Traveling Tower Draft: The Seveter Gardens

The Book of the Wavering: Many Hands

At an early age, a boy named Call, had many different arms, and many different hands upon those arms. Most would insult him, or say that he was a defective person, but he took these in stride, and thought himself the better person for never responding to the name calling.

In fact, he used his many arms, and many hands, to great effect. He operated seven looms at a single time, and could make all sorts of fabric and cloth as a result.

This became his trade, and he settled into a simple life. However, while he sold his wares well, he did not make many friends, and never had a spouse to share his life with. What he always thought of as the best part of himself, made him a pariah to the rest of the world.

In sorrow one day, he cut off all of his extra arms, trying to make himself look like a normal man. As a result, he could no longer operate his looms, and became poor, eventually losing his home. He discovered that looking normal still made him no friends, as now he looked nothing more than an ordinary homeless man.

When winter came, he died in the cold, while many that ignored him, kept warm in coats woven from fabric that he made.

-   -   -   -   -

“Pop! I found some!” She was giddy, and jumped up and down with a great abundance of energy. He seemed to match her enthusiasm, but he was far more restrained in expressing it.

“Well, would you look at that, a nice small patch of them! Oh, the many must have known we would be here this day.” He scratched at her head for a moment, fussing with her hair. She feigned annoyance for a moment, but was still smiling.

“Are we going to bring them to Momma?” She gently touched one of them for a small moment.

“No, we’ll let them grow.” He sat down in the grass a small ways from the patch of flowers, and motioned for her to sit beside them. He set his bag down as well, and started reaching for things in it.

Alia looked up at her father, not sure what his brain was transfixed on. She’d often hear her mother make similar complaints as well, that his smile was always somehow genuine, yet beguiling. At last he found a pad of paper, and a set of markers and inks. He handed them to her, and pointed at the patch of tulips.

“We’ll capture an image of them instead, but with nothing so crude as a direct view. Little lunar one, you’ll make an image of what you see, in eyes, and heart.”

“So… you want me to draw a picture of them? Mother has a garden full of them, what good do pictures do?” She squinted at the markers, and then at the flowers, briefly readjusting her glasses.

“Well, my dear Alia, if ownership is all that matters in it, what purpose does a gift ever have? If you put such terms upon it, it’s just like any other transaction.”

“I don’t understand…” He just smiled, and looked at her, his furiously blue eyes soothed her in many ways she couldn’t quite place words to.

“Just look at them, and capture this moment as best you can. Any skill or ability is meaningless. What is conveyed will be more than adequate.”

Her father set the items before her, and said nothing else. Alia looked at them with trepidation, and what could be seen as a slight amount of fear. As though the expectation placed on her was great, and she knew she could not live up to it. She squinted hard at the flowers again as well.

“Mean father. I can’t draw, or paint. I don’t know art.”

“Everyone knows art.” A giggle escaped him.

“I’ll make an ugly thing.”

“A gift for your Mother would be anything but an ugly thing.”

“Kindness only in the gifting, is that what you mean?” She grabbed at one of the markers, and placed some ink inside of it, still glancing over to her father for advice, or something.

“That depends, child, on what you create. Don’t think of how skilled you are. Think only of what you want to escape from your heart.”

“I’m not quite sure what that is, odd father.”

“Many people that create things never are.”

“Again… I don’t understand.”

“You will…”

She just pouted, before going back to the task her father had set to her. She had mused with other children her age that speaking of things long from now was often a parent’s way of escaping the need to answer questions. Still though, she enjoyed the times her father would bring her here, and promised her mother that she would bring something back. She spent not a long time on it, and tried her best to capture what she saw before her, a small patch of tulips growing out of the grasses and other weeds in the area. Her father knew she’d be nervous if he was looking over her shoulder the entire time, so instead of giving her the fear of judgment, he stood up, and started to gaze about the landscape, as though he was looking for someone.

Alia finished rather quickly, and was already disappointed in what she had made. It was very clearly the drawing of a child, and she felt that it in no way encapsulated what actually rested before her. She’d rather just picked some of the flowers, or taken a picture with a camera.

She put the inks away, but didn’t alert her father, instead she marveled at the landscape before her. The Seveter was said to be tended to by shapers, but it was a wild and strange place. Plants grew with little care for one another, pushing others out of their way, as though all the strange and beautiful forms were competing for the attention of those that would travel here. It wasn’t a long distance from where she lived, though she and her father still took the train to arrive here.

Her father finally interrupted her day dreaming.

“Finished, are you, Alia?”

She grumbled as he gazed at the picture.

“It’s terrible.”

“Strike that from you, and watch this.”

He grabbed her hand, and put it on the paper, and made her swipe it across the paper. As her hand flew across it, she noticed the ink swirl about, and make a new shape on the page. She did this many more times without his assistance, and soon beheld that her image was far different. The colors were fierce, contrasting sharply with the black outlines of the shapes, and there was an edge of the world around the tulips now as well, before everything faded to the white edges of the page again. It was far different from what she made, but was still also far different than the actual sight that was before her.

“How…”

“I still have some tricks I know of. Age has one benefit, and that’s knowledge, and temperance.”

“This isn’t what I made at all.”

“No,” he laughed. “It’s what you wanted to make.”

She smiled, and quickly went to put the picture into his bag, for safe keeping. He reached out to her, and hoisted her up to give her a piggyback ride. He trotted a little ways off, when Alia noted that her father usually had a reason to bring her out to this place.
“Odd Poppa, did we only come here so I could make that picture?”

“Of course not. We’re meeting friends on this, your day of days.”

“Who?” she hoped that by friends, he meant her friends, and not his.

“Your aunt Veln, among others.”

“Sing-song Winter!” Alia normally found a lot of her extended family boring, but Winter was one that she very much enjoyed spending time with.

“Well, you’re in bright spirits again.” He jumped a bit, making her bump upwards a bit, and she giggled.

Another reason he kept her close was his own seeming awareness for Alia to wander in some parts of Seveter. While most of the garden seemed content to fight amongst itself, there were a few things she needed to be kept aware of, but never paid attention to. The oils on some of the vines could cause fever, and the thorns on others would often impart a nasty infection to its victims. Alia just looked around in awe the entire time.

“Could I make my wish today, to stay here until nightfall, Poppa?” A very real enthusiasm in her tone.

“And ignore your mother, and what she’s done for you today? That would make you a cruel one, daughter.”

“I mean nothing like that.”

“But you mean exactly that. Were you to do such, your mother’s planning and goodwill will be spat at by you.” He did not glance over his shoulder to her with scorn, but again she saw a playfulness in his eyes. “Besides, all your friends from school will be there today.”

Alia quizzed him on which faces she knew would arrive, and he answered the best he could. After a little ways, they found a man made path lined with a small brown fence, which led out of Seveter, and towards the train station.

“Sing-Song Winter waits for us?” She asked.

“Yes. Veln will be waiting for us at the platform. I hear from her friend that she has a gift for you.”

“I need nothing from her,” Alia remarked. “Nothing but a new song at a time or two.”

“Veln does know many.”

Finding redundancy in the conversation, Alia rested her head on her father’s shoulder, and began to contemplate the many events the day still had in mind for her. She didn’t really think a birthday was worth celebration, but her parents put much effort into the event, and Alia did not refuse good company and freshly baked sweets.

After a small time, they emerged from the wild garden, and into a small flat plain of well tended grass. Across from that, there was a train platform, which seemed the only building of manmade origin in this two sided emptiness. To one side, there was Seveter, and to the other, a seemingly endless expanse of hills and plains that ran for as far as Alia could see. Granted, without her glasses, she could see very little.

Alia dropped off her father’s shoulders, and reacquainted herself with walking and standing. As soon as she had a decent grasp of gravity again, she darted for the sheltered platform, a rich mixture of dull colors and black metal bars lining things like an artistically placed spider web, amongst a grand marble floor.

She took a quick glance around the resting area, and at first saw no one.

“My, little sky one grows so abundantly each time I see her.” It was a deep and authoritative female voice that came from behind her.

