right.
“But it ruined everything! Now she hates me, Maggie hates me, and my job’s in danger!”
That’s also right.
“Wait…” he frowned, “are you just trying to ruin my life, or is this one of those things where you trim out all the bad things so that I get something good?”
Trust me.
Gary sighed. “Well, we still need to figure out where my car is.”
The widget seemed to take its time rising to the surface. Don’t worry about it.
His eyes narrowed and a long breath made its way from his nostrils. “Easy for you to say, all you have to do is tell the future.” If the ball answered him, he didn’t waste any time reading it. He had four more hours on the clock to try and salvage his job, and would probably need every available second of it.
At some point after 5:30, he capped off a pretty horrible day with some reasonably impressive reports, and watched his manager reluctantly concede that Gary’d still have a future with the company, which, at this point, Gary was prepared to accept as a victory. Amy had already left, so thankfully he didn’t have to avoid eye contact on his way to the elevator.
He was already halfway across the parking lot before he remembered that his car had been stolen, and, having no better ideas, sat down on the parking block and pulled out the magic eight ball. It was a cloudy evening, unusually warm with the sky the gentle orange of sunset. He looked across the street at a convenience store. The word “Lotto” blazed at him, its undeniable temptation feeding into his frustration.
“Should I start playing the lottery?” he asked. A woman was leaving the store at that moment, a small nylon bag of groceries in her hand.
Don’t bother.
“What, you’re not going to help me win quick cash? Some help you are. Is there some rule or something that won’t let you help me get rich?”
That’s not it.
“Then why?” The woman had turned the corner, leaving Gary alone with his increasing frustration.
She has the winning ticket.
Gary closed his eyes. He could probably hit the far wall from here with this stupid ball.
Yes, you probably could.
The widget rolled of its own accord, changing to read: But please don’t.
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t! My whole life is ruined – I’ve lost my car, my girlfriend, and almost lost my job, all from listening to you.”
It’s for the best.
Gary sighed. “Yeah, and now you’re gonna tell me how I’m going to do something really big in the future that will save the world or something, and it’s all because of all the crap you’ve helped happen now.”
No. Not at all.
“Not really helping your case, man.”
Your car was a piece of crap.
“Dude. Totally uncalled for.”
I'm sorry. But I'm right.
Gary sighed. It was a piece of crap. It was paid off, but it was starting to nickel and dime him. Still, it was paid off and that meant something.
“Fine, I’ll agree with that, but Maggie?”
You didn’t love her.
Gary stopped as he was about to argue with the ball. As much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t really love her. They’d been together for a long time, but he really didn’t see the relationship going anywhere. Maybe it was for the best that they broke up and she found someone else who really cared for her like she deserved.
Exactly.
“Okay, fine. So you haven’t totally ruined my life, then. But at least she’d be able to come give me a ride home.”
Also true.
“So, see? That would’ve been a good thing, then.”
Not for her.
He shook his head. “Thanks, that’s really nice. I get that she deserves better, but it’s not like giving me a ride home would’ve killed her.”
Funny you should say that.
Gary read this latest response twice. “What do you mean?”
Nothing. Don’t worry about it.
“Oh no, you don’t. You meant something.” He shook the ball. “You said you always tell the truth. What did you mean by that?”
The little widget again seemed to take its time in floating to the surface. When it finally slid into place against the clear plastic, Gary nearly dropped the ball.
You’re going to die.
Gary’s throat nearly closed. “Wha- what? When? How?”
Now.
He blinked at the unexpected revelation. “No way. You’ve got to be joking or…something. Right?”
I’m sorry.
“But - - -but how?” The words “I’m sorry” repeated on the ball. Gary shook it again, harder. “Tell me!”
It doesn’t matter.
“It matters to me!”
You can’t avoid it.
“At least tell me! I can try to… I don’t know, change it, or something!”
No, you can’t.
“Don’t you tell me that!” he screamed. He stood up, oblivious to the people pausing briefly in passing to stare at the man’s apparent argument with a small black plastic sphere.
“I’ve watched those movies, there’s always a way to change the future or something!”
I only tell the truth.
Gary looked into the ball. It all seemed darker, somehow, like all the light had gone out of the world. He felt defeated, exhausted. The air tasted like ash in his mouth, the air felt dry and bitter. His eyes welled up, and he looked back at the crystal ball in his hands.
Don’t look up, it read.
Gary didn’t.
Ren, 2008
Jul 24, 2009
The New Prayers
Commuting can be fun. No, really - I'm not being sarcastic here. I've got a thirty or forty minute commute in my little vw beetle, and it's really kind of evolved into a good experience; one I almost look forward to at the start and end of my day. Some days I'll just enjoy the scenery in which the sheer quantity of traffic forces me to indugle; other days I'll test the impact resistance of the windows in my car by belting out...well, whatever playlist I deem best on my iPod (this week it's Dream Academy and Ai Otsuka), and if you ever happened to drive past me during one of those days, then I thank you for not staring or laughing.
Some days, though, I just want to talk. Occasionally, I'll scroll through the phonebook on my blackberry and figure out who I haven't talked with in a while - but if I get a couple voicemail answers, I just put the phone away. It's never pleasant to look forward to a good conversation, only to get shoved into a mailbox. I know it's nothing personal - or is it? - but it just doesn't wet my whistle, if you understand me.
Many years ago, I'd just send my words up/out/down/in to God. Just kind of a free-form prayer or something. Not a formal "Our Father Who Art In Heaven..." or something, just kind of a "checking in with Dad" conversation. If there were things on my mind, the process of mental ramblings would often hone the comprehension of my thoughts to a degree to where I could generally figure out the answers to my own questions. Back in those days, I'd just take this happy little response as some kind of confirmation to my faith - God answering me in the 'still small voice' in the flutterings of my heart.
I think that's the one single thing I miss about really believing in God. There was always something kind of comforting, like knowing the monsters can't get you when you pull the blanket over your head when you're five years old.On my way home yesterday, I found myself in that distantly familiar mindset. And I didn't know who or what to talk to. That was kind of annoying to me. But did I let that stop me? (Clearly, no, or this would be an even more depressingly pointless blog than I fear it could yet become.)
Most of what I found myself saying... well, that's a blog for a different day. But the thing that it impressed upon me overall was the idea of prayer itself. Prayer. I remember a line from "Shadowlands" - that movie about the life of C.S. Lewis, played by Sir Anthony "Hannibal Lecter" Hopkins. He was encouraged in a moment of grief and sorrow to pray to god for blessings or whatever, and his response has always stuck with me: "I do not pray to god to change his mind; I pray to god....to change ME."
There's a poignant and significant element to prayer about how we see ourselves in an imagined reflection of a Perfect Being. In those eyes, who would not feel small and insignificant? The greater and more omnipotent we conceive our god to be, how much more broken and worthless do we become? Appreciating this comparitive self-analyzing attribute of prayer has made me address a "chicken and egg" scenario for myself:Did I stop believing in God when I believed myself too "aware"? Or did realizing I had no belief in god gradually cause my ego to increase? The worst part of that question is knowing where the questions themselves have come from: fear.
Sometimes, faith - to me - looks like playing the lottery. Like, people play because they're afraid if they don't play, they'll never win - which, yes, is technically true. But, actually, it's very likely that they never will even if they do. What's the old joke about the lottery? "It's a tax for people who can't do math."
Well, what about faith? Is it really as bad as that?
I don't have an answer for what's REALLY out there; I've had hopes, I've had this feeling or that, but no single event that couldn't more easily been attributed to chance or coincidence. Well, okay, serendipity - a happy little convergence of random events which, when viewed from a certain angle might look like something else. But it's all figures in clouds. People don't KNOW. They believe, sure, but "know"? Not even the leaders of the various religions or churches know for certain. I can see it in their faces when they talk about it. It's an act, a performance. Even the leaders of my old religion - they didn't see the face of God him/herself, they didn't actually hear the Actual Voice of God with their own actual ears. They've even said so - but understandably, those quotes don't really make the headlines.
