Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Buckshot thoughts, manic singing of praises

(Part One, blah crap news me. Skip to Part Two, it's more interesting.)

I had intended to get more work on the novel done; slogged out a couple more pages, but I eventually had to face up to the slightly painful realization that if you add up 10 hours in the workday, an hour for lunch, an hour to feed myself at night, an hour and a half for exercise, an hour for chores/errands/transit, an hour to get up/shave/shower, and maybe an hour to just sit down, relax, get emails, flip through a book, take a crap, whatever, then any time remaining cuts right into sleep. Sometimes I take the time, and hammer out a journal entry, or a review, or do some research into things I need to know about to write further, or hammer away on meta-writing, outlining chapters, just plain brainstorming. Sometimes I fail, and collapse into the dreamtime.

No more time than I ever have, in other words. It’s daunting. I make the progress, but it’s uphill always.

It leaves my brain feeling like this.

Been following the Jack Thompson thing? The man's a complete nutjob. I continue to be somewhat baffled by the insistence on legislation for labeling games as containing violent or mature content, when games ARE labeled for violent or mature content. Retailers who sell such games to kids need to be taken to task for it; parents who don't pay attention to what their children are doing need also be taken to task for it. Should it be tougher to get ahold of a copy of GTA than a BB gun or a kung-fu movie? Is there such a thing as "gaming culture"? Hell, even "America's funniest home videos" glorifies violence. The entertainment industry as a whole is possesed of double, hell, triple and quadruple standards. But wouldn't it be smarter to focus less on banning things and more on encouraging counterexamples? Or does that just, I dunno, take too much energy?

Sega's pretty deep into verifying their upcoming brain training game. They're already plugging wires into people's heads to prove it. I guess my job really could* be crazier. I have enough issues getting people to fill out a damn spreadsheet, never mind checking their cranial connections.

I am pixelated, poorly rendered. I see things in 8-bit color. fulldamage took the free personality test!

"Wants to establish himself and make an impact desp..."

Click here to read the rest of the results.

(Part Two. In which wondrous wonders occur!)

When I return to the bay, it will be just in time for my friend Don's marraige to the lovely Athena on October 31st. Scant months thereafter, my current roomie kingsnake will marry his darling fiancee Tippy in the first week of the new year. They're probably my closest remaining friends from high school; we invaded the Bay Area from the southlands in, gods, what year was it? 01? Aught 2? Kingsnake led the way, having stumbled out of Blackrock City a changed man, fraught with the one-eyed god's touch, unable to return to his homelands. bigDoh (naw, he ain't a rassler. But he big, doh) and I spat poetry in Riverside until we were charged up with enough energy to join up with Snake and start up the Goss street compound, which housed many a miscreant, muscian, streetchild, wicked rhymer, hippie, punk, hip hop hot fresh strange sensation. It was a house that held many chambers, some leading nowhere, others straight through my heart.

Don hit thirty a little while ago, Trey just hit it this month, and I, the last, will make the decade leap in February.

Needless to say, Saturn return hit me pretty hard, mostly in a positive way. I find myself thinking a lot, then and now, about the where I am, who I am, why I am, what I want, what I will, what I can become.

The journey into marraige is one that seems mystical, even mythical to me still. They gladden me, my friends, who since we left our homeland last, have found stalwart lovelies to guard their backs, and new focuses on how they want to live, what they want to aim for, what they need to do. These kids. Was it these kids, with whom I used to play Risk with in the History room at lunch, or talk superheroes with in the career center under the school, or skip class with to go see Hook, or kill afternoons by exploring and imagining the schools we'd rather be at, the scenes we'd rather find? These men, was it you, who are finding paths no one foresaw, building and influencing foreign and environmental policies, accumulating academic degrees of honor, writing scripts, building wonders out of lines and light?

I know so many people who amaze me, in everything they do and say.

I want so many things, but they all escape naming. I want to stand among the visionaries, the ones I know and the ones I haven't met yet, and not feel inadequate in their company. I want to guard those who are more young, more fragile, or more damaged than I, and knock down anything that dares to raise its' hand against them. I want to guide those who are still looking for a flag to fly, a star to steer by, a cause to fight for. I want to make a home for those who are weary to lay their heads, and read them stories and nourish them until they can rise again. I want to burn and burn until my mortal failings burn away, and leave a smouldering hole where I leave the stage, a gate leading past that imaginary fourth wall.

I want to find a way to reconcile all these maddening dreams with the finite strength and heart that I possess.

But. I cry your pardon. I rave and rant like a lunatic when the muses demand it, and this wasn't intended to be about me.

My brightest, bentest (heh) blessings upon you, the handfasted, my dearest of friends. This is an occasion for all joy, and my soul, the crooked, shadowy thing, basks warmly and contentedly in its' glow. You have always inspired my real awe and my unreserved fondness, and I have no doubt you will continue to snap my mind open to new possibilities and new wonders, in all the years to come, on all the paths we walk, alone or apart.

You've made me proud. And it's much safer for me to be proud of others; if I were ever this proud of myself, I'd be absolutely fucking insufferable. ^_^

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First off, Congrats to your friends

Blessed nuptials all.

Secondly, I would like to comment on the matter of writing dedicatedly
despite the hour. It's impossible. The body is just meat, it needs fuel and rest. You shorten your long term life with too much abuse of late nights, and I speak from experience (and I know you do too) but there may be an optimum point at which the best writing is achieved, which I believe could be different for everyone. There are guys who can belt out a few pages, everyday, on their lunchtime. God bless em. The muse only really comes to me at late night, sometime between midnight and 2am. After 2, I'm only good for drinkin', cussin' and watching tv (and a few other horizontal tasks.)

I have a good friend, a tough writer, a real creative power. He's brilliant, but his night job is completely fucking his chi, and he feels the writing slump after two AM too. It can be crippling not to have your optimum writing hours free of the demands of work and school or 'relations' (those people, nice or mean, who must be dealt with instead of fucking leaving me alone to write goddamnit!)

Good luck finding your time.

Re: First off, Congrats to your friends

Well, you're right, first of all. I'd be a more energized person if I got that eight hours.

But it's like this; first, I'm in QA, and test sucks. I usually lose 11+ hours out of the day right off the bat to work and transit. It's crap, but it allows me to scrape away at my debts, and if I must have a crap job, it might as well be one I'm good at.

Second, I'd miss the sleep one way or the other, because even if I'm not doing ANYthing, I still find myself distracted by anything and everything until late into the night. That being the case, I could stand to discipline myself enough to be at least a sleep deprived writer instead of a sleep deprived slacker.

I did* get a couple pages done during lunch. ^_^ I know what you mean though, and I hope your friend finds his groove; swing and night shifts really do tend to mess me up.

(There really is something about that 12 - 2 time, isn't there?)

Wow....Don's getting married? That's awesome :) And I can't believe Trey's going down the aisle too. I'll be hitting 30 in about a year and a half, and I can't wait. Growing old is always something I envisioned as a positive thing, also getting there with friends. It truly is a magical experience.

I'm going to fake a limp for like, five years, so that eventually people won't be surprised when I get a cane.

And then, the world is my caning oyster. Look out, slow pedestrians meddling kids! It's time for Cpl. Punishment to dish out some hurt.

(Deleted comment)
Oh, it was more than one.

Thompson, in turn, told the Bar to back off or he'd sue them.


Yep. There's more of the story if you check this week's posts on gamepolitics . Penny Arcade, in turn, gained a lot of support by handling the Thompson situation the way they did. Smart lads they are.

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