Alia turned, and saw a woman in brightly colored garb, which contrasted sharply with her deep brown skin. She held a bag at her side, and a closed umbrella in her other hand.

“Sing-Song Winter!” Alia screeched. Immediately she darted across the gap between the two, and nearly tackled the woman to give her a hug.

“Yes child, it’s good to see you too… and a happy birthday, I might add!”

Alia pulled herself away, and looked up at this very imposing woman, who wore a warm smile.

“I’m nine years old today!” She spoke enthusiastically. “Are you coming to my party, Sing-Song?”

The dark skinned woman nodded, and then turned her gaze to Alia’s father.

“And Townser, it’s been far too long!” She ignored Alia for a moment, and went to give Townser a hug. Townser fussed with her hair like he did with Alia’s, and while Winter quickly slapped his hand away and gave him a mean look, Alia thought it a great amusement, to see that she wasn’t the only one subjected to such an annoyance.

“Always good to see you again, Veln.” Townser added, and motioned for the three of them to sit on a steel bench that looked towards the tracks.

Alia did not sit with them, but instead she played a game where she tried to hop on certain colors on the marble floor, while avoiding putting her feet anywhere else. Her father and Winter already seemed deep in conversation.

“And how is the mistress Ariak, Townser?”

“She’s fine, been a bit stressed lately, trying to bring this party together. I’ll admit I’ve been of very little assistance.” Winter laughed as he spoke that.

“What’s so funny?”

“It reminds me of a joke I told mistress Ariak when Alia was first born.”

“Which is?”

“That I felt sorry for her, as she now had two children to contend with.”

Townser seemed at the brink of indignation, but instead burst out into laughter.

“I guess I can’t really refute such a claim.”

Winter made a strange sound, and gestured for Alia’s attention.

“What say you little one, how much trouble on a given day does Townser here burden your mother with?”

“Lots!” She held her arms wide for dramatic effect. Winter chuckled, but now Townser seemed to feel a bit more embarrassed rather than playing into the joke. He seemed a little eager now to steer the conversation in a new direction, and as he did, he instantly lost Alia’s attention again.

“How goes your studies, Veln?”

She too seemed somber now.

“They go well. I have many able bodied to help me, so most of my time is spent in my lab. Still though, for all the progress I make, there are still so many sick. It seems endless at times. I relish these chances I get to spend among the living…”

Townser peered over to where Winter had set her bag, and saw his daughter creeping towards it, slowly reaching out her hand, oblivious that she had been caught already. He reached out and cut off Winter’s flow of speech, and smacked Alia on her wrist.
“Manners, young miss!” he shouted.

Alia instantly retreated, and saw Winter grabbing the bag and pulling it away from her, feeling even worse that her aunt was now angry with her as well.

“Honestly,” her father continued. “You can wait an entire year, and now you’re told to wait just a little longer, and you can’t heed such a request?!”

“Likely she gets that from you,” Winter remarked slyly.

“Veln, please.” There was a very real disappointment in her father’s tone that made her feel awful.

Alia retreated further away from them both, and felt only angry eyes staring at her. Without realizing it herself, she began to cry. For a small moment she tried to form words to offer up some level of defense towards her father and her aunt, but as she only babbled, their stares did not change. They began to fade as well, as her glasses started to fog up.

She huddled into a ball, and tried to slow the torrent and noise, but felt largely unsuccessful.

As their gazes still remained fixed on her, a shallow noise began to smother the sounds of her crying. It was like an engine moving through deep water, but the distance the sound traveled was still dense and wide. Alongside it came the noise of splashing and other aquatic noises. It was as though a noisy fountain shooting through the sky. Townser reached for his pocket watch, and checked the time.

“Always late at this hour.” Townser spoke somberly.

The train at last pulled into the station, along its bottom were no tracks, but a pool of water that seemed to follow it wherever it went. It was a shining and grand thing, but for whatever reason it also looked very old. Her mother had said it to be a very new thing to the areas they lived in, but to Alia, it seemed like an ancient relic awakening each time it pulled into the station.

Winter approached Alia, and offered her hand to the girl. Alia retreated further again, nodding her head, as though some feeling of guilt still existed to make such an offer a wrong thing. Townser moved Winter aside, and picked Alia up, and held her close.

“There there,” he whispered. “Do not let this sully your day.”

He called out for Winter, she produced three tickets, and they stood near one of the doors, waiting for it to open. As it slid upwards, a very strange and very tall man walked out. He wore a finely pressed suit, which bore symbols to show that he would take their tickets, but he had an odd face. Strangely pale and he had no mouth or nose, but instead, just a second set of smaller eyes below his normal ones. He also only had two fingers and a thumb on each hand, which Alia assumed to be an oddity as well, considering everyone she knew, had five fingers per hand. He bowed before the three, and made a deep clicking noise twice. Winter handed him the tickets, and her pressed all three against his forehead, before handing them back. He gestured for them all to board the train, and they did.

Winter held onto both Townser’s and her own bag, as her father kept trying to sooth her guilt away. Eventually they came to an isle in the very fancy and somewhat uncomfortably cold train, and he sat Alia next to the window.

The conversation seemed dull, but her father kept making motions to try and calm her, and wash away the bad feeling that she was awash with. He pointed to the window as the train left the station, and admittedly her worry did dissipate a little as she started to look out at the sights. The gardens looked out at her from a cleanly cut horizon, their wild limbs and plants shooting up into the sky like a protest, or a fond farewell being bid to her. As they pulled away further from that, she saw far back from the garden, a mighty black shadow that stood out amongst the sky like a spike, so obscure was it that Alia thought it almost a world away. Once the gardens were away from sight, the train turned away from the planes, and eventually came to be very near a Cliffside, overlooking the sea. While this route was very coastal, Alia would still see how the train would turn in between towns and hillsides every once and awhile. As she kept looking, she felt her eyes grow heavy for a moment, but soon an awareness of that struck her, and she turned to her father.

“Make cry father, trade seat with Sing-Song!”

“Hmm?” He popped his nose from a book to look at her with confusion for a brief moment. “What’s this all about?”

“Sorrow make switches places with Sing-Song!”

“Fine, fine, as you wish, pushy little birthday girl.” Townser tapped Winter on the shoulder, and motioned for the two to switch spots.

As Winter made herself comfortable again, she looked at Alia and smiled.

“And what is the cause for this, my dear one?”

Alia smiled wider.

“Sing-Song, for my birthday, can you sing me a new song?”

“Of course I can,” muttered Winter, who picked Alia up, and sat her on her lap.

As Alia rested her head on her aunt’s shoulder, she took one more brief glance out the window, and closed her eyes, as Winter began to sing to her softly.

The Button (A Brief Apology)

There’s a lot that I’ve done wrong, but I think my one big regret, amongst all others, is destroying space and time as we currently know it. Bear in mind, this hasn’t taken place yet… well, kind of now, but previously, and soon, not now though. It’s complicated.

Either way, I was moping about in a general haze amongst a very stark yet somewhat intriguing empty bit of space. There was a distortion of self that took place, had to go and shift between multiple planes of being to comprehend what I was seeing and shit. One of the me’s outside inside myself found a room with a button.

The button seemed innocent enough, but there was a really fucking long manual next to it. So again I had to fracture my perception of being, just to speed up the process. I mean, forever is a really long time, but with time a malleable thing, I don’t have much time. You get really busy when you’re nothing and nowhere.

Some of the warnings didn’t even make much sense, and yet, they were oddly personal and understanding. One section detailed how to properly maintain chlorine levels in a swimming pool of average size, as well as consoling me on previous blunders in regards to my failed relationships. Another section spent a lot of time talking about concept albums, and how to build a coal fire oven.

In regards to the button? I couldn’t find a damn thing. There was a button, and there was an extensive document on everything I had done, will do, and would soon regret. That’s when I got an idea! If I pushed the button, then it would be a part of the section on things that I did. That didn’t make sense though, as clearly I was interested in this button, so NOT pushing it would obviously have been covered already in the section of things I held with deep regret.