So, knowing this, it makes it a challenge to pray. Because then, you know, it's just me talking to myself. It just kind of slid into place yesterday, though, in the midst of my auto ramblings:That's why I blog.
Sure, I know there's maybe four or five people who read this - maybe one or two even get to the end! - but in between the punch lines, the political commentaries, or the imported webcomic strips and YouTube clips... there's the occasional blog like this that I write just to write it out.
I'd love to think God (or whatever) reads it. But honestly, even if not a single person ever sees one word of it....it feels good to just write it down.
It's a big world. A bigger universe. And maybe I'm just a butterfly in an open field in china - but maybe the collective breath of my fellow insects will gather itself up into a summer rain that sweeps across Nebraska. and perhaps those rains will nourish the crops there, sending a fresh batch of health to a needed village in the center of africa. And maybe one of those villagers will grow up strong and sound and go off to school to find a cure for everything. Then, with those longer lifespans, scientists will figure out a way to leave this planet and meet our neighbors across the vastness of space. And in that collective web of ideas and experience, we will push ourselves just a little closer in our evolutionary path towards a perfect being.And maybe, to the little butterflies like me, that being will each down their hands and be God.
Sure, it's a broken analogy, but if you've gotten this far, I wanted to at least give you something to laugh about.
Have a day. Blog. email. Send it out.
Some days, though, I just want to talk. Occasionally, I'll scroll through the phonebook on my blackberry and figure out who I haven't talked with in a while - but if I get a couple voicemail answers, I just put the phone away. It's never pleasant to look forward to a good conversation, only to get shoved into a mailbox. I know it's nothing personal - or is it? - but it just doesn't wet my whistle, if you understand me.
Many years ago, I'd just send my words up/out/down/in to God. Just kind of a free-form prayer or something. Not a formal "Our Father Who Art In Heaven..." or something, just kind of a "checking in with Dad" conversation. If there were things on my mind, the process of mental ramblings would often hone the comprehension of my thoughts to a degree to where I could generally figure out the answers to my own questions. Back in those days, I'd just take this happy little response as some kind of confirmation to my faith - God answering me in the 'still small voice' in the flutterings of my heart.
I think that's the one single thing I miss about really believing in God. There was always something kind of comforting, like knowing the monsters can't get you when you pull the blanket over your head when you're five years old.On my way home yesterday, I found myself in that distantly familiar mindset. And I didn't know who or what to talk to. That was kind of annoying to me. But did I let that stop me? (Clearly, no, or this would be an even more depressingly pointless blog than I fear it could yet become.)
Most of what I found myself saying... well, that's a blog for a different day. But the thing that it impressed upon me overall was the idea of prayer itself. Prayer. I remember a line from "Shadowlands" - that movie about the life of C.S. Lewis, played by Sir Anthony "Hannibal Lecter" Hopkins. He was encouraged in a moment of grief and sorrow to pray to god for blessings or whatever, and his response has always stuck with me: "I do not pray to god to change his mind; I pray to god....to change ME."
There's a poignant and significant element to prayer about how we see ourselves in an imagined reflection of a Perfect Being. In those eyes, who would not feel small and insignificant? The greater and more omnipotent we conceive our god to be, how much more broken and worthless do we become? Appreciating this comparitive self-analyzing attribute of prayer has made me address a "chicken and egg" scenario for myself:Did I stop believing in God when I believed myself too "aware"? Or did realizing I had no belief in god gradually cause my ego to increase? The worst part of that question is knowing where the questions themselves have come from: fear.
Sometimes, faith - to me - looks like playing the lottery. Like, people play because they're afraid if they don't play, they'll never win - which, yes, is technically true. But, actually, it's very likely that they never will even if they do. What's the old joke about the lottery? "It's a tax for people who can't do math."
Well, what about faith? Is it really as bad as that?
I don't have an answer for what's REALLY out there; I've had hopes, I've had this feeling or that, but no single event that couldn't more easily been attributed to chance or coincidence. Well, okay, serendipity - a happy little convergence of random events which, when viewed from a certain angle might look like something else. But it's all figures in clouds. People don't KNOW. They believe, sure, but "know"? Not even the leaders of the various religions or churches know for certain. I can see it in their faces when they talk about it. It's an act, a performance. Even the leaders of my old religion - they didn't see the face of God him/herself, they didn't actually hear the Actual Voice of God with their own actual ears. They've even said so - but understandably, those quotes don't really make the headlines.
So, knowing this, it makes it a challenge to pray. Because then, you know, it's just me talking to myself. It just kind of slid into place yesterday, though, in the midst of my auto ramblings:That's why I blog.
Sure, I know there's maybe four or five people who read this - maybe one or two even get to the end! - but in between the punch lines, the political commentaries, or the imported webcomic strips and YouTube clips... there's the occasional blog like this that I write just to write it out.
I'd love to think God (or whatever) reads it. But honestly, even if not a single person ever sees one word of it....it feels good to just write it down.
It's a big world. A bigger universe. And maybe I'm just a butterfly in an open field in china - but maybe the collective breath of my fellow insects will gather itself up into a summer rain that sweeps across Nebraska. and perhaps those rains will nourish the crops there, sending a fresh batch of health to a needed village in the center of africa. And maybe one of those villagers will grow up strong and sound and go off to school to find a cure for everything. Then, with those longer lifespans, scientists will figure out a way to leave this planet and meet our neighbors across the vastness of space. And in that collective web of ideas and experience, we will push ourselves just a little closer in our evolutionary path towards a perfect being.And maybe, to the little butterflies like me, that being will each down their hands and be God.
Sure, it's a broken analogy, but if you've gotten this far, I wanted to at least give you something to laugh about.
Have a day. Blog. email. Send it out.
Jul 22, 2009
I might be the Walrus. Koo koo ka choo.
We watched the first volume of the Beatles Anthology documentary series, and if you haven't seen it, I already highly recommend it. We're planning on picking up the Rock Band release in september created around the Beatles franchise, so I figured it made sense for us to brush up on our Beatlesology, so there we were. I should have also figured it would creep its way into my dreams.I had three last night - or perhaps 3 chapters to the same dream, I'm not sure. But it/they were really interesting, hence all the sharing.
The first one was on a set I call my "urban cul-de-sac" set - it's a cobblestone side street, somewhat reminiscent of the brick frontage street down by Pike's Place market, but with other shops in the place of the flower and food vendors. There's a little two-story cafe in the location (in my dream), and I've hung out there a few times. There's also a small venue next to the cafe where various acts have shown up (Once, Pearl Jam was there, holding auditions; another time it was Peter Gabriel doing an acoustic set). In the opening scene in my dream(s) last night, it was just a club where various local bands were performing. I was a pianist (a stretch, I guess?), but I didn't so much have "a band" as much as I was working with a variety of groups and trying to finesse my way into a headlining gig. But apparently I'd become something of a staple, because a lot of other bands kept coming over to me for advice or requests.
A really successful local band walked by and the group went silent. "That's the Police", someone whispered in reverent tones. "Their bassist is AWESOME." Sting brushed some of the wild hair from his face and nodded in confident acceptance of their admiration. I begrudingly admitted they were totally right. Damn him and his ego.
They finally opened the doors to the performance hall and some of us filtered past the milling throngs into the backstage area. All our instruments were there, but my keyboards were locked up and I couldn't get to them. We eventually busted the locks and pulled them out, but all the buttons were written in some kind of japanese characters and all I could do was to make the keyboard make little laser sounds.
Before you ask, yes, I know what the really not-so-subtle message there was.
