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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real


[sticky post]Audience Hall

Welcome.  Thanks for taking the time to stop by, and pardon the dust.  I haven't gotten around to cleaning up in quite some time.

I used to write quite a bit here, back in a time when blogs and bloggers were less bloggy, and social networks were less obtrusive.  I wanted to write, but was still learning how to express.  The journal seemed like a perfect solution for holding my odd and scattered thoughts about my odd and scattered life, and for maintaining contact with familiar souls. 

Summer turns to Fall.  Of the blooms that thrived here, all but the hardiest have withered away.  I write more regularly now, but my focus is in fiction - well, fictions other than the one I live.  And so I have mostly uprooted and moved to other haunts, and left this place to the applause of dust and the practical requiems of spiders.  

But I'm still fond of it, you know, and I check in regularly, so comment if you need to get my attention. And there are other places to find me as well.  

Ehaema.  A very strange novel, written serially from Feb 2012 to Mar 2013. 

Baofu's Lair.  Meditations on gaming and interactive media. 

Eidolon.  Not so much writing, more of an inspiration collage and notebook.

Box of Smoove Jams: 
fulldamage's Profile Page

Cheers from the past.  Surprise me in the future. 


A clear sign that I am procrastinating on homework

#mylivejournal #lj18 #happybirthday

Hello?  Navi?

May days

I found a message from a ghost the other day.

I was digging through old boxes. My parents are moving house, after decades in the same place. They have kindly mailed me many boxes of my old crap that has been taking up garage space, and now I have to unpack it and find places for it all. I always meant to clear it out for them, but there never seemed to be a convenient way to move all of those things that wouldn't have involved driving a moving van for days, and I didn't used to ever have storage space in any of the places I lived, and anyway, I wasn't sure they'd ever move. Excuses.

I have a knot of emotions about them right now, life-related, health-related, but it is tangled and deep underwater in my mind. I can only submerge myself to work on it for little bits, 60 seconds at a time before my lungs run out of air and I have to leave it and resurface.

The message was on a graduation card from a high-school friend. I'm sure I'm in good company when I say that I might, once upon a time, have gladly expunged all memory of my life in that era, filled with little substance and few connections. Yet now, the older I get, the more I treasure small tokens of the past. Things that remind me of how it was to see the world as full of possibility and change, if only to escape the deadness of where I was. In some ways, I am a healthier personality today, more self-sufficient, more certain of myself, more conscious of being loved. But some days, I feel my ambition has been a casualty.

The card was a snarky "degree in B.S.," and not as clever as it thinks it is, but that was perfect for me back then, since I also was not as clever as I thought I was. The back contains a handwritten reminder to "remember me when you become rich and famous."

Hah. Me, rich and famous. Seemed as plausible as anything, back in the day. I didn't know shit from shinola, as they said once upon a time, and my conception of the future held very little credibility. Maybe there's a part of me that still thinks that way, too. At least, I think there is a part of me that aspires to do better, because I feel I am letting people down if I fail to find a way to make some lasting mark. Maybe that's pretentious, or egocentric, or at least foolish. Maybe it's also true. Either way, that's a personality component that has not changed, though it now feels more like a charge than a hope, and I feel I fail it almost every day.

"May success always be your ally," she wished for me. She would have been 41 this year. But she ran out of hope almost two decades ago. The one year I went to Burning Man, I wrote her name on a chunk of wood in a Temple of Mind, and wished for hope when it burned. I can sullenly wish a thousand hells upon the soulless motherfucker who drove her to leave us behind so young, but these are fruitless thoughts.

Better to think on things I can actually do something about.

Thank you, my friend. Miss you today. I'll do what I can. 


A little whisper.

I have Things to Do. Always, it seems, things to do.

I'm currently procrastinating from those things. I have a paper to write, and data to analyze for the paper to write, and an online meeting to hold about the data and the paper is coming up in the next hour or so, and I should be covering more ground.

But I opened up an internet tab, and turned left, and right, and left when I should have turned right, and then I was here.

Drinking in the quiet.