Nine thousand me’s read this giant document four thousand times, and each time, not a goddamn word on the button. Many things changed in terms of intention and regret, but there was NEVER anything about the button.

There were odd things in the times before rooms like this started to spread like the Black Death. A plague of empty ideas, a parade of empty meaning and questionless answers. If they were not everywhere, then every me just so happened to find them all. Each one, something inside, just to mock how empty everything else was.

In one of them? A Pepsi machine. Another one? A coat rack covered in tin foil. The button was the only one that presented a paradox to any of me.

So… maybe I should explain, for the sake of myself back then, and me currently, and I think there’s a lot of me soon after this that’s a little fuzzy as well. I am going to push the button. You see, one part of my brain will eventually get enough focus to understand that focus was the problem. With my attention drawn to the button, I was in a perpetual state of pushing it, and not pushing it. It never became a part of my future, nor was it ever something I would regret not doing.

So for about two seconds… well, it was either two seconds, or three hundred and fifty seven years, but that’s not the point. For a very small fraction of time, I congealed, and I pushed the fucking button. Me as a singular… me as a mistake.

You see, I never really actually took time to think about what the button may or may not do. I was mostly just confused as to why nothing in the manual of instructions that was my life pointed to what the button did. When I finally separated again, and looked for what it did, the page said only this:

“This button was made by something far greater than you, it is a failsafe. Under no circumstance, should you even consider pushing the button. But seeing as you did anyways, you should be well aware that you just hit the reset button on existence, now set to be determined at a later date after this signal has been process to review and inquiry.”

I’m not sure if it does that or not, but I’m going to assume it does, because the endless pages of how I expanded into forever suddenly started going haywire. Where once a chapter detailed my miserable time trying to impress an older woman, now it only said “I was dinosaurs, please have fun with omelets.”

It broke down a lot more, and eventually lost even its tone of nonsense, and just became a blank book that somehow evoked only feeling and this strange sense of loss and confusion.

Whatever was left, wasn’t dedicated to me, but rather what I had to live within. Thankfully, that wasn’t filed under regret. The world I had to inhabit previous to this was a mess, and the people that flooded it were very troublesome. I don’t think the universe will miss them, or me. But again, it won’t even remember us as even that remote spec, because we will never be, never were. It is at this point that I am wondering how long the process will take, because I’ve expanded myself into an infinite, but once I reach that far I can’t see of myself, for myself, so gauging the time span on when this will all happen, (even though it already has happened) is quite tricky. That, and I’m still more interested in how this manual keeps giving me different meanings and translations on what the button does.

End result is the same, but the process to create that same result is different every time.

Oh, look… genesis, exodus, rebirth, and death… they’re all shaking hands. I’m glad something good came from all of this. As for the rest of you? Well… my bad.

Moonlight

Outside basking in moonlight, far from evils and cares, it’s oh so tired there, many faces went to lie down, while many others went to run. Simple and quiet now, the tide will wash over the loamy earth. I won’t look back. A face in the dark sky, smiling with starlight, the bugs and birds whisper, and the wind cools and offers great comforts.

Alone in the moonlight, a simple dancer meant for daylight persists. Alone in the dark sky, symbols in stars tell of maternity and fortune. Faces vanish calm, and look down to all the sleep. Time will slow, down on that earth below. Another day rolls past; simple may never have such grasp. Another day below, another day they go.

Outside in the quiet sky, I ask them of possible flight. Alone in my clear mind, see them in sight soon. Time stomps like an angered child, it makes me miss many things I once thought were worth my interest. I of me and them to they, the questions removed and tranquility reigns in their gaze.

Morals and noisy things, sleep in their empty thoughts, clouds covering light, moving with much haste. Damp grass clings to my heels, a refreshing gaze enshrouds me.

Time will sink, into the rising tide deep, it will sulk and walk away, and we will meet again sometime soon.

My hands are covering a cloth, running from awake to dream. My mind trails alongside of it, stretching endlessly. It’s oh so quiet here, lost in the glowing light. Tempered minds rejoice, contemplation and bodies rest. A side of my world rests, burning less hastily, they trample their minds aloft, unknowing of what they seek.

Among all things slow, a tranquil earth sits below, images gracefully shine, and they won’t look back, like I won’t look back.

Outfacing the greatest threats, whispers of dark intent, blinded by lunar things, kinder words offered me. Flickering brightly gone, the first signs of dawn. Another day moves past, the tide does not engulf me. Another day brings end, just for the night to be sent. Time will slow, again whispering to the earth below. All will rest, another day passing from regret.

It’s oh so quiet here, I wish it could stay that way. Outshined by simple lights, faces that see the past me. The stories they’ve told, to so many simple minds below, an inspiration strikes mind, as another night passes me.

I would see it there, the faces that touch the sky. Birthing a new night, one that shines just as bright. A cradle of mind, an infancy yet to pass. I reach for them slow, mind and hand not in sync. It’s oh so quiet here, time has relinquished its aims. Outside in the moon’s glow, another night fades from me.

Ensconced

Blue skies dance in the mirror, gently nudging you forward as the day progresses in a slightly dull time scale. Green grass grows around your feet, nurturing your disposition and making your path easy to traverse. Soft winds lap at your hair and skin, making you smile as they whisper to you.

But you’re not here. The path that was easy to walk, comfortable, enjoyable. It was taken from me, and given to you. You, and only ever you.

I’ve dreamed, lord how I’ve dreamed. I’ve seen the world without you, and without me. I’ve seen the stars dance amongst an inky stillness as they slowly forgot our names. The virgin full moon birthed again into a still sky, ignorant of what it shone upon… and rightfully so.

My path carried sand and dust. The cracked pavement that rolls forward before me traces a map of the land that speaks of the figures that watch over us in the skies. I wandered a lonely nothingness, music covering my ears as I tried to dream those things I used to dream, and pull forth from the back of my mind the images I wished to see again.

I saw the city coming for me. At first as I turned to look over my shoulder, I saw an outline. But soon the horizon grew dark and bare. The light emitting from ourselves blotted out the night sky, and the figures who danced so carelessly in the stars.

Each day I’m running away further, but I’m never going anywhere.

Each day I’m shoving myself further down the line. I remember the voices, and the smells.

The old friends I see no more, and the dreams I carried for them. At the bedside of one, with promises I could never keep, and smiles I would never shed.

But they pale in comparison to you.

The city consumed me. The maw opened wide, and now I listen to this music, not for my own whimsy, but to blot out the noises of traffic jams and petty squabbles.

You walked in a moon kissed loam, still damp as the sun rose gently over it. You dreamed of ripe fruit and lazy afternoons by the creek we once shared. Now I dream of economics and the still nothingness that industry brings with it.

The path you stood on was gifted to you, with ease and splendor, so that a face like mine was easy to forget. I soon learned that my dreams were things I needed to fight for, kill for. The city consumed me, and with it, my dreams. The effort I exerted was washed away by pointless noise, complexity that only masked simplicity, and illnesses with no cure.

The path we walked was one in the same, so why is it that I was consumed, while you escaped? I dream of noise, and wonder where they went… those figures in the sky.

Their gaze was a reassuring one, and their tone was stern. I feel as though I’m deep within a cave, sharing my company with a great beast that is all too eager to feed on anything.

I would scream, but it wouldn’t bring you back. Those faces I took so much comfort in have left me here by the wayside, and I am always left dreaming. The eyes appear, as do the words, but the smiles and songs now blur into nothing.

You stood beside me, and the world you occupied was everything I ever wanted, the places and sights. Just beside me as time shifted effortless forwards and backwards, I could reach, but I would never find my target. I could shout, but never be heard.

I travel in a stream of time filled with egotistical prophets speaking with forked tongues and dual intentions. A subversive people pensive for the wrong reasons, and never looking behind them. It haunts my ears and eyes, like the fallen heroes we oft dream of slaughtering. Cast down before their creators.

You are there beside me, but I cannot see you.