Anyway, we did one number and managed to make people like us, though the other members of the band I was playing with it kept giving me dirty looks. Finally, I abandoned the keyboards and started playing the old piano at the side of the stage. It sounded pretty tinny and distorted and was slightly off key, but it filled out the arrangement better than little laser sounds, so it was good and the band stopped hating me.
Unfortunately, the audience apparently preferred the lasers and booed us off the stage. We walked off the stage under a hail of beer bottles but felt like heroes.
Back up on the street, we laughed and joked about the night's performance and the other musicians came by to offer their congratulations. The Police meandered back by, and Sting nodded to me, a subtle hint of a smile on his far too cool face. It was better than a Grammy or a Gold Record.
The darkness in the sky faded to light, and we started to stand up and make our way back to our homes to sleep off the day like musically precocious vampire lads and when one of the other musicians asked me where I was going (I was at that moment stepping onto a bus), I explained that I was going to go "do a mission." He assumed I was talking about "video game stuff", so nodded and gave me the thumbs up.
I hopped on the bus and it flew off. (yes. It's a dream. They can do that there.)
When the busplane landed, I was in the wilds of spanish arizona or something. The ground wasn't quite red enough to be the arizona I know, but the houses were all made of clay and though nobody was of a particularly distinct racial appearance, they all spoke spanish and russian. Or something. It sounded russian, it could have been klingon, for all I know. Anyway.
They started asking me a lot of church fact questions, all of which I answered. They were all very happy with me, and said I was going to be a great asset for them and their "great work" to convert the rest of the world. I looked around the rest of the world and couldn't see anything but a wasteland beyond the little scattered houses I could see directly around me.
I asked them how many people were left, and another much older person stepped out of a small house and said, "only 1000 people left, and half of them are already ours."
I was invited in with a few other "missionaries", who finally looked at me with my button up shirt, long hair and beard and asked me why I was there.
"You're not a missionary, are you?"
I laughed. "No, I'm not even a member of your church," I answered.
The local missionary leader's brow furrowed. "Then why are you here?"
Not really sure how to answer (what do you say when your dream-people ask you about your dreams?), I shrugged and said I didn't know.
They all escorted me out of the building and told me I needed to leave, because I didn't belong there. "You don't have the proper underwear," they said (this makes a lot more sense if you're familiar with the mormon church, btw). "We can do this without your help."
I thought of a thousand things I wanted to tell them, but was once again reminded that you cannot tell someone a thing if they don't want to know it. And, besides, my alarm clock was going off, and I needed to wake up.
I hit snooze but didn't really awaken, instead going right back into the dream.
I was now back at the cafe, but dressed in nicer clothing and with a much better haircut. But all the other musicians were still there, but looking a bit older and with a bit longer hair and dirtier clothes than before. They asked me where I'd gone, I told them.
They laughed. "Really? A missionary? But why?"
I explained it was because I'd needed to know what I believed in. They laughed again and poured me another beer. From behind us came a voice at another table. It was Sting, now looking more like how he looks in fact, today. At his table was John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison. Sting gets the best tables, damn him.
Sting said, "So what did you find out?"
I looked back at him. "I found out that I didn't believe in anything."
Jimi laughed. "Not true, man. You can't find nothing."
John agreed. "Even when you don't find what you wanted, you do find something else. Faith is faith, even if it's not the faith you were looking for."
I looked over at Jim, expecting something else as an addition, but he just half-smiled behind those annoying sunglasses of his, and pointed a thumb at Lennon. "it's cool that you took the journey, man, you gotta be happy with that."
Sting just shrugged. "Best thing you ever did was leave the road they gave you in search of something new. The trouble now is that you don't know where to go."
I agreed, recognizing the truth when I heard it. "Can't I just go everywhere?"
Jim raised his glass. "I like this kid."
Sting and John shook their heads. "Not all at once," John said. "Just one road at a time."
The low beeping started sounding off out of the club again, like some truly annoying pager. The four musicians raised their glasses. "You're on, kid," the guy at the door said.
"You'll do fine," Sting assured me.
John peered at me over his glasses. "But you already knew that."
Jimi took a long drink and nodded with a sort of half-smile that told me nothing at all without making me feel like I'd been ripped off from my brush with fame.
Jim leaned back, looking up at the sky. "The only thing stoppin' you is the stoppin', man."
I looked back at the club's opened doors and closed my eyes.
The first one was on a set I call my "urban cul-de-sac" set - it's a cobblestone side street, somewhat reminiscent of the brick frontage street down by Pike's Place market, but with other shops in the place of the flower and food vendors. There's a little two-story cafe in the location (in my dream), and I've hung out there a few times. There's also a small venue next to the cafe where various acts have shown up (Once, Pearl Jam was there, holding auditions; another time it was Peter Gabriel doing an acoustic set). In the opening scene in my dream(s) last night, it was just a club where various local bands were performing. I was a pianist (a stretch, I guess?), but I didn't so much have "a band" as much as I was working with a variety of groups and trying to finesse my way into a headlining gig. But apparently I'd become something of a staple, because a lot of other bands kept coming over to me for advice or requests.
A really successful local band walked by and the group went silent. "That's the Police", someone whispered in reverent tones. "Their bassist is AWESOME." Sting brushed some of the wild hair from his face and nodded in confident acceptance of their admiration. I begrudingly admitted they were totally right. Damn him and his ego.
They finally opened the doors to the performance hall and some of us filtered past the milling throngs into the backstage area. All our instruments were there, but my keyboards were locked up and I couldn't get to them. We eventually busted the locks and pulled them out, but all the buttons were written in some kind of japanese characters and all I could do was to make the keyboard make little laser sounds.
Before you ask, yes, I know what the really not-so-subtle message there was.
Anyway, we did one number and managed to make people like us, though the other members of the band I was playing with it kept giving me dirty looks. Finally, I abandoned the keyboards and started playing the old piano at the side of the stage. It sounded pretty tinny and distorted and was slightly off key, but it filled out the arrangement better than little laser sounds, so it was good and the band stopped hating me.
Unfortunately, the audience apparently preferred the lasers and booed us off the stage. We walked off the stage under a hail of beer bottles but felt like heroes.
Back up on the street, we laughed and joked about the night's performance and the other musicians came by to offer their congratulations. The Police meandered back by, and Sting nodded to me, a subtle hint of a smile on his far too cool face. It was better than a Grammy or a Gold Record.
The darkness in the sky faded to light, and we started to stand up and make our way back to our homes to sleep off the day like musically precocious vampire lads and when one of the other musicians asked me where I was going (I was at that moment stepping onto a bus), I explained that I was going to go "do a mission." He assumed I was talking about "video game stuff", so nodded and gave me the thumbs up.
I hopped on the bus and it flew off. (yes. It's a dream. They can do that there.)
When the busplane landed, I was in the wilds of spanish arizona or something. The ground wasn't quite red enough to be the arizona I know, but the houses were all made of clay and though nobody was of a particularly distinct racial appearance, they all spoke spanish and russian. Or something. It sounded russian, it could have been klingon, for all I know. Anyway.
They started asking me a lot of church fact questions, all of which I answered. They were all very happy with me, and said I was going to be a great asset for them and their "great work" to convert the rest of the world. I looked around the rest of the world and couldn't see anything but a wasteland beyond the little scattered houses I could see directly around me.
I asked them how many people were left, and another much older person stepped out of a small house and said, "only 1000 people left, and half of them are already ours."
I was invited in with a few other "missionaries", who finally looked at me with my button up shirt, long hair and beard and asked me why I was there.
"You're not a missionary, are you?"
I laughed. "No, I'm not even a member of your church," I answered.
The local missionary leader's brow furrowed. "Then why are you here?"
