I’ve added some more images to the gallery, and do plan to start organizing them all into sections… I’m not entirely sure when, though. Hopefully soon.
For those who are too lazy to click twice (once on the gallery link, and once on the “natural order” link in the gallery), here is a direct link.
I’m currently sitting in the Redmond Town Center Mall, which is this very rich, very ritzy outdoor mall. It is in the mid to upper 50s, and sunny, which means that it is mildly busy with housewives and small children. Not horribly by any means, just enough to be noticeable. What is remarkable about this to me is that none are screaming, crying, or having tantrums. It reminds me that children can in fact be delightful fun when they are happy, playing in the fountain (one obviously meant to be played in, no less). There is a collection of 3 or 4 children, none of whom are over 5, playing in the water (the fountain is flush with the ground, and rather remarkable, with a large brass bear (and two smaller cubs playing) sitting guard over it all.
Teenagers have also started infiltrating the mall, as school is out. They are well dressed and pretty clearly the children of some of the wealthier denizens of the area. They are also hanging around the fountain, and are being remarkably well behaved and friendly to the small children. After visiting east coast malls, this is a refreshing change, and I’m fairly impressed. I’m a big fan of people behaving respectfully to everyone around them, leaving the chipped shoulders elsewhere. After all, the sun is out, now is not a time to be pissy.
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I was originally going to write about music, and I still may. I’ve got iTunes on with an ecclectic playlist running through my headphones (I’ve no wish to keep Mickey up). Some songs just grab me and beg to be talked about, but then end before I can even really get started, and I don’t want to loop just one song for that. Then there are other songs that I really just have no wish to talk about. I enjoy them purely for the sake of enjoying them, and don’t feel compelled to say much at all, beyond perhaps “Tee hee. Whip it! Into shape!”
Okay, I’m going to at least go back to one that I want to write about. Let’s look at DJ Krush, Song 1 off “Zen”. I’ve listened to the other songs on the album, and none really fit quite as well as thing song. It has a simple beat, with some instrumentals laid over to give variety and flavor… very simple, and absolutely beautiful in my opinion. Complexity has its place, yes, but runs the risk of simply becoming “how much can I add?” That completely misses the point of creating music that uniquely and eloquently grasps a mood, a mode of thought, a viewpoint, a vibe, an aura, an energy, call it what you will. Some music “gets it” and some decidedly does NOT.
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I’m not entirely sure whether this will prove to be a short post or a long one yet, so please bear with me. It’s been a long time since I really sat down and wrote an entry, despite feeling that I should (and in fact missing the feeling). I have a number of things that I would like to write longer, more thoughtful, drawn out posts about, things such as UberCon, and all the surrounding brouhaha that has accompanied it (almost all of it positive, however, or at the very least not negative).
But not right now.
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For many people (myself included), there are few things quite so difficult as the act of starting something. No matter how much passion for a given subject that I might have, taking the necessary steps to begin the act of creation is always difficult, stressful, and time consuming. Even now, as I write this, my attention is vying for anything other than this essay, ranging from traffic nearby to lint underneath the keys of my laptop keyboard (how frustrating in an innocuous way). I redact my writing as I am writing it, constantly going back and deleting, correcting, amending, which disturbs the flow of getting the intial thought OUT, so I can then move on with the rest of the essay. In so many ways, attempting to write out my thoughts is a waste of time, even before we delve into the psychological censor we impose on ourselves, making it sometimes (often times) emotionally wearing or even painful to write. So why do we write? Why do we draw, or paint, or sculpt, photograph, sing, compose, why do we go through so much trouble to create, go through the growing pains where no part of it even feels rewarding?
We build houses because we need a place to live. So what essential need is satisfied by building a sculpture? Julia Cameron, in The Artistâs Way, said that âThe creator made us creative. Our creativity is our gift from God. Our use of it is our gift to God. Accepting this bargain is the beginning of true self-acceptance.â I think that very well might be a major part of it. At the risk of expanding in a possibly pedantic way, we create, even (and sometimes especially) when it is painful to do so, because it our way of communicating spiritually. There is a lot of talk nowadays about different types of intelligence, such as emotional intelligence. There has been at least a few remarks of artists being more emotionally intelligent than, say, a scientist or engineer. But that isnât necessarily always true, and really doesnât satisfy the particular way that artists are able to communicate. I think, perhaps, artists of various types (writers, painters, et cetera) have developed a spiritual intelligence. Those individuals who exhibit a natural predisposition towards art have a higher natural spiritual intelligence. I think emotional intelligence and spiritual intelligence are closely related, but the more I think about it, the more Iâm convinced that they really arenât the same thing. There is a rampant misconception that artists are automatically more âin tuneâ with their emotions which, knowing and being related to a variety of artists of varying caliber, I can comfortably say is completely erroneous.