As the insanity of the world claims me, you are still there, dreaming of friendly places, people. Smoke chokes the skies, and I am left wanting to see once more, the figures that used to dace above us. A snow capped haunted place, full of people that refuse to acknowledge one another.

Smiles transposed over buildings, but with slogans behind them.

We are sensitive to our rise, to our good byes, but in between, we are lost.

I am lost…

And you are not here. That face I dreamed of… I created it. Those places I envisioned, I dreamed of them. The hopes I carried, we only my own. I walked with them forever in time, transfixed on that which I was never a part of, dreaming of finding ways into places that never existed. Until we all find out where we are in this bleak place, until we each of us find a way back home. The sun is blotted out, the moon’s glow is unwavering and still, yet here we are ignorant of any of it.

The taxed minds seek refuge in that which they know not of, the foolish are all asleep, peacefully set in their ways. I would lie awake at night and think of you, seeking scenarios of my own doing. Lost amongst my thoughts, blind among my dreams, and I would give them all away to you.

Bound now, to this place, I sit in time and dream of you. Beside me in my thoughts, captivating in my dreams, until I pass from here, and into the sky, where I will dance once more with those that watched over me. Until I find that thing I wanted to call home, be it a dream or fiction or a place long lost. The ruins of my past, the fragments of this city, and each of them crowd the road.

I would shout… but I’m standing here amongst an empty road rolling out in front of me, covering the sand and dust. You are in a field that rests next to a creek that we used to call our own. The grass guides you, the sand welcomes me. The wind whispers to you, while it pushes me away. You’re not here, so to the things that enthralled my thoughts I go…

And nothing more.

Sell It

Everything’s for sale. Nothing is sacred. The price of innocence and the corruption of purity should be held as arguments against their very existence. But vanity in greed, those are always in high demand. Pride, envy, lust, anger… such are the things that drive economics.

Want what you’ll never need, withhold from those that do. Status, every man, woman, and child on their own. Forsaken amongst a few, for something that isn’t theirs. It doesn’t belong to anyone, really.

Status, image cast amongst the lot of those always left wanting, a hunger they can never feed. Like a parasite, gnawing at the flesh, licking at the bones, constantly craving more, unaware of how terrible the construct has become.

Statue, temple, church, whatever the words are the meaning is always the same, the values taught as means of control mechanisms, instilled amongst the youth, who are ever burdened with the mistakes of the old. Iteration breeds change like anything else, but at a far slower pace.

Mistakes, double takes, a fake smile, the false hope inspired by an insipid need for self preservation at the cost of others. All things turn to competition, and when such happens, everyone loses.

Pick it up, don’t drop it, or it doesn’t belong to you. Did it ever, and why?

Smile and nod, sing and dance, ignore that which causes dismay. The true intentions of good and evil are sold to the public as differing measures of controlled morality. The only true good that could exist, doesn’t. The true evil, is not malicious deeds… it is the willful acceptance of ignorance. Cover your ears and close your eyes. Act like it’s all not there, that god will save you. He will punish all other heathens, those that do not ascribe to your policies, he will burn those you hated, and he will judge you forever.

The Earth is still flat. Smile and nod, sing and dance. March in line, single file, eyes to the floor. Never dare ask questions.

To ask is to dream, to dream is to hope, and to hope, is to be foolish. Act only as the men behind the barred curtain say to, dare not ask of the universe, for it will not provide for you.

Look in the mirror, use your favorite products to mask yourself in the image popularized by today’s magazines and television programs. Remember that they teach nothing of self worth or value, they sell it, so you sell it too.

When you find a person you deem worthy, remember not statistics on marriage or divorce rates, but remember only of the things you consume, and what they say of personal connections. Your network is tied to your network connection, and your mind and body belong to the advertisers that finance both, ever the hamster on the wheel.

Remember when you see that person, that you’re just trying to sell yourself. Your ideas, your hopes, your dreams… your image. What you personally deem of worth to give back, after all the time you’ve spent wanting more.

Sell it, and never ask questions.

Never ask… never say to yourself “what was it worth?” You’re are always who you are, and in spite of all your wanting, all your envy and greed, you’re still going to be the same, and you’re still going to die. You’ll walk the lines they walk, you’ll say the things they said, and always be left wanting more.

Let your eyes be cast at the floor, let your mind and body be theirs. Give everything of who and what you are to those who have nothing their selves. Give it all away… because you wanted everything.

If your smile is bright enough though… if your words carry enough weight… you can still sell it.

The Only Reality

I sat on the shore and watched the new dawn rise. A quarter past three AM, and lights erupted in the sky. First it was five, then it was twelve, and then it was so bright I could no longer see.

The first thing I thought about was carrying you here, at least, what was left of you.

This could have been so different, had only we allowed it to be.

Bickering turned to yelling, yelling turned to anger, and anger turned to violence. I raised my hand at you but once, and I knew it would be the only time such would happen. The regret that clouds my movements speaks of how to alter my steps, tells me not to make this happen again. While in my head, there’s some strange tidal pull to throw me back into the things I know I should avoid.

You’re not with me, so looking at your face only makes it hurt that much more. I would whisper into your ear, to see the lights before us. Soon they will take me, but you will remain here… at least, what’s left of you.

My eyes missing out on some important detail, something inside them telling me to dart about randomly as the lights erupt more and more, multiplying in the early morning sky. Maybe I just can’t stand to look at you?

I drop you and huddle on the ground, thinking to myself: How could this be the real world?

Perception is powerful, but limited in scope. The things we promise ourselves and those around us differ to such varied degrees. Reality isn’t perception, but if so, then what’s the truth that I’ve been missing?

This can’t be the reality. I remember so much of how I was to you, thinking I was only ever kind and compassionate. How does something like this happen, when my memories tell me that my failed perception is reality?

Just as soon as I stand along the shore and the tide laps at my feet, I feel the things I know I feel, and the sensation that it’s all real… but this can’t be reality.

I want to see that I carried you here on my back, while you laughed all along, just as though summers past, when this place would hide us from the world. I want to see that your hands, are still inching closer to mine, just like every night as I slept.

But what I see, is you there, lying so cold and unaware, ignorant of the brilliance that has taken over the sky.

What I see is not what I have made… In truth what I’ve made is what I’ve seen. Carve you out of sand, and watch you crumble in my hands, screaming to myself that it’s all the way it should be. Just as the events have set the sky into brilliant light, the only world I am afforded is the same one that all others occupy. No concessions are made to me, and my judgment still awaits me, for what I’ve done. The actions that I took, that brought you here in such a state, and my mind is spinning with too much burden and hate.

This can be reality, but only if I choose.

This can be nothing, but only if I close my eyes.

This can be everything, but not for me.

This is the world I’ve known, and it’s never going away.

The Runner

There is change, so much change, but it carries with it the notes of the past. Instructions on how to keep things orderly, seemingly the same, replace a drastic new method of being for slight iteration. The silence is that of a screaming child as the world walks past it, around it, through it.

The monuments are falling down, stone and steel in the dust of creation speak their names as whispers, knowing fully that time cares not for their titles, their past, and their intentions. The memories are a currency that can’t function any longer than now and then, it can’t carry over into that which has yet to exist.

Celluloid and stone differ only in life spans.

The ground below is struck with immense weight. The figure looks upon a blighted world, and he begins to run.

In the wake of his steps, life and song erupt. Different voices and faces, colors so bright they threaten to outshine the sun. He keeps running, and the trail widens, as though a vast wake spreading in his shadow.

The divergence soon carries itself further, it wanders past the wake and into the blight, it sees devastation, and begins to sow the seeds of birth. Shapes and forms, figures that begin to stand on their own, they too start to run, setting in motion the spread of more color, more sound.

But after a span of time, they falter, they trip, they fall. They do not act as though the figure that started it all. They do not keep up their pace. They begin to ponder different things; they remain stationary and construct their homes.

Eventually, the wake seems like a single trail again, wide enough only to know itself and nothing else of what lay around it. The figure runs, he keeps running.