Not really sure how to answer (what do you say when your dream-people ask you about your dreams?), I shrugged and said I didn't know.
They all escorted me out of the building and told me I needed to leave, because I didn't belong there. "You don't have the proper underwear," they said (this makes a lot more sense if you're familiar with the mormon church, btw). "We can do this without your help."
I thought of a thousand things I wanted to tell them, but was once again reminded that you cannot tell someone a thing if they don't want to know it. And, besides, my alarm clock was going off, and I needed to wake up.
I hit snooze but didn't really awaken, instead going right back into the dream.
I was now back at the cafe, but dressed in nicer clothing and with a much better haircut. But all the other musicians were still there, but looking a bit older and with a bit longer hair and dirtier clothes than before. They asked me where I'd gone, I told them.
They laughed. "Really? A missionary? But why?"
I explained it was because I'd needed to know what I believed in. They laughed again and poured me another beer. From behind us came a voice at another table. It was Sting, now looking more like how he looks in fact, today. At his table was John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison. Sting gets the best tables, damn him.
Sting said, "So what did you find out?"
I looked back at him. "I found out that I didn't believe in anything."
Jimi laughed. "Not true, man. You can't find nothing."
John agreed. "Even when you don't find what you wanted, you do find something else. Faith is faith, even if it's not the faith you were looking for."
I looked over at Jim, expecting something else as an addition, but he just half-smiled behind those annoying sunglasses of his, and pointed a thumb at Lennon. "it's cool that you took the journey, man, you gotta be happy with that."
Sting just shrugged. "Best thing you ever did was leave the road they gave you in search of something new. The trouble now is that you don't know where to go."
I agreed, recognizing the truth when I heard it. "Can't I just go everywhere?"
Jim raised his glass. "I like this kid."
Sting and John shook their heads. "Not all at once," John said. "Just one road at a time."
The low beeping started sounding off out of the club again, like some truly annoying pager. The four musicians raised their glasses. "You're on, kid," the guy at the door said.
"You'll do fine," Sting assured me.
John peered at me over his glasses. "But you already knew that."
Jimi took a long drink and nodded with a sort of half-smile that told me nothing at all without making me feel like I'd been ripped off from my brush with fame.
Jim leaned back, looking up at the sky. "The only thing stoppin' you is the stoppin', man."
I looked back at the club's opened doors and closed my eyes.
Jul 17, 2009
Least Favorite News Conventions
1) Putting "-gate" on everything potentially scandalous. "Watergate" was the name of the effing building. It wasn't a scandal about Water, you tards.
2) "Breaking the Glass (insert random noun)" - "Breaking the Glass Ceiling" can't become "Breaking the Glass Rotors" just because she's a female helicopter pilot. There's no such thing as glass rotors on a helicopter. Besides, the term "glass ceiling" is a metaphor for an projected inability to move up in one's organization based on being a member of a relative minority.
3) "Balanced Reporting" = Putting two loud and diametrically opposed people on the screen and let them scream over the top of one another. Balanced reporting should be a calm and logical explanation and representation of the facts, not a cage match of the most enthusiastic extremes.
4) "Breaking News" = It might be an explosion, it could be a kitten up a tree, but it's HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!
5) Editorializing masquerading as "professional interpretation." You're a talking head, not a truth filter.
6) Pharmaceutical sponsorship - ever wonder why the ads during news channels tend to be treatments for depression, ADD, and sexual dysfunction? Maybe it's all the news' fault that we're all unable to maintain an election. Yes. I punned. Get over it.
7) Reporting on the News: yes, we get it - you're the news agencies. We realize that when you run out of things to talk about, you talk about yourself. But that's when we're changing the channel.
8) Talking about the other guys: this reminds me about dating girls who talked smack about their past boyfriends. It always made me think, "god, how are you going to rip on me to the next guy you go out with?" Keep it professional, and stop trying to talk yourself up to me against your competition. Ripping on them just makes me want to go watch them instead of you.9) Graphics and High-techitude: if it gets in the way of the information it's supposed to be providing, then maybe you need to stick to just talking.
10) Ripping on the Internet, Bloggers, Twitter and YouTube: they'll always be just a little better and faster and have less commercials than you. Stop whining.
2) "Breaking the Glass (insert random noun)" - "Breaking the Glass Ceiling" can't become "Breaking the Glass Rotors" just because she's a female helicopter pilot. There's no such thing as glass rotors on a helicopter. Besides, the term "glass ceiling" is a metaphor for an projected inability to move up in one's organization based on being a member of a relative minority.
3) "Balanced Reporting" = Putting two loud and diametrically opposed people on the screen and let them scream over the top of one another. Balanced reporting should be a calm and logical explanation and representation of the facts, not a cage match of the most enthusiastic extremes.
4) "Breaking News" = It might be an explosion, it could be a kitten up a tree, but it's HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!
5) Editorializing masquerading as "professional interpretation." You're a talking head, not a truth filter.
6) Pharmaceutical sponsorship - ever wonder why the ads during news channels tend to be treatments for depression, ADD, and sexual dysfunction? Maybe it's all the news' fault that we're all unable to maintain an election. Yes. I punned. Get over it.
7) Reporting on the News: yes, we get it - you're the news agencies. We realize that when you run out of things to talk about, you talk about yourself. But that's when we're changing the channel.
8) Talking about the other guys: this reminds me about dating girls who talked smack about their past boyfriends. It always made me think, "god, how are you going to rip on me to the next guy you go out with?" Keep it professional, and stop trying to talk yourself up to me against your competition. Ripping on them just makes me want to go watch them instead of you.9) Graphics and High-techitude: if it gets in the way of the information it's supposed to be providing, then maybe you need to stick to just talking.
10) Ripping on the Internet, Bloggers, Twitter and YouTube: they'll always be just a little better and faster and have less commercials than you. Stop whining.
May 7, 2007
This really, really hurts. I'm kind of a big fan of the comic, the character, and, thus far, the movies. So it is with a heavy heart that I have to confess I wasn't really impressed by the latest one.
Spiderman 3 has some noble aspirations, I think. I suspect that Sam Raimi had some really specific plans for this movie, incorporating a lot of characters and elements - specific plot details as well as storyline and development arcs - into one movie.
However, whether it's just a continuation of the "Trilogy Curse" or just poor planning, this one just didn't work for me.
The basic plot is simple enough: the birth of a new villian, Flint Marko (who shares his last name with an Xmen villain, Juggernaut - Cain Marko - yet no one ever asks if the two are actually related), a petty thief who, on the run from the police, falls victim to a particle acceleration experiment which disintegrates him; though permitting him the ability to re-integrate himself as a silicon-based being. He retains his mind, though he possesses the ability to control his body in a sand-like state - thus, Sandman.
The transformation sequence where he first returns to life is genuinely one of the most dramatic CGI scenes I've witnessed on film; the struggle is painfully displayed, and between the filming and score, you really feel for the man, and witness his determination to survive. Honestly, it's one of the best single scenes in the movie.
But we also encounter the first big flaw of this movie: they make Sandman FAR too sympathetic a villain. The man's just trying to get money to take care of his sick daughter, and he's had some bad luck. Most of the time Spidey's beating on him, I just wanted to tell Spiderman to back off the man. Leave him be, he's just trying to get help for his child, man.
He never really leaves this state, either, because at every possible opportunity, we are shown him looking at the locket that holds his daughter's picture. Oh, yeah. His daughter's sick. He's doing this for her. We got it. Moving on.
In one of the more spectacular fight scenes, we are re-introduced to Spidey's arch-enemy and best friend, Kid Goblin. Okay, they never call him that, but now he rides a snowboard and has cool goggles, and his mask doesn't look as silly as his dad's did. Okay, it's still silly, but for different reasons. I noticed that he protects his face but not his head. I guess the idea of moving 200 mph on a jet-propelled skateboard means you just want to have the wind move through your hair and keep the bugs out of your eyes and mouth, but you're determined not to have helmet hair. Can't see a problem with that, so long as you don't hit anything... oh wait. Yeah, that might be a problem.