There are some books out there that are uniquely capable of immersing you into their world, in every sense. The number of books that can actually manage to do this is surprisingly small, in my experience, taking up only a small percentage of that selection of books that you might, on any given day, consider âgoodâ, âworthwhileâ, or âthought-provokingâ. Weâre not talking about good books here, weâre not talking about books that make you sit in some coffee shop and ponder the meaning of life. We (by which I mean, âIâ) are talking about books that take hold of your entire sense of awareness, and direct it elsewhere. Books that make you abundantly aware and appreciative of the vagaries and nature of being a human. They ignore the romanticized notion of Man and instead shows them as they are, warts, grunts, pains, insecurities and all (and in the process becomes romantic itself). With an opening quote of âYou have confused the true and the real.â (George Stanley/In Conversation) before even the table of contents setting the mood for the rest of the book, I would definitely say that Dhalgren is one of these books. For lack of a better term, (bearing in mind that opening comment) it is a remarkably HONEST book.
Iâve read two editions of Dhalgren. The first contained a fascinating if dry introduction by Frederick Pohl, whose name has also been attached to a writing award for which Dhalgren is a recipient. Alas, I lent that copy to a friend back in 1998, and have yet to see it again. Rather than go without, I went out and picked up a new copy of the rereleased novel. This one contains a rather interesting introduction by William Gibson of Neuromancer fame. What particularly struck me about his introduction is that it felt very much as if the introduction was written immediately after reading the book again, leaving Gibson still immersed in that peculiar outlook and train of thought that Dhalgren seems so eminently good at creating. This was rather gratifying, as it made it more apparent that it is NOT just me that becomes so affected by this book.
At the risk of letting my metaphor careen out of control and butcher my train of thought, these introductions act very much like an appetizer before a substantial meal. The type and flavor of the appetizer very much influences what nuances you pull out of the subsequent main course. I certainly find this to hold true very much in this case: I pull significantly different parts out of the first chapter especially, depending on which introduction preceded it. Mind you, this is entirely separate from the various aspects of the story (and structure of the story) that I continue to pick up each time I reread it. My interpretations of the nature of the relationships between different characters (the protagonist, Kid, and his interactions with the surrounding people, as well as the nature of relationships between these peripheral characters themselves) shift wildly between readings, with some relationships becoming more vivid in my mind while others become vague, hazy.
The first few times I read Dhalgren, I felt that it had no real structure, that its structure was as amorphous and chaotic as the city the story takes place in. I then came to the conclusion that perhaps it is not so chaotic, so much as an elliptical spiral, coming back to things that have happened before in unexpected ways, continuing to go farther and farther out. Iâm beginning to think that the true nature of the story structure is in fact something in between. That it IS elliptical, but not as precise as a smooth orbit, but rather tumult in a pattern, like the arms of a hurricane. Further, the cityâs landscape changes according to the acts of the observer. On Kidâs first night in town, he comes off the bridge and proceeds to meet someone on the roof a building. Despite having walked for no more than 15 minutes, he can no longer see the bridge or the waterfront from the roof. Later on in the book, on that same rooftop, the bridge looms nearby. This discrepancy (if you wanted to call it that) is by intent, however. The bridge symbolizes the exit leading to the outside world, and as previously stated, the landscape adjusts according to the acts or needs of the observer.
What acts or needs would cause Kid to need to leave? Especially since he doesnât leave, nor even really considers it for more than half a second? One of his friends is leaving at that point, but the importance of that particular action is largely irrelevant, and could have just as easily been avoided. In my eyes from this latest reading, I would say the bridge serves as a metaphor at that point of bringing himself back to reality if only for a moment, and the city itself is a metaphor for the descent into madness. Kid had just lost several days, and the trip to the bridge serves as a re-acknowledgment of reality. While he continues to lose time and remains in the city, it is at this point that he accepts it and no longer lets it bother him.