The spots on the ground where the little ones fell grows larger, it expands slightly, but is cautious, and refuses to merge with the color or sound. It is static, cold, and were it not for the skittering forms inside, and the few lights amongst it, you could think of it just as you would the blight around the trail.

The heroes, the villains, the saints, the sinners, the constructs of creative boredom and allegiance, they dot the trail, and a line forms around them. The figure keeps running, never looking behind him to see what has become of his wake. He keeps running.

Towers of sand and rubble, eyes of jealousy and hatred, misguided heroes with no sense of anyone but themselves, and they begin to fight over the wake. They look out upon where they once ran, and they refuse to partake of the nothingness that eagerly awaits them. They congeal into something terrible and beautiful in its uniformity. But there is no more color, no more sound.

The wake of the figure becomes deathly still, silent… and then, at the pin drop, or the gusting of the wind… fire. To cleanse, to purify, to remove, to alter? Fire. It covers the trail, it expands, it covers the fields of color and sound like a blanket.

The figure keeps running. He hasn’t looked back at any moment, and he never shall. What is left behind him is an ever changing landscape, one that grows from his steps, and eventually burns itself into twilight, becoming part of the blight once again.

He did not make this place so empty, he did not force the hand of any being, past or present. He thinks of none of these things. He rarely even glances at the landscape of nothing before him. He just keeps running.

Each step, a new life. Each step, a thousand deaths. Those that crawl from his steps run outwards into the path of nothing, trying to emulate that from whence they came. They do not see that he is beyond them, that he still runs. They do not look forward down the trail.

Eventually, the flame will consume them all, and return them to the dust once again, to the stillness of the blight. Eventually, the figure will run over the same patches of nothing again, and repeat it all once more, as the trail burns and grows behind him. It matters not to him if he has traversed this expanse a billion times over… he just keeps running.

Still Alive

And now, the many paths of telling a story, and how some work, and most don’t.

As I plow through Merritt Island, I’ve begun to realize that it’s not really much of a horror story. At least, not from a novelist prospective, or even the standards of conventional horror movies or games.

Merritt Island at its core is still a story about insecurity and repression, and the decay of a city, and the perception of a city and what it should be. As I’m drafting it out now, I realize the primary interactions are not really between Joshua and Isabella, but rather between Joshua and Merritt Island itself.

Lots of the story has diverted away from these sort of hellish settings and Joshua being taunted by Isabella throughout them, and now they’ve shifted into Joshua sort of battling not only the city that’s decaying around him and actively trying to kill him, but also his past perceptions of what the town meant to him and how it treated him in various stages of his life.

Stage 1 of Merritt Island is what Joshua saw of it in childhood. When something like the mall meant wonderful toys, clothing, and movies, and he spent his time with friends and at playgrounds and the small boundaries of the island were a kind of utopia.

Stage 2 of Merritt Island is Joshua returning in adulthood, and seeing many of his old favorite places closed down, bulldozed over, or changed. On top of that he’s far more bitter and has come to a grave understanding of what he considers the consumer hell of the island to really be. He sees old locations are places he doesn’t want to visit again, and he’s fallen out of contact with everyone he used to know.

Stage 3 is hell itself. Where the signs and billboards reveal a very different nature. For instance, Joshua’s dealings with the decayed and rotted bridal shop push his buttons in regards to his absolutely pathetic love life. His outward rejection of traditions and customs clashing with his inwards desire to fully embrace those things for the sake of some vain acceptance. This is reflected in other things relating to other facets of his life, as the city slowly reaches out to destroy him.

As Joshua returns to his old school, he’s faced with a lot of his social anxieties. At the mall, he’s faced with a lot of his problems regarding his recently getting fired and swimming in debt. So on and so forth, with Isabella as the antagonist pushing him to keep exploring the bowels of the city, and Mr. Smiles the being that keeps tormenting him as he reaches each location.

The central hub of the story is contained in the two main roads in metropolitan Merritt Island, Courtenay Parkway, and State Road 520. Joshua rarely diverts from these paths, and it helps a lot to keep a very narrow view of the city for me. Joshua’s memories of Merritt Island are of a lively and busy city, while his view of it in hell mode are of a vast and empty place trying to kill him.

As Merritt Island becomes more and more dystopian the conflicts of past and present make it very much its own character.

Aside from Isabella, the other primary motivator for Joshua is still Mr. Smiles. He’s moved on from being this weird tormentor, and is now this sort of forceful version of Virgil. Early on he seems very much the villain, but by the time Joshua gets to the mall in the story, it’s clear that Mr. Smiles isn’t out to kill him, but force him down a road he doesn’t want to walk down.

There are very few actual villains aside from the city, there’s mostly just stuff standing in Joshua’s way, such as the Diamond Man. It’s a path I walked down for Eternal Engine, and while Merritt Island is a far more mature story in tone, (and speech) I still find it interesting to drive a story with minimal conflict. I find it allows me a bit more freedom in conveyance through other means, as I tend to be weird regarding dialog.

I’ll have moments where I’d have no dialog for very long stretches in Eternal Engine, followed by really long exchanges in chatter… and then right back to everyone keeping their mouths shut. Clock was pretty well mixed in that regard, but going back to that sort of “less is more” idea with Merritt Island has been very fitting.

Merritt Island also goes back to an old trick of mine I haven’t used in a long time, which is a minimal cast. Eternal Engine blew up more than I’d have liked, and every section of Clock needed its own brand new set of characters, so getting back to a tiny list of characters is wonderfully refreshing, as it offers far more time to spend on the reflections of these few characters, instead of rushing to define archetypes.

I think drifting away from strict horror has also been uplifting for a very critical reason, in that it puts Merritt Island into that zone I like to remain within, in that it’s impossible to set it within a single genre, much like Eternal Engine and Clock.

Overall, I just like being weird for weird’s sake in my tales.

Your concrete heart isn’t beating
And you tried to make it come alive
No shadows, just red lights
Now I’m here to rescue you

The Fable 2 Rant

Fable 2 has a lot to live up to. The first game was fun, but pretty flawed, and the promises it hefted into the sky were so unreachable that any downside of the game felt like a knife to the stomach. It should have been well known how impossible those feet’s were, but they were what was promised, and it wasn’t what was delivered. Lost Chapters came out to remedy some of the problems, but it introduced even more glitches, and just furthered the formula rather than expand on it.

Fable 2’s advertising and development campaign was far more low key, so expectations were low to begin with, which makes the game a delightful surprise.

You start the game as a lowly urchin in the streets of a big ol’ fantasy city. Your sister guides you through the events of the prologue which introduces you again to the idea of good and evil choices. Every introductory quest has a good way to complete it, and a bad way.

This introduces part of Fable 2’s split personality. You have an expansive array of choices, but they’re all black and white, good and evil. You can be a saint, or you can be a prick, there’s no third option to any choice like a game like Mass Effect, which skews morality into all sorts of shades of gray. Fable 2’s morality system is still as binary as the previous game. On the other hand, the game still keeps this in mind and tries to run with it. A choice you make as a kid will decide what the old town you grew up in turns into. Either it will slip into corruption and poverty, or it’ll become a lawful and peppy place.

Furthermore, there’s ANOTHER meter of choice in the game. Aside from good and evil, you also have purity and corruption. The second set of choices apply mostly to economics. For instance, I could have a hero fully on the side of good, but charge 100% more on rent on all properties that I own. The game would reflect this with character interactions, in that people would always know that I’d do the right thing… but for a price. Also, you could flip that around and be a super evil son of a bitch, but with max purity, meaning you have a very strict set of morals in your evil doing. Again though, it’s pretty binary, in that you have five or so options now of morality, instead of two or three.

The story of the game also isn’t really anything to write home about. It functions perfectly well as a means to string you to event and event, and some of the set piece moments are pretty well crafted, but the combat in quests sticks out far more than the story itself. The way the story presents itself is kind of nice though. If functions much life the Half Life games do, in that you’re rarely ripped away from directly controlling your character. This amounts to basically running in circles while a poorly animated character prattles on about the mission objective though, but it’s nice to just always have fully reign on your character, and helps establish a better flow than the previous game. Also, you can skip dialog at any time by holding the A button down for a few seconds, which means if you’re sick of chatter and just want to start cutting things up, you can avoid all the blabber and just get right into the thick of things.