This ends up being the most interesting story arc in the movie, the issues between Peter and Harry. They were best friends, now they're not. A girlfriend (MJ) and Harry's dad's death both keep them on opposite sides of the law. It's a bittersweet arc here, full of triumphs and I feel they wrap it up too clean, too soon for us to enjoy it as much as I would've liked.
The MJ/Peter issues reach a new level of annoyance with MJ feeling threatened by Spiderman's public success versus her own struggles with fame and celebrity. I think I can see what they were going for here, but in the end, she just comes off as whiny. I'm still shocked that Peter has a job at the Daily Bugle, by the way, since he did steal away his boss' son's fiancee. Apparently JJ Jamison is a lot more forgiving a man than he comes across. I would've expected him to have canned Pete the day his son got left at the altar.
By the end of the movie, I'm really surprised MJ wants anything to do with Pete. This part left me really disappointed. The ending feels DRAMATICALLY forced and superficial. It was almost like they made the characters think, "hey, this is the end of a movie, we better get along now."
They made several changes to MJ's character for the movies, patterning her more after another character from the books, Gwen Stacy. And then they brought the Gwen Stacy character into this movie, which for me, means only one thing: someone's gotta die.
See, in the comics, Peter becomes spiderman, and starts by using his powers for personal gain, until that greed inadvertently leads to his uncle's death. This death was what made him decide to use his powers for good.
Years later, his girlfriend - Gwen Stacy - was killed by the Green Goblin. This made Spiderman confront the Goblin, during which battle the goblin was killed by his own glider stabbing him through the chest (just like in the first movie). But this whole situation stuck with Spidey and made him question whether his choice to be a "superhero" was in fact a bad idea, as the people around him were constantly in danger.
Basically, Ben's death led him to start on the path, Gwen's death nearly took him off it. It also kept him from having meaningful relationships for several years.
He and MJ had a lot of problems just because she KNEW about him being spiderman and figured if he wasn't comfortable enough with her to tell her, then apparently they didn't have a strong enough relationship.
Anyway, that's the comics. In the movies, they kind of took that whole element of Gwen Stacy out. In this movie, she's here, but she's dating a guy named Eddie Brock, who also works at the Bugle and apparently has a lot of Peter Parker envy.
Now, when I say Gwen and Eddie are dating, apparently what I really mean is that he dated her once - they went for coffee - and he's just totally stuck on that idea.
When they first introduce him, he makes the comment that they're dating, and I actually thought it was an interesting choice (they never even met in the comics, Gwen having died YEARS before the arrival of Eddie Brock). But, speaking of "interesting choices", let's go right from this to the arrival of the "alien symbiote."
The black costume. Ugh. Now, while I think the black costume and what it represents to spidey (his darker years and his current dark times as a rebel against the law in the comics right now) is a really interesting plot device, I always HATED that it was actually an alien being that drained his energy and had a mind of its own. It was kind of... I dunno, silly. Yes, I said silly within a comic book storyline, as if the whole thing was somehow a higher form of literature.
They recently started a new line of comics, called the "Ultimate" universe, where they've kind of re-told the spiderman stories, taking the best elements and congealing them into a solid continuity, removing little silliness like how he was actually a clone for about 2 years' worth of titles and has had to battle against the Spider Gods to keep his powers, blah blah blah. Yes, I'm not making that up.
Anyway, in this "Ultimate Spiderman", they had the Venom character, but it was actually made by a mad scientist's (Doctor Octopus) efforts to create another spiderman in a lab. The dna, mixed with one of their test subjects, led to a creature called venom, who had such unstable cellular structure that he was like liquid, changing and morphing in the Big Gnashing Teeth scary thing we almost saw on the screen in this movie.
I would've liked a better tie in to that origin. I know, it would've been two genetically altered supervillians (3, if you count Harry Osborn), and maybe they were worried that people'd think they were just harping on Genetic experimentation, and not telling a superhero movie.
Anyway, this black ooze takes Spidey over, and before you can spell "Excelsior" (btw, Stan Lee finally gets a good cameo in this one), Pete's walking down the street in a really bad impression of 70's cool, and we are forced to watch the painful primping as we share the neighborhood's discomfort as Peter acts like he owns the world.
Complete with Emo hairdo.
The problem is, this whole event, this transformation into that which he hates most, the realization of this and the attempt to get it out of his life, and the repercussions of where the black outfit goes next happen in the end of the second act of the movie. It's too late for us to even care about that at this point, I actually looked for a watch to look at so I could ask myself "do we have time for a new villain? Isn't this almost over by now??"
The last act is even worse, though. Aside from a few very necessary scenes with Pete and Harry (Spiderman and the new Goblin), we're thrown into a completely forced "final battle" with the Sandman and Venom versus Spidey, with MJ in the middle.
They never really explain why Venom/Eddie Brock figures out that MJ is even hostage material, so we're kind of dragged along with the assumption that the alien symbiote told Eddie at some point, or else the villains just have been passing around that little tidbit off-screen. Either way, it has never been more clear that MJ really needs to move to LA to work on her movie career. They try to make her break out of her "helpless victim" category by having her get into the fight a bit - calling out "look out!" and throwing concrete blocks at appropriate times, even though you'd think Spiderman's "Spidey Sense" would've tipped him off once or twice.
Speaking of which, I don't even think he has that spider sense anymore. It didn't tip him off ONE SINGLE TIME during this movie.
(note: yes, in the comics, his spidey sense doesn't work against Venom, but if that's the case in this movie, they really should've mentioned it; my point is that it didn't seem to work AT ALL.)
I also hated the very ending.
I like to have my spidey movies end with him being spiderman. Swinging, the whole thing.
Not only does it NOT end like that, there was precious little spiderman-ness going on during the whole movie. It felt, overall, less like a Spiderman movie, and more like a Peter Parker movie.
Which we kind of had in the first one. Tobey Macguire must have demanded more face time in this one, and if that's the case, shame on him. I don't really want to see him in the movies. I want to see spiderman.
And speaking of not seeing Spiderman, why does he always seem so Emo in these movies? Spiderman cracks wise, man! That's his trademark - forget the red/blue tights, the wall-crawling, the web-slinging - he's the guy who usually wins by pissing off his enemies to the point where he can stop them with a few well-aimed webs and a couple heavy punches. but here... he's just so..... depressing.
Okay, but not to say it's all a lost cause. I'm sure the movie can be saved by a really effective Director's Cut (though, Mr Raimi? If you've got the holy grail for this movie on the editing room floor, then SHAME ON YOU!) that has more action and more Spidey-time.
It also had a GREAT scene with Bruce Campbell in a restaurant, which is really very well done (and counters what would have otherwise been an unbearably horrible scene), and some great short bits with JK Simmons (plays JJ Jamison, the cranky editor in chief). Also, the aforementioned origin scene with the Sandman is absolutely fantastic.
My advice? go ahead, check out the movie. It's not crap. It's decent. I probably expected too much.
Overall, it felt like the director was trying to make two movies at once. I think if he could've found a way to combine just the Harry Osborne and Sandman plots and then just leave the black costume/alien symbiote/Eddie Brock/Gwen Stacy bits for the next movie (or maybe leave the movie ending with the arrival of the black suit), it would've left this as more of a solid movie and not the hodgepodge it felt like to me.
Doing so could've left this as a good piece of the franchise and yet still leave people wanting more from a Spiderman 4. As it stands, I have a bad feeling this is going to do for the spiderman movies what Joel Schumacher did for the Batman movies.