The writing style for Dhalgren changes for each major âchapterâ of the book (there are seven of these chapters). Sometimes the changes are subtle (for instance chapters 3, 4, and 5 are all very similar, and really only change in narrative emphasis), and in others the changes are significant and jarring (in the first chapter, each section opens with a narrative dialogue that leads into Kidâs next action, but has no relation to what else is happening in the story). The most jarring and unique chapter is the final chapter: âThe Anathemata: a plague journal.â Over the course of the book, Kid discovers a notebook that is someoneâs journal, and uses the unused pages for his own writing. The last chapter of the book is written as if it were a portion of that journal. It is decidedly nonlinear: true to character, he writes where there is space, not necessarily where it makes sense, so an entry might start on one page, and get continued four pages further along. There are even little blurbs of writing in the margins — wherever he could find to write. There are misspellings, crossed out words (crossed out paragraphs!). It is blunt and honest and disturbing in subject matter in a way that makes you realize just how refined and separated the rest of the book is in comparison (the rest of the book in comparison to other literature already was pushing boundaries).
The first time I read Dhalgren, I hated the last chapter. I found it a disappointment, I found it a pain in the ass to read, and it simply made no sense. The second time I read the book, I didnât even bother with the final chapter. It wasnât until the third or fourth time I read it that I began to appreciate what was being done with the final chapter (my own writing having grown in that intervening time). It continues to be an extremely disturbing piece of writing. Possibly the most disturbing Iâve ever read, anywhere. Thinking about it as I write this, I think that perhaps the reason I like the book so much, and the reason the book has so much effect on me, is BECAUSE it challenges me at every level. I like it because it is disturbing.
Delany, Samuel R. Dhalgren. Wesleyan University Press.
Okay, a little background: I’ve had an account with GamaSutra (THE major website for game development professionals) for about… hmm, three years now. Each week, they send out a newsletter that basically lists any game related announcements from news sources, any new articles on the site, information about the Game Developer’s Conference, projects for contractors, and… new job listings. Very handy little email, really, and I’m always glad to read through it when I get it.
So, I was reading through this week’s email, and noticed a new job posting for a game designer at a place called Cranky Pants Games. I looked at the job qualifications (which almost invariably say in large, unfriendly letters “INDUSTRY-RELATED DEGREE REQUIRED, 4+ YEARS REQUIRED”), and — lo and behold! — I actually fit the qualifications, with flying colors no less.
I sent off my resume about 5 minutes ago (took me some time to write the cover letter, as I don’t do the “form letter” thing), and I’m really, really nervous, hoping to God that I get it. So that’s what this little post is about: please pray for me if you believe in prayer, or just send me well wishes if you don’t, and hopefully this’ll work out. Considering how stressful and downright depressing the job hunt has been so far, I could really use all the help I can get.
Wish me luck!
So, things have been a little stressful, lately. Health insurance came due, and while not exactly unexpected, we really didn’t have the funds for it, so we are now left with needing to do some creative accounting to find the money for everything (rent, bills, car payments, car repairs, et cetera — the money we gratefully received from Mickey’s father to repair the car had to be spent on the health insurance). I’m scrambling madly for a job and have had absolutely no luck. I’ve submitted over 60 resumes at this point, plus several job applications for retail positions, and everyone is either not hiring, or is looking for someone more qualified. Not that they are telling me this, mind you: I’ve been lucky to get an auto-response out of most of them. They also generally say “No calls concerning employment accepted — if we like your resume, WE’LL CALL YOU.”
That would be “the bad”: being broke as hell, with no relief in sight. Even jobs I’m qualified for I’m not getting a response out of. At this rate, it is distinctly possible that we’ll have to sell stock (or use it as collateral on a loan) and move back east to DC, where Mickey has more consistent, reasonable-paying work. I really like it out here except for the job situation, so I’m really REALLY hoping it doesn’t come to that.
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Written by Bahaâuâllah in 1863, The Tablet of the Holy Mariner is considered one of the few pieces that directly deals with the mystical side of the Bahaâi Faith. Most of it is building upon pre-established concepts gathered from Gnosticism and Sufism in particular (the sea of light, the ark of belief, a multitiered heaven of which the higher levels are unattainable, the maiden of heaven, et cetera). This is actually somewhat comforting, since it indicates that the latest manifestation truly is just an update to the prior manifestations, whose Word had become muddied over time.