Speaking of combat, it’s awesome. While morality is pretty strict in how you operate within it, combat is immensely free form and you can tailor it to your heart’s content. It’s very “casual,” though I’m not sure what that word even means in the realm of video games now, but here it means that it’s pretty easy, and every method of combat is assigned just a single button. That’s not a slight against it though. Basically, it’s a system that gives to you, as much as you put into it. If you just flail with your sword a lot, you can beat the entire game doing that. Or, if you pull off more advanced sword techniques, then you get a bonus in the amount of experience earned. This applies for all aspects of combat, so after an introductory period with the three aspects, you really start to build down a path that feels best suited towards your method of play. For instance, my character had moderate strength and good speed and ranged damage, so I could flourish with melee attacks quickly, and instantly pull out my turret pistol and nip at foes from afar. I screwed with spells a bit, but didn’t feel that into them. Thankfully, the game never punishes you for whatever style you use. If you take to one method, you can use it from the start of the game, all the way to the end.

Overall, Fable 2 is a game that is defined by “screwing around”. It caters the experience towards how you screw around, so it’s always encouraging and rarely punishes you in any direct fashion. The already thin story falls to ruin by the end, but I found it easy to forgive, as I still had a ton of side quests on my plate, and I still wanted to buy up tons of other stuff. There’s a goof heft of meat to Fable 2, though I can see that as the series progresses, it may become more and more like a Grand Theft Auto game in a fantasy setting. This iteration alone basically wants to give you the feeling of “here’s a big world, fuck with it as you see fit, in any fashion.” And that’s the richness of the game. I play as a pretty decent fellow, but I’ve already seen a friend play an evil character, and was surprised at how different his play style was, and how different the world around his character was.

Another thing that’ll alter gameplay from the first, is the dog. He can be annoying at times, but he’s really well animated, and… well, basically really sells you on his… dogness. If you’re cruel to him, he’ll cower with his tail between his legs and keep his distance from you. If you’re nice, he’ll be bouncy and peppy and constantly give you that “are we going to play now?” look. Your morality will also affect how the people in the world react to the dog. If you’re a jerk, you can have him help you scare them, or a person will randomly kick the dog when he gets close. On my super nice guy, he’d run up to people barking for attention, and they’d pet him and tell him how well behaved he was. The dog also acts as your means of finding important things. He’ll find spots to dig for goodies, he’ll bark and alert you to treasure chests, and he’ll growl when foes are near.

It’s rare that it happens, but stuff like the dog help give Fable 2 some genuine heart string tugging moments. Major events will spark the game to auto save, so when you’re given a major choice, or face a big event, whatever path you took, you’re stuck with it. This can seem annoying at times as you can reload to see the other side of the fence, but it works in that it actually forced me to think about the consequences of what I did. There’s also some really weird stuff in terms of story direction towards the end. As you near the final encounter, you’re not presented with a grim and horrible look at the death and destruction being wrought, instead you’re presented with a quest called “The Perfect Day”. It’s interesting how the game tries to contrast itself, but it still stumbles a lot along the way.

It’s annoying that two games in, and Fable has yet to build properly on the foundation it always tries to establish itself on. However, again with the split personality thing, the improvements made to many aspects of the game are still vast, and combat’s gone from something that’s decent but not fantastic, to easily one of the high points of the game.

But what’s most strange is what the game feels like as a whole to me now. Fable 2 strikes me as this goofy mixture of the Sims, and a fantasy game. Most of the amusement I had with the game came not from any epic encounters I was faced with, but instead just came from dicking around with various aspects, like managing my family, finances, real estate, outfits, and experience points progression. Fable as a series would be well suited if it would fully embrace this aspect of it, and made the game a bit more gray, instead of good and bad. There’s a lot here that addresses many of the flaws of the first game, but with that, it introduces a whole new set as well.

Also like the first Fable though… it manages to be very fun and endearing in spite of all the bad design and glitches.

The Grave Renewal

What once was freedom and idealism has passed into a gray twilight. The skies darken and the temperature drops. Dust falls from the sky like snow, covering everything, bringing about a unified landscape, blanketing all that was once different and unique.

The plants and the trees start to shrivel and shrink back into the earth. They wait for better times, when the sun will shine for them once more, and they can emerge different, improved in every way. Their dawn is long from now, and the twilight is ever present.

On the porch of a once life filled cottage, a rocking chair is covered in ash and dust. It can’t remember why it was crafted, or who it was that relied on it for rest. A calm perch amongst a world it didn’t care to look after. From the chair in recent days, it saw no more blooming flowers and trees swaying gently in the wind. Instead it saw the ever expanding hazy empire of buildings.

The last thing that shall move and stir is that of a child. He steps from the home and wanders as far as he can. The lifeless forms of his parents do nothing now. They can’t smile at him, they can’t tell him to go to bed, so that everything could be calm and normal in the morning.

He flees for safety. Instead, he is set ablaze and suffers slowly, as have all others.

He cannot remember how this came to be. The consequences he is forced to endure were not to be placed on his shoulders, but while others were content to ignore, the messes they had accumulated were not going anywhere.

Long ago, in a room, elderly men fought for the future of women and children, those two the ever more precious resources they squabbled over. To their eyes, to their suits and ties, everything was a resource.

To secure the interests of those represented in the room, the poor were sent in uniform. Over the horizon they saw a beautiful city, and then, a brief glimmer of light.

Those in the room shouted, and each syllable carried with it the weight of a dozen dead men. The intentions of those men were given different meaning.

The means to send so many to such different places, was something only they knew of, and only they controlled. They would shout slanderous words in an effort to rally those to their cause. Poverty for the sake of this unknown and unending substance becomes a self perpetuating cycle. It for some pointless reason, forced this dying child far off from friends and opportunity.

One tragic moment, and for this little soul, he may have well died years ago. Those with look down upon him… a wretched creature they would say. They would do nothing while his parents starved.

It could be one last moment of solace for the child, to know that those whom put him in such a terrible place are now gone. It was cast by their hand… but he just doesn’t want to die…

And neither did they.

As the ash and dust fill his lungs and eyes, he does not cling to the specter of vengeance, and he does not wallow in victory or pride. He thinks of his parents, and wishes that he could muster up enough energy to cry.

The empire of the city is gone. An empire driven by imaginary numbers and value. The trees are hiding from the fall of this empire, for they know that the footprint will last far longer than they’d wish. It will in time fade though, and they will cling to it. After so much time passes, and the sun punctures the cold sky and brings warmth and light with it again, the trees won’t even remember the face of the rotted child as he tried in vain to keep breathing.

The room where the elderly men argued will become a meadow. No bickering of fictional resources and population control will remain. Instead, dear will forage though it, and the birds will nest in the trees and sing.

The sky will brighten a world long forgetful of the sins of the past, it will forget that the last one left to shoulder the burden of ignorance, was one that could do nothing but suffer for it.

The spot where his bones slowly melted back into the earth will be covered by dirt and grass and little else. It was once a road… and now, it is nothing.

Looking At the Wall

Ain’t nobody around, I’m here and I’m bored. I’m just trying to understand the folding paper before me. I’m looking at the screen, but the interest seems to lack. Modern man, apathetic and desensitized to all things. A million souls could have died, a species could have gone extinct, but why should I care? I’m out of snack food.

I took a shot amongst the grandstanding salesmen of the world, and found my voice to be quite pointless. Swimming against a tide, jumping from the river, and right into the claws of the bear.

I took a swing but went out on three pitches, my ideas not solid enough to fly, the people around watching hope more for failure than success. See it in the tabloids, and other such filth. People want to see other people suffer; pretend they’re better than them.

Since they’re not around, I can laugh and pretend there’s no one to let down. I can’t say I’m really shocked, it’s a decent change of pace.