Evidently, the Trilogy Curse may be alive and well. :(
Spiderman 3 has some noble aspirations, I think. I suspect that Sam Raimi had some really specific plans for this movie, incorporating a lot of characters and elements - specific plot details as well as storyline and development arcs - into one movie.
However, whether it's just a continuation of the "Trilogy Curse" or just poor planning, this one just didn't work for me.
The basic plot is simple enough: the birth of a new villian, Flint Marko (who shares his last name with an Xmen villain, Juggernaut - Cain Marko - yet no one ever asks if the two are actually related), a petty thief who, on the run from the police, falls victim to a particle acceleration experiment which disintegrates him; though permitting him the ability to re-integrate himself as a silicon-based being. He retains his mind, though he possesses the ability to control his body in a sand-like state - thus, Sandman.
The transformation sequence where he first returns to life is genuinely one of the most dramatic CGI scenes I've witnessed on film; the struggle is painfully displayed, and between the filming and score, you really feel for the man, and witness his determination to survive. Honestly, it's one of the best single scenes in the movie.
But we also encounter the first big flaw of this movie: they make Sandman FAR too sympathetic a villain. The man's just trying to get money to take care of his sick daughter, and he's had some bad luck. Most of the time Spidey's beating on him, I just wanted to tell Spiderman to back off the man. Leave him be, he's just trying to get help for his child, man.
He never really leaves this state, either, because at every possible opportunity, we are shown him looking at the locket that holds his daughter's picture. Oh, yeah. His daughter's sick. He's doing this for her. We got it. Moving on.
In one of the more spectacular fight scenes, we are re-introduced to Spidey's arch-enemy and best friend, Kid Goblin. Okay, they never call him that, but now he rides a snowboard and has cool goggles, and his mask doesn't look as silly as his dad's did. Okay, it's still silly, but for different reasons. I noticed that he protects his face but not his head. I guess the idea of moving 200 mph on a jet-propelled skateboard means you just want to have the wind move through your hair and keep the bugs out of your eyes and mouth, but you're determined not to have helmet hair. Can't see a problem with that, so long as you don't hit anything... oh wait. Yeah, that might be a problem.
This ends up being the most interesting story arc in the movie, the issues between Peter and Harry. They were best friends, now they're not. A girlfriend (MJ) and Harry's dad's death both keep them on opposite sides of the law. It's a bittersweet arc here, full of triumphs and I feel they wrap it up too clean, too soon for us to enjoy it as much as I would've liked.
The MJ/Peter issues reach a new level of annoyance with MJ feeling threatened by Spiderman's public success versus her own struggles with fame and celebrity. I think I can see what they were going for here, but in the end, she just comes off as whiny. I'm still shocked that Peter has a job at the Daily Bugle, by the way, since he did steal away his boss' son's fiancee. Apparently JJ Jamison is a lot more forgiving a man than he comes across. I would've expected him to have canned Pete the day his son got left at the altar.
By the end of the movie, I'm really surprised MJ wants anything to do with Pete. This part left me really disappointed. The ending feels DRAMATICALLY forced and superficial. It was almost like they made the characters think, "hey, this is the end of a movie, we better get along now."
They made several changes to MJ's character for the movies, patterning her more after another character from the books, Gwen Stacy. And then they brought the Gwen Stacy character into this movie, which for me, means only one thing: someone's gotta die.
See, in the comics, Peter becomes spiderman, and starts by using his powers for personal gain, until that greed inadvertently leads to his uncle's death. This death was what made him decide to use his powers for good.
Years later, his girlfriend - Gwen Stacy - was killed by the Green Goblin. This made Spiderman confront the Goblin, during which battle the goblin was killed by his own glider stabbing him through the chest (just like in the first movie). But this whole situation stuck with Spidey and made him question whether his choice to be a "superhero" was in fact a bad idea, as the people around him were constantly in danger.
Basically, Ben's death led him to start on the path, Gwen's death nearly took him off it. It also kept him from having meaningful relationships for several years.
He and MJ had a lot of problems just because she KNEW about him being spiderman and figured if he wasn't comfortable enough with her to tell her, then apparently they didn't have a strong enough relationship.
Anyway, that's the comics. In the movies, they kind of took that whole element of Gwen Stacy out. In this movie, she's here, but she's dating a guy named Eddie Brock, who also works at the Bugle and apparently has a lot of Peter Parker envy.
Now, when I say Gwen and Eddie are dating, apparently what I really mean is that he dated her once - they went for coffee - and he's just totally stuck on that idea.
When they first introduce him, he makes the comment that they're dating, and I actually thought it was an interesting choice (they never even met in the comics, Gwen having died YEARS before the arrival of Eddie Brock). But, speaking of "interesting choices", let's go right from this to the arrival of the "alien symbiote."
The black costume. Ugh. Now, while I think the black costume and what it represents to spidey (his darker years and his current dark times as a rebel against the law in the comics right now) is a really interesting plot device, I always HATED that it was actually an alien being that drained his energy and had a mind of its own. It was kind of... I dunno, silly. Yes, I said silly within a comic book storyline, as if the whole thing was somehow a higher form of literature.
They recently started a new line of comics, called the "Ultimate" universe, where they've kind of re-told the spiderman stories, taking the best elements and congealing them into a solid continuity, removing little silliness like how he was actually a clone for about 2 years' worth of titles and has had to battle against the Spider Gods to keep his powers, blah blah blah. Yes, I'm not making that up.
Anyway, in this "Ultimate Spiderman", they had the Venom character, but it was actually made by a mad scientist's (Doctor Octopus) efforts to create another spiderman in a lab. The dna, mixed with one of their test subjects, led to a creature called venom, who had such unstable cellular structure that he was like liquid, changing and morphing in the Big Gnashing Teeth scary thing we almost saw on the screen in this movie.
I would've liked a better tie in to that origin. I know, it would've been two genetically altered supervillians (3, if you count Harry Osborn), and maybe they were worried that people'd think they were just harping on Genetic experimentation, and not telling a superhero movie.
Anyway, this black ooze takes Spidey over, and before you can spell "Excelsior" (btw, Stan Lee finally gets a good cameo in this one), Pete's walking down the street in a really bad impression of 70's cool, and we are forced to watch the painful primping as we share the neighborhood's discomfort as Peter acts like he owns the world.
Complete with Emo hairdo.
The problem is, this whole event, this transformation into that which he hates most, the realization of this and the attempt to get it out of his life, and the repercussions of where the black outfit goes next happen in the end of the second act of the movie. It's too late for us to even care about that at this point, I actually looked for a watch to look at so I could ask myself "do we have time for a new villain? Isn't this almost over by now??"
The last act is even worse, though. Aside from a few very necessary scenes with Pete and Harry (Spiderman and the new Goblin), we're thrown into a completely forced "final battle" with the Sandman and Venom versus Spidey, with MJ in the middle.
They never really explain why Venom/Eddie Brock figures out that MJ is even hostage material, so we're kind of dragged along with the assumption that the alien symbiote told Eddie at some point, or else the villains just have been passing around that little tidbit off-screen. Either way, it has never been more clear that MJ really needs to move to LA to work on her movie career. They try to make her break out of her "helpless victim" category by having her get into the fight a bit - calling out "look out!" and throwing concrete blocks at appropriate times, even though you'd think Spiderman's "Spidey Sense" would've tipped him off once or twice.
Speaking of which, I don't even think he has that spider sense anymore. It didn't tip him off ONE SINGLE TIME during this movie.
(note: yes, in the comics, his spidey sense doesn't work against Venom, but if that's the case in this movie, they really should've mentioned it; my point is that it didn't seem to work AT ALL.)
I also hated the very ending.
I like to have my spidey movies end with him being spiderman. Swinging, the whole thing.