To give a quick summation of the story, it begins by explaining a bit of our past: namely that the faithful had been brought before heaven, where the believers had been cleansed of self and passion, and given entrance to Godâs holy realm. These believers sought higher into the heavens than God had decreed for them, and he punished them with a flaming meteor, and sent them back into the mortal world, where they were ordered to abide until such a time that they were ready for that higher level. Someone called the maiden of heaven, whom had never been known to speak (âno ear through all eternity hath ever heard,â line 61), came before the Celestial Concourse and stated that only those who had achieved true faithfulness in the Arabian Youth could enter the highest heaven. She sent one of her handmaidens down into the world to look for people who had achieved this. The handmaiden returned in such despair at the lack of true faith that she released her spirit and was sent into the presence of God. The story ends with the other handmaidens grieving violently for their dead sister.
While the story itself is interesting, what is far more intriguing is the particular phrasing and specific details of the story. These details tend to leap out due to the format of the story, broken into lines separated by the phrase âGlorified be our Lord, the All-Glorious!â Because the flow of the story is broken up like this, it becomes easier to focus on each line separately. (The counterpoint to this is that it is harder to capture the piece as a whole, without writing down the lines yourself.)
Personally, I view this tablet as an interpretive story, a history-through-parable. In particular, extrapolative history, dealing with what we call âprehistoryâ (the period between when homo sapiens first appear and when our first recorded civilization appears). This tablet serves as a remarkable collection of information available for interpretation. Given my predisposition towards science fiction, my personal interpretation of the tablet deals primarily with the thought of Man having a prior advanced civilization, possibly space-faring. The opening line deals with an âark of eternityâ and a âCelestial Concourse,â which could be interpreted as a space-faring ship. This ship is then âlaunched upon the ancient seaâ (again, a âsea of starsâ is a common literary metaphor, and would not seem out of place in this situation), and is filled with dwellers of âdivine attributesâ (most religions have ties between wisdom/knowledge and a divine source). They are told not to âtarry in the snow-white spotâ which could possibly be some form of faster than light travel such as âhyperspaceâ, and that they are free to âwing through space even as the favored birds in the realm of eternal reunion,â at which point a âburning meteor cast them outâ (a meteor destroys our access to âhyperspaceâ, or possibly impacts our planet and decimates all life on it, destroying whatever civilization there was). Man is returned to dwell in the mortal, mundane world. After a period of time, the âmaid of heavenâ (another advanced race? A surviving remnant of our own species?) sends her âmaidservantâ (an scouting expedition?) to search out signs of the âYouth that hath been hidden within the tabernacle of lightâ (our prior advanced civilization?). This maidservant finds none, and dies in despair.
While this interpretation is simplified and clearly science-fiction, the basic concepts are not outside the realm of possibility. Archaeologists have been able to place the origin of homo sapiens at roughly 140,000 BC (possibly earlier), and a fairly broad dispersal of man as long ago as 40,000 BC. But the first signs of civilization we have is 7000-5000 BC (depending on who you talk to). We have very little clue what happened during the intervening millennia. There is evidence of several worldwide catastrophes, including significant volcanic activity, global flooding, possibly meteor impacts, and recent evidence to suggest that the earthâs poles shifted at least once during that time. That is all in addition to at least one massive ice age that could have quite easily blotted out any sign of prior civilization that may have otherwise survived the other disasters. Considering how much of our past has been lost purely of our own accord (book burnings, holy wars, censorship, vandalism, cities getting sacked, plagues, et cetera) this is all well within the realm of possibility. Further suggesting prior civilization is the amount of unaccounted-for time compared to how quickly weâve built our current civilization. It somehow doesnât ring true that given around 140,000 years, no civilization was created.
That is of course just one interpretation; there are many possibilities as to what exactly it means. Regardless of its true meaning, the Tablet of the Holy Mariner is a fascinating piece of writing, and well worth the effort to read it, if only for the marvelous ideas it presents.
I strongly believe that it is necessary to maintain a positive outlook on life, to treat other individuals compassionately, and to appreciate the little things in life just as much (if not more so) than the big things. I disagree with the frenetic pace our current society is trying to thrive upon, and for the longest time had âFestina Lenteâ (Make Haste Slowly) as my catch phrase for life. I believe all these things, and yet somewhere along the way, I seem to have lost sight of that, swept up in the currents of everyday life, and Iâm not even sure when or where it happened.