Start the chanting, I want to hear the lines drawn in the sand. It’s a wonderful tone that speaks of bickering and inane reasons for the pointless.

Since they’re not around, I have no one to talk me down. I can’t say I mind at all, they were never good friends.

Climb on their backs, smile to their face, and see how well you can fake it. Is it so hard to fake it? I think not really, Spew out bullshit long enough, and eventually you may actually believe you’re right.

Once again another mess of emotions, I stand by the side and watch as they burn away their cares. Once again I’m a bystander, and my intentions are slowly rendered meaningless. I could see it as the motions began, like the building tension as the roller coaster climbs towards that first drop… and then it’s all downhill from there.

A sudden burst of inertia and I’m flung so far forwards, trying to work it out as I run down the road, finding my place as my belongings are shattered and torn. And they keep pulling me down, trying to find out why I’m still around. I hear whispers of my inability, but I’m just trying to act the part. I hear whispers of why I’m still around, when I should be asking that question myself. Once again they’re enslaved by the motions, pondering how well they’ll fall this time.

The winters keep passing me, sucking the years away from my mind and making me see the past as a road ever growing. So much of me lost along the freeway, so much of my importance not inside my head. The scattering of my ashes soon flashes before my eyes, and I wonder will it have been worth it?

The expenditure of such a short life span ensures they’re all jam packed with pointless and useless conquest. Rape the world, our desires, everything, consume like it won’t be there tomorrow, because as far as we know, it won’t.

Ain’t nobody around, and I’m still thinking as to why I’m by myself and I’ve got next to nothing on my mind. Several fading generations have sprung up and flown away, expanses of time that seem so long to us but are nothing but the blink of an eye.

Aspire and expire, two notes and so easily played out. The wonder and amusement cast before another generation. I look at the wall and wonder if it cares that I’m thinking these things.

Ain’t nobody around, I’m just sitting here by myself, and I’ve got nothing else coming to mind. Ain’t nobody coming around, and I’ll just sit here with too much on my mind.

Out Of It

I’m pretty late to its release, but I just downloaded the new Brad Sucks album “Out Of It”. It’s brought me back to a sort of new line of thought on music and how it is consumed this day and age.

I hate the “indie” label, because for whatever reason it’s now used by hipster douche valves as a genre label, instead of just factually stating that an artist operates without being signed to a big name label. (How odd, “indie” used to mean “independent”.)

However, I do enjoy a lot of independent acts. From chiptunes, to nerdcore, there’s a very vast array of music out for consumption that’s far easier to obtain these days.

Shit, I got “G.A.M.3” on my iPod, the third collection of songs from people on GAF. It has no real reason to exist, but there have been some pretty choice cuts in the collections as far as electronica goes.

Jonathan Coulton (JoCo) is another artist I’ve been checking out a lot lately, and he’s another good example of a guy that “gets it”. When you visit his site, you can look at his entire collection of songs, and listen to any of them in full right from the site. Fairly priced bundles are available, or you can snip single tracks from the site for a buck each. Or, if you just stole all his music, he has a tab for donations in case a person liked the stolen product enough to support it.

Brad Sucks I think really has it down. When he first launched his site, his CD “I Don’t Know What I’m Doing” was up as a free download. More impressive though, was that when the album was ready for a real professional like release, he still left it up to download for free, leaving it up to the fans to decide if they’ll buy the MP3’s, the album itself, or just download the MP3’s for no cost.

This also applies to the new album he’s released. Better yet, the price for those who want to buy is completely up to them. You can buy all the MP3’s for a couple of bucks, or chip in 30 bucks to support the artist. Keeping focus on fans, you can also download the source material for all of Brad’s stuff as well, which has spawned a lot of remixes of his tracks.

This sort of community focus for music I find very comforting. Music, for most of the 80’s/90’s had become pretty faceless. Napster obviously shook things up quite a bit, (before selling out) but that impact has remained.

Contrary to popular belief, the impact wasn’t that people could steal music for free. If you look at the Pirate Bay’s website, you’ll see people will steal anything over the Internet these days if they can. The true impact was that between music itself and the user, and it’s why someone like Jonathan Coulton can amass a cult of nerdy fans to bring half monkey half pony dolls to his shows. (Not to mention all the awesome “Re: Your Brains” videos from PAX.)

Truth is, that sort of faceless bland development for music doesn’t work as well anymore, which is why artists on major labels these days aren’t presented as artists, but product. No one can listen to rap these days and consider it actual music, but there’s a ton of indie hip hop around that carries a far more “pure” spirit than any mainstream shit.

Music these days has entered a sort of weird flux. Television I imagine is next, (Hulu.com is so awesome) but music seems to be first on the internet’s chopping block of shit that’s due for a major cultural overhaul.

But most of all, the indie scene shouldn’t just be viewed as some measure of elitist snobbery that shuns the mainstream simply for the sake of it. The breadth of content out there, and it’s levels of pointlessness and obscurity and style ensures that there really is something for everyone these days.

Only about 4 years ago, I used to snub ANYTHING hip hop related, assuming in my head that the modern rap/crunk scene was all it really had to offer. Now I adore hip hop, simply because it’s actually possible to find so much of it that can appeal to me.

In fact, prowling different opinions and looking over You Tube and such to check out different artists is something I do nightly these days.

I’ve got no time to make you believe me
Set in the sun for someone to leave me.
I’ve got so much time to take it easy
Now that I am on my own.

Meant It All

The plan so simple, but so easy to ignore.
The places we went, standing there on the floor.
My hands grasped at you, and swatted away others.
Falling down, my words condemn me.
I meant it all.
I meant it all.
All I taught, all I came from.
I meant it all.

The cityscape bore as much beauty as you.
The plans I held would make us rise above it.
Under the water my eyes not so clear.
Under the sky my mind not so clear.
Attentive, but never when required.
Dismissive, but not at a good time.
I meant it all.
I meant it all.
All I shouted, all I demanded.
I meant it all.

Trees tumble down and the road is clear.
My sight shifting from different things
I held that which brought it all into focus.
I wondered if you could still hear me.
I soon realized I was clinging to nothing.
Your grace so far removed.
Your words burning.
I meant it all.
I meant it all.
All I killed, all I grew.
I meant it all.
All I taught, all I dismissed.
All I demanded, all I ruled.
All I saw, all I broke.
I meant it all.

Zero

Baby shower, birthdays, Jesus Christ I want this month to end. Still no job, still no new place lined up. At least sports are being kind to me lately.

Current ideas I need to line up: (I’m keeping this short as I’m writing it from my Laptop away from home.)

1-Sketches, if only to motivate myself, get a picture in my head beyond the vagueness I used to swim within so freely. Sentinels from Eternal Engine, Hatter from Merritt Island, Guardians from Eternal Engine… Oh, and some scenes as well. Get a general sense of the muted rusty/blue/orange themes for Merritt Island.

2-Touch up my “children’s tale”. It’d work well as is with illustrations, but I don’t have those on hand, so I should most likely just beef the content up a little bit before posting it.

3-Start writing down the ideas I have for that comic. Being limited to what people are involved/when they’re involved will bring back that sense of “shoestring storytelling” I used to have with Shadeless Sky.

4-Finish up with the sample work I got going and put out the “Merritt Island” soundtrack I’ve had cooked up as a new audio experiment. Thinking about adding some strange ranting and/or background ambiance in there as well.

5-Renew subscription to Xbox Live.

6-See if anyone in Napalm actually raided Gruul’s Lair Friday.

7-get home in one piece. Well, home’s a very poor choice of words. Return to Kyle’s pad in one piece.

8-Take a good deal of nights to think instead of write, I’ve got a lot of shit in my head to work out.

And God is empty, just like me.

In Arrears

Considering I tend to go off topic at the drop of a hat and find new trains of thought quicker than a bumble bee on meth, I’ll actually try from the outset to put some structure into this entry. Let’s see how well that works out.