Not only does it NOT end like that, there was precious little spiderman-ness going on during the whole movie. It felt, overall, less like a Spiderman movie, and more like a Peter Parker movie.
Which we kind of had in the first one. Tobey Macguire must have demanded more face time in this one, and if that's the case, shame on him. I don't really want to see him in the movies. I want to see spiderman.
And speaking of not seeing Spiderman, why does he always seem so Emo in these movies? Spiderman cracks wise, man! That's his trademark - forget the red/blue tights, the wall-crawling, the web-slinging - he's the guy who usually wins by pissing off his enemies to the point where he can stop them with a few well-aimed webs and a couple heavy punches. but here... he's just so..... depressing.
Okay, but not to say it's all a lost cause. I'm sure the movie can be saved by a really effective Director's Cut (though, Mr Raimi? If you've got the holy grail for this movie on the editing room floor, then SHAME ON YOU!) that has more action and more Spidey-time.
It also had a GREAT scene with Bruce Campbell in a restaurant, which is really very well done (and counters what would have otherwise been an unbearably horrible scene), and some great short bits with JK Simmons (plays JJ Jamison, the cranky editor in chief). Also, the aforementioned origin scene with the Sandman is absolutely fantastic.
My advice? go ahead, check out the movie. It's not crap. It's decent. I probably expected too much.
Overall, it felt like the director was trying to make two movies at once. I think if he could've found a way to combine just the Harry Osborne and Sandman plots and then just leave the black costume/alien symbiote/Eddie Brock/Gwen Stacy bits for the next movie (or maybe leave the movie ending with the arrival of the black suit), it would've left this as more of a solid movie and not the hodgepodge it felt like to me.
Doing so could've left this as a good piece of the franchise and yet still leave people wanting more from a Spiderman 4. As it stands, I have a bad feeling this is going to do for the spiderman movies what Joel Schumacher did for the Batman movies.
Evidently, the Trilogy Curse may be alive and well. :(
Aug 26, 2002
Okay, so I'm noticing a trend, lately. Time was, movies were a magical place. For that 90 minute to two hour span, my life was on that screen. The actors, the cinematography, the soundtrack...they enveloped me, whisked me away, and I was there. As the closing credits would roll past the screen, I'd slowly return to life, realize my popcorn was cold, my soda was warm, and my shoes firmly adhered to the floor.
Me and my friends would wander out, talk about the movie, the conversation eventually returning to real life somewhere on the way home.
I'd later read the critic's reviews and roll my eyes - who, I thought, could hate THAT movie? After all, did it not lull me into reverie with its elegant intoxication? Did I not travel across reality to share in its magic?
Well, It was magic to me. I remember Jaws scaring me out of the water (I still hate going in the water, silly me), and Star Wars STILL kind of impresses me. Some of the more pathetic stereotypical bits in movies have almost always, infallibly, suckered me in. I confess: I didn't see the ending to "Unbreakable" or "The Sixth Sense" coming until they came, "The Usual Suspects" only recently has lost its shock value, and I still have to turn away at the particularly gruesome moments of army movies like "Saving Private Ryan" and such.
*sigh*
But... movies aren't quite doing it for me like they used to. I find myself shaking my head at a lot more on the screen than I ever would have just a year or two ago. Like "John Q" or "We Were Soldiers", which just didn't do it for me, at all. "A Beautiful Mind" was all right, not really as Beautiful as the oscars seemed intent on hyping it up to be. Granted, Lord of the Rings was pretty spectacular, and the occasional Steven Soderburgh flick is faily groovy.
What bothers me is that I can't figure out if its just that "they don't make 'em like they used to", or if I'm just getting older and a bit more jaded.
Or maybe the reality is a better-connected anchor than it once was? Geez, I don't know.
Well, now that I've opened that philosophical can of worms, I'll wrap this up for the day. I'll have to consider it's implications later.
After all, I have some DVDs to watch before I have to get them back to Blockbuster's.
I know. I'm pathetic.
Me and my friends would wander out, talk about the movie, the conversation eventually returning to real life somewhere on the way home.
I'd later read the critic's reviews and roll my eyes - who, I thought, could hate THAT movie? After all, did it not lull me into reverie with its elegant intoxication? Did I not travel across reality to share in its magic?
Well, It was magic to me. I remember Jaws scaring me out of the water (I still hate going in the water, silly me), and Star Wars STILL kind of impresses me. Some of the more pathetic stereotypical bits in movies have almost always, infallibly, suckered me in. I confess: I didn't see the ending to "Unbreakable" or "The Sixth Sense" coming until they came, "The Usual Suspects" only recently has lost its shock value, and I still have to turn away at the particularly gruesome moments of army movies like "Saving Private Ryan" and such.
*sigh*
But... movies aren't quite doing it for me like they used to. I find myself shaking my head at a lot more on the screen than I ever would have just a year or two ago. Like "John Q" or "We Were Soldiers", which just didn't do it for me, at all. "A Beautiful Mind" was all right, not really as Beautiful as the oscars seemed intent on hyping it up to be. Granted, Lord of the Rings was pretty spectacular, and the occasional Steven Soderburgh flick is faily groovy.
What bothers me is that I can't figure out if its just that "they don't make 'em like they used to", or if I'm just getting older and a bit more jaded.
Or maybe the reality is a better-connected anchor than it once was? Geez, I don't know.
Well, now that I've opened that philosophical can of worms, I'll wrap this up for the day. I'll have to consider it's implications later.
After all, I have some DVDs to watch before I have to get them back to Blockbuster's.
I know. I'm pathetic.
Aug 10, 2002
You know, I always felt a little envy for "army brats." The notion of travelling all across the world, never more than a year or two in any one place, seeing wonderful locales, experiencing astonishing cultures, the whole shebang...
Well, so far, I've been all over the USA, Canada, Mexico, and I've lived in a half-dozen states so far. So I guess I've at least approximated that wish of mine. But now I see why they hate it so much.
A couple weeks ago, I was feeling really down. You know the kind - that borderline melancholy malaise... that sense of "who really gives a s**t, the world just keeps on spinning..." Thank the gods it didn't last long, because I personally can't STAND myself when I'm like that. The weird thing about this time was that I got shaken out of it by the realization that I had NO IDEA who to talk to about it. First time that ever happened, that I could recall.
It's not to say I've led a life, surrounded by friends, loves, family and admirers - that's not really the case - but it's just not something I was aware of. Oh, sure, I went through my black period when I was 13, and toyed with the notion of offing myself when I was 16, but this was something different. I just didn't know who to talk to about my mood.
Mostly, it stems from the fact that I HATE whining. (and no, I consider whining different than venting, so don't go there) I just don't want my friends to ever think, "God, Ren's such a whining bastard." All part of that strong as steel illusion I like to create, I guess. At any rate, I used to have friends that I could be weak around. Friends that accepted the brokenness within me and would patiently await my struggle to rediscover my way.
Now, this is not to say I don't have friends. I do. But... I don't know. Sometimes, some friends aren't the ones you want to unload on. And sometimes your significant other is in the middle of their own shadows, and you don't want to pile on.
I also read something or other a while ago that spoke about men internalizing their complaints in order to resolve them, while women tend to express them to resolve them. I don't know how much I believe that (have I mentioned I'm a disbeliever?), but sometimes I do fit that mold. Sometimes I just don't want to talk about things.
[No, moron, its better to write it on a public journal. I'm such a tard.]
Okay, I knew I was going somewhere with this. On to the summary.
So what I mean by all of this is that something started happening a few weeks ago, right after this blue period. I woke up, feeling like this is home. We just got a house of our own, I'm doing the occasional wrestling match with the backyard, we have a pair of himalayan kittens (Karma and Tashi), and our 18 month old has a lot more space to ramble about. We're choosing interior decorations, furniture patterns, I finally get to keep my keyboards set up... the list goes on and on.