I miss this. The act of journaling. Writing about the self, creating the self through the writing. Trying to record, to express, to find things in the darker corners.

I'm lying on the floor of my nearly-emptied apartment. In about a month, I'll have finshed the process of moving in with someone I have dared to open myself up to. And her Little one.

This was not a future I ever foresaw, and not a self I'm sure I recognize. But I raise my hand, and the one in the mirror raises back, and thus I know we're still contiguous selves, in some way.

I don't know how I feel. Excited. Nervous. Alight. Terrified. Numb. Curious. In love and beloved. Out of my depth. Strange. Primarily strange.

I don't know, shadows. How do I feel?

We're not brave enough to say yet.

You may whisper, and we may listen. 




Just realized...

... that my "Audience Hall" top post, which I set for Dec 21, 2012 - a date that was many years in the future, at the time - is almost here.  I'll have to fling it another little ways into the future. 

Looking back at where I was then, I think that I'd have been excited to know where I'd be about now.  For all my doubts, fears, and worries, I keep making progress in the right directions.  

Not much writing going on in this journal lately, for my part.  The best of my journal acquaintances have long since fled, though I do check in regularly to see who's still around and how they're doing.  

But I am writing.  Every day.  Here's where to look, if you're of a mind to do so.

Ehaema - A Very Strange Novel (written serially, scheduled to end March 2013)
Ehaema - LJ feed
Eidolon - Notes and images for inspiration.  My internet-brain unedited.
Baofu's Lair - Musings on gaming and interactive media.  The record of comment discussions was mostly erased during the Destructoid site update, but hopefully they'll be resurrected in the not-too-distant future.

Cheers to you who might find this message in a bottle, washed up on the shore in your where, somewhen. You know where to find me. 


Not exactly earth-shattering fame and fortune...

Forever In My Heart, Daniel Potal via 1x

But seeing a review on my stuff...

... and then looking at the main page, to see myself listed with a bunch of authors I adore, whose company I absolutely don't deserve to be in... 

... well, that's quite a kick in the pants, that is.  ^_^

Guess I better keep at it then.  Happy weekending and happy weekbeginning, space cadets.  


Can't Stop Won't Stop

Kuggen building in Gothenburg, via Design You Trust

Continuing the microfiction (which is sneakily looking more and more like macrofiction, or just plain old writing) barrage.  One a day, every weekday, with supplemental material on weekends.  It's becoming a more natural effort - I feel tense before I actually get in there and hammer something out, and inordinately self-satisfied afterwards.  

It's the same principle by which those japanese "train novels" get written - commuters punching in an entry on their little smartphones every commute, until finally something begins to take shape.  

Been stupidly busy as well - hardly any time for gaming lately! - but I think it is all stuff that will pay off in one way or another, down the line. 



Also contains the occasional strange picture or music, for the reading-impaired.  ^_^  Selah. 

Hello?  Navi?

Crossposter fail

Okay, the crossposting method I was using to copy my microfiction blog posts to this account is just full of lame and suck, in no particular order.  I'm disabling it.  For those of you who like to find this sort of thing in your LJ-feed rather than your RSS reader, I've prepared a feed for you:


You can go ahead and add it to your friends lists if you're so inclined!  This has the disadvantage of me probably not reading your comments in that feed right away, if you choose to leave them there - but otherwise I've had to check this journal every single day to see whether or not a post went through, and copying it over if it didn't - just too much of a pain in the arse.  Mea culpa.  


Heart of the Twilight

“I saw,” he replied, after an ocean of silence.

“Kris?  Hey buddy.”  Snap-snap of the fingers.  “Hey, are you okay?”

“I saw it," he repeated.  “Almost there.”

“Help me get him up,” the tiny shadow muttered, and the hulking shadow, still laughing, roused itself to approach.  But Kris seized her wrist with a grip that was surprisingly strong for an instant, before softening gradually.

“Almost there.  The Last City.  In the heart of the Twilight.  Potential.  I was … I was so... but I couldn’t...”

His eyes closed, and they helped him to bed.