1: General bemusement
2: Information on new projects
3: Thoughts on growing old

To start things off, my new iPod has been getting a lot of use already. As I sit here, it’s at song six in the new Ten-Song playlist, the Smashing Pumpkins “Tonight, Tonight”, followed up my MC Frontalot’s “In Arrears”.

Speaking of which, I’ve been listening to the Front’s new album quite a bit. I wish to have enough cash upon its actual release to be able to afford it. I’m still very headstrong in supporting independent artists whenever possible. I guess because maybe in some weird way I could qualify as one? Blah, I hate thinking about writing as an art form, creative or otherwise. Also, I’m about 100% sure I won’t be able to get it. Still, I enjoy the mixture of serious with goofy fun shit. Song’s like In Arrears and Black Box touch upon really deep stuff, whilst songs like Canadia (featuring Halifax rapper supreme Jesse Dangerously) and Diseases of Yore (with the wonderful crooning of Jonathan Coulton) are just straight up goofy and fun. Secrets from the Future wasn’t just a good follow up to the Front’s debut album “Nerdcore Rising”, it absolutely blew it away, showcasing that beyond the gimmick, there was real talent behind the recordings. The new one seems to be just as strong, as Front and the crew around him only get more adept and more focused with each album release.

Now about new projects… or the better known subtitle for this topic “how fucking crazy am I?”

First, as I’d hinted at in previous journals, the new project is titled “Merritt Island”. An homage to Silent Hill, while still trying to maintain the feel of my own horror universe that I’ve been crafting for eons. Basically, I decided the best way to feel out some of the problems, is to pull Third Horizon into this current offshoot to try and work out some of the themes and such. Much like Silent Hill, the focus of the story is short on dialog, and heavy on self reflection. The few unique things I can lay claim to I still want to brandish about though.

For starters, while the title of the story also rips off SH (using the location as the name of the story) there’s no weird fog or so such. A unique tropical setting means a hurricane is what has emptied the island. Though obviously that’s just on the outset, as the few people left are all insane/demonic.

While the previous (and finished!) draft of Third Horizon also took place in the same city, the hurricane was mostly a ploy for emptiness and removing the need for social interaction within the story. There were very few “weird” moments that took place in that draft, and all of them were driven by the main character’s insanity. The new version instead thrives in “bad land”, twisting and perverting normal every day locations into shrines of self torment.

Also, with the inclusion of more characters, I’m forced to act upon an older draft of the story again for themes. Mostly in that the main character isn’t the only nutcase around, so things that were only hinted at in other drafts get to come to light now. The thing that draws everyone to the soon to be obliterated and desolate town is some horrible crime that’s been held inside for too long. So I can’t just focus on the sins of one character now.

In the end though, the core of the story is really mostly the same, I just haven’t really found the proper way to write a horror story yet. The first draft of Third Horizon played out like a reality TV show with monsters, and the second one was mostly just one character reflecting on his past. This spin-off gives me the chance to just go nuts and do whatever, with no worries about the core story getting messed up (amazing what a simple name change can do).

Hey, look, I’m actually keeping this on track like I planned!

So my birthday has passed, and after the elation of free goodies and cake, comes the afterthought, much like a hangover. I realize that 22 is actually a fairly youthful number, but when I look at the pace of others and what they’ve accomplished, I still feel like I’ve done nothing but waste time, as though my entire life has been a series of missed opportunities.

I suppose the one that’s real easy to dwell on is the one that matters the least at the current moment… also the most ironic. I’m 22 now and still very single. At times, such as when I fall asleep and wish for someone to be at my side, I understand that sort of raw need to have someone around, but when I get to those moments where I dwell on it, I remember that I’ve pretty much remained that way according to my own whim.

Granted I can only think of about three cases total (one though was very much recent) where a female has actually been interested in me in a degree that’s even obvious to me. But the problem is the people I seem to attract are NOT the kind of people I even want to SEE on a regular basis much less get intimately involved with. Intentional celibacy is a strange place to be in when you’re in a world that places nearly zero value on love. But, my morality and conservatism stand on separate bridges that our society has yet to find common ground for. I suppose it’s not that I’m sad that I’m still alone, but more that I just haven’t found anyone actually worth sticking around with. Then again, I feel that a lot in general now. I seem to be at a point in my life where I’m losing more friends than I gain. That need for contact often conflicts with my desire to be alone, but I’m well aware that it’s mostly just because of the company I’ve kept for so long.

For instance, when the only people in the house are Kyle and Tara, everything seems fine and okay. Frankie gets home and him simply being around brings a level of annoyance that sparks ire and angry thoughts with everyone.

Perhaps I need someone around just to keep me from offing myself? I’m aware that when others are around, I’m so caught up in the noise that I don’t focus on the things that make me depressed. Like a drug, but one that doesn’t have any good high. I exchange annoyance for self loathing.

But that’s just one thing, not really a primary issue that’s been cropping up in my mind. Most of what I feel is this general sense of uselessness. I matter to very few people. My day to daily is mostly spent trying to find a place and not disturb anyone. I bring no money or fame anywhere, so when I’m around, I never have a place to speak, which means I often don’t. Even on my birthday, I notice how easy it was for me to fall out of the conversations being had by all. There are many moments I look at where I can remove myself from the picture and see it not making a change. One day while playing Warcraft, Tara offered me a bowl of snack food, and I said thanks and took it, but something that simple, made me feel so shitty. I don’t like being pitied. Even if it’s well intentioned, everything I’m offered here only serves to make me feel worse.

I’m not the kind that can mooch and enjoy it. I’m well aware that there’s far less economic burden here with me gone.

I’ve seen a few people around me talk about jobs being offered recently, and it was funny, because they talked about it RIGHT to my face, absolutely knowing what kind of horrid financial state I’m in… but then went on to talk about other people they were going to assist in getting said job.

I’ve always disliked myself, but I keep seeing it from weird angles lately.

There’s the shy kid that won’t speak up when someone breaks in line. Polite to the degree where it’s very much a physical detriment.

There’s the philosopher that’s given up on childish dreams like hope, and has come to grasp that humanity will face its own end because of itself. A man who’s view on the human race borders on hatred.

There’s the person wounded so many times that “trust” is a word that seems like it came from a fairy tale. So embittered by his experiences in life that he’s lost the will to care about anything.

There’s the mistaken artist, one who’ll listen to a song and spend the entire day contemplating the placement of strings and electronics, and how they’ll create new images within one’s mind.

And finally, the failure of a writer. Listening to a podcast recently where a guy leaving his job writing about video games sort of went about the trials and tribulations of creative writing. Pondering his own experiences freelancing for a terrible failed gaming site, emerges a person who realizes that written words are seen as mostly pointless in modern western society.

I look at all angles of who and what I am. Constantly wondering what kinds of impressions I leave on people, and why. I once thought the other day after saying something stupid, that what I just did was not what I wanted as a reflection on what I am. I’m looking back with curiosity at the mistakes of my past, and wondering what I would have done to focus the world on me, to see THIS, and not the quiet bullied kid that exists like too much of a stereotype.

The philosopher in me says “What does it matter? Time is not malleable, and what you leave behind won’t even last as long as memory. All traces of all people will one day fade.”

The sky kid in me says “If only they knew what I was really like, if only I could show them what I’m really thinking.”

The artist in me thinks “so many around me, and they’ll never ask the questions I question, they’ll never feel the flow of the rhythm and creativity like I do, and I pity them for that.”

The embittered man in me thinks “What does it matter? If they don’t know me, it’s their fault, and it means they’ll likely never care enough to know.”

The writer in me thinks… “Why am I wasting my time on this, what is it going to accomplish?”

I’m asking them all the questions as though I’m sitting at a round table with myself. Different layers of thought and time colliding into a chaos that I’ve spent years trying to comprehend. But in the end, after all these years, other layers have only added to the confusion.

I try to sit around and watch humanity surge in the same yet different directions, and I wonder why I bother contemplating that, when I don’t even understand myself.

Spin around.
What does it do to your inner ear?
Your account:
Don’t pay the dues? You are in arrears.
What I’ve found
Is we get just another day or two.
Falling down?
Dizziness does that to you.