I looked over at the relatively small stack of yet-to-be-unpacked boxes, and thought, "Something's still missing."
Well, I know what it is, now.
I have to reopen that circle around me. The friends. We've lost touch with the best friends we had before we moved, and, as usually happens, we've all kind of gone our own ways. It sucks, but, as many times as I've seen this, I'm getting kind of used to it.
Now, there are jam sessions with new musician friends, barbeques, video game afternoons and even the occasional guilty pleasure I derive from role playing games (my current fave is the d20 system game of Spycraft).
But it's just the beginning, I know. These things take time. The last place I lived I had lived their for 9 years straight. Just long enough for one of my best friends to die.
Gods, that was the wrong thing to think about.... maybe I'd better just jump off that train for now.
It's worth getting out of my system, I guess, but that's for another day. For now, I'm done. I'll write more later.
So this is it, eh? An online journal.
Sigh.
Well, I don't care if this is read by anyone or not. Frankly, I'm too cheap
to buy a journal, and don't think I can balance the notion of killing a tree
or some nonsense just to pen a few ideas. So howdy do, the internet.
There was actually a thought I was pondering the other day, and it led to
another one, etcetera. Maybe I can pull on it enough to unravel it.
It all started with thinking about the whole chakra thing. As I understand
it in my mediocre fast-food metaphysical two-step, its how a soul connects
to the universe by allowing energy to enter, pass through and leave along a
series of "doors" or centers, each of which are symbolized by colors, bodily
organs/regions and aspects of the persona: heart, passion, sexual energies,
the third eye, that sort of thing. It is drawn as a line which begins at the
base of the spine and leaves out the crown of the head.
Along with that clever interpretation, crystal enthusiasts talk about
"opening" chakras by attuning them to the respective colored crystal, which
is placed just above the related body part. I personally don't know quite
that I buy into all of it, but, then, I'm a skeptic now, and I guess I'm
entitled to my doubts. Sometimes, doubts are all I have, so I'm proud of
them. If you don't like doubts, don't read my journal. I'm guessing it's
gonna be a theme.
ANYWAY.
So the image is that energy can be 'blocked' along the chakras, when one of
the centers isn't opened fully.
What I always wondered was how that gets observed? I was introduced some
years ago to the notion of energy transfer between individuals - another
theory I'm skeptical about - and also through tai chi meditation, which I'm
pleased to report I actually enjoyed. So the thought that energy is a
transmittable, palpable thing isn't too foreign to me. I kind of like it.
Embrace it, actually.
But here's the thought that really baked my noodle.
What I've ALWAYS hated about religions (this is only slightly a tangent,
trust me. Don't stray too far, you'll enjoy the ride) is that they tend to
focus on the physical habits - go to church, pay the church, don't drink,
don't laugh too loud, pray like this, don't go there, don't do that, blah
blah blah. And if you don't act, look, speak, whatever just like you're told
to, then that means, of course, that you're a bad person.
Well, rubbish. Poppycock. Bull pucky.
Perfectly wonderful people look bad, act bad, and do things that might not
get you selected to lead the hymns on sunday meetings. And perfectly
wretched people sit there in their churchday finest with all manner of
twisted perversions (and not the nice kind) in their hearts and minds.
But, at the same time, you gotta get alcohol away from the alcoholic, and
that sort of thing.
So, going back to the chakra comment. Does the crystal idea really work? Or
is it the inner change which creates the effect? Does it even matter?
Does the physical act of turning on a light switch create light? Or does the
faith in the action do it? Ahhhhh, now THERE'S a great puzzle.
But you know, on second thought, maybe it doesn't even matter. Who cares if
the chicken OR the egg came first?
They're both here now.
'Nuff for today. More later.
Sigh.
Well, I don't care if this is read by anyone or not. Frankly, I'm too cheap
to buy a journal, and don't think I can balance the notion of killing a tree
or some nonsense just to pen a few ideas. So howdy do, the internet.
There was actually a thought I was pondering the other day, and it led to
another one, etcetera. Maybe I can pull on it enough to unravel it.
It all started with thinking about the whole chakra thing. As I understand
it in my mediocre fast-food metaphysical two-step, its how a soul connects
to the universe by allowing energy to enter, pass through and leave along a
series of "doors" or centers, each of which are symbolized by colors, bodily
organs/regions and aspects of the persona: heart, passion, sexual energies,
the third eye, that sort of thing. It is drawn as a line which begins at the
base of the spine and leaves out the crown of the head.
Along with that clever interpretation, crystal enthusiasts talk about
"opening" chakras by attuning them to the respective colored crystal, which
is placed just above the related body part. I personally don't know quite
that I buy into all of it, but, then, I'm a skeptic now, and I guess I'm
entitled to my doubts. Sometimes, doubts are all I have, so I'm proud of
them. If you don't like doubts, don't read my journal. I'm guessing it's
gonna be a theme.
ANYWAY.
So the image is that energy can be 'blocked' along the chakras, when one of
the centers isn't opened fully.
What I always wondered was how that gets observed? I was introduced some
years ago to the notion of energy transfer between individuals - another
theory I'm skeptical about - and also through tai chi meditation, which I'm
pleased to report I actually enjoyed. So the thought that energy is a
transmittable, palpable thing isn't too foreign to me. I kind of like it.
Embrace it, actually.
But here's the thought that really baked my noodle.
What I've ALWAYS hated about religions (this is only slightly a tangent,
trust me. Don't stray too far, you'll enjoy the ride) is that they tend to
focus on the physical habits - go to church, pay the church, don't drink,
don't laugh too loud, pray like this, don't go there, don't do that, blah
blah blah. And if you don't act, look, speak, whatever just like you're told
to, then that means, of course, that you're a bad person.
Well, rubbish. Poppycock. Bull pucky.
Perfectly wonderful people look bad, act bad, and do things that might not
get you selected to lead the hymns on sunday meetings. And perfectly
wretched people sit there in their churchday finest with all manner of
twisted perversions (and not the nice kind) in their hearts and minds.
But, at the same time, you gotta get alcohol away from the alcoholic, and
that sort of thing.
So, going back to the chakra comment. Does the crystal idea really work? Or
is it the inner change which creates the effect? Does it even matter?
Does the physical act of turning on a light switch create light? Or does the
faith in the action do it? Ahhhhh, now THERE'S a great puzzle.
But you know, on second thought, maybe it doesn't even matter. Who cares if
the chicken OR the egg came first?
They're both here now.
'Nuff for today. More later.
Aug 9, 2002
Aug 8, 2002
Goodness gracious, it's official. I'm writing a journal on line. *sigh* I don't know who to blame, but I'm sure it's several peoples' faults. A good friend of mine from high school - John - and my wife, Lizz, I'm sure will cackle with glee to know they have pushed me inadvertently over the cybercliff into this.
At the same time, I blame myself for being too damn lazy to buy an actual book, and, thanks to nearly a decade of solid computer use, I can't write with a pen to save my life. (it rather defeats the purpose to write what you need to later hire an anthropologist to decypher)
Ah well. I don't know quite how else to start this, so I'll leave it at this for now. If you're reading this, thank you for wading through what I'm sure will be a whole lot of oddity, and also for contributing to my delusion that I have something interesting to say.
At the same time, I blame myself for being too damn lazy to buy an actual book, and, thanks to nearly a decade of solid computer use, I can't write with a pen to save my life. (it rather defeats the purpose to write what you need to later hire an anthropologist to decypher)
Ah well. I don't know quite how else to start this, so I'll leave it at this for now. If you're reading this, thank you for wading through what I'm sure will be a whole lot of oddity, and also for contributing to my delusion that I have something interesting to say.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)