So, letâs go back. Perhaps not to the beginning, but certainly to a point when I had solidly come to these conclusions on living a peaceful, happy life, and had not yet let myself become caught up in the rushing mentality. After all, it is only through identifying your problems that you can ever truly hope to combat them.
Seventh grade was a very, very good year for me. After hitting the proverbial âbottom rungâ on the social ladder in sixth grade, I simply stopped caring about that, and instead dove into a broad spectrum of books (though primarily science fiction), reading about 90% of Robert A. Heinleinâs works, the entire Dune saga, and a wealth of pulp fiction by masters such as Robert Silverberg and Isaac Asimov. This reading trend continued into eighth grade, when I also read the Dragonriders of Pern series, and Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany (Iâll come back to this book in a moment). In addition to reading, I began pursuing my own education, studying statistics and basic chemistry on my own time. Iâd begun to adopt the philosophy of âNever Hurryâ from Stranger In A Strange Land by Robert Heinlein, a concept that appealed to me right from the start. After all, what is the point in rushing? That is not to say to not move quickly, but why rush? Why stress about the little things? Be aware of them, acknowledge them, and at the same time acknowledge what you are capable of affecting, and let the rest go. If we try to shoulder the burden of the world, all we end up with is a broken back.
Contrary to what it may seem like, that was NOT a recipe for laziness. I am not now, nor was I then saying you shouldnât do anything. Rather, Iâm saying take responsibility for yourself, do what YOU are capable of, and donât worry about the rest. That worry is a little death that eats you away at your foundation until you finally just crumble.
This philosophy continued to grow and solidify as I read more, and experienced more situations which proved the validity of my budding outlook. A particularly influential book for me was Dhalgren, by Samuel R. Delany. The book explores the concept of amorality (vs morality or immorality) in a backdrop of a semi-post-apocalyptic city, a place choked with smoke and an erratic, shifting geography. I first read it in eighth grade, and Iâve continued to read it once a year ever since. Iâve never been able to fully explain why I read it every year, merely that it generates a certain mood that I find appealing. Not through any specific action that any character takes, nor any event in the story, so much as just the general demeanor of the book: there is a sense of presence and self awareness and letting go that is ultimately appealing, and generally succeeds in crossing over into my every day life.
It is worth noting that I havenât had a chance to reread Dhalgren in the past two years, or really much recreational entertainment at all. Not for lack of desire, mind you, but through lack of finding the time necessary to get through the 800 page book. Thinking about it, Iâve felt burdened by a weight of âresponsibilityâ (real or perceived), even when Iâm consciously making the choice to go play a game, or read a book, or watch a movie. I canât relax. So is my not having made time for my annual tradition a cause, or an effect of this? Perhaps a bit more digging is in order.
High school left me frustrated by my peers and in a state of depression. I would talk passionately and intensely about a wide variety of topics, but never with any luck in finding like-minded individuals. It left me disillusioned until I started to do theater, where at least they were passionate about SOMETHING (namely, melodrama, but that is unfortunately part and parcel with high school drama programs). I continued to work steadily with the theater program through the rest of school, which did a lot in terms of keeping me sane. The actorsâ antics and melodramatic politics kept me distinctly aware of just how much those things really didnât matter in the long run. Thinking about it, though, I avoided supervisory roles whenever possible while there (and later). Not because I couldnât have done it, but because I didnât want the additional responsibility.
Thinking about it, that may well be it. In the past two or three years, I have taken on additional responsibilities, perhaps some that I wasnât necessarily ready for, but felt I had to do. Somewhere in the back of my head, something is screaming that Iâm on the right track, so letâs continue. If Iâve been taking on new responsibilities over the past few years, and it is over the past few years that I have been feeling more and more rushed and restricted and otherwise not myself or who I want to be.
So I suppose the question to ask myself is, what do I want to do about it? It isnât like I can just ignore my responsibilities, nor is saying âWell, I guess this is just going to have to be my new outlook,â an acceptable answer. I think identifying that I need to learn to cope with responsibility is a good first step. Now I need to act on it. I need to start doing what I can and genuinely letting go of the rest. I need to start affirming to myself that my passions ARE in fact a worthwhile pursuit of their own accord, and that now is a perfect time to work on those passions. I need to start thinking about what I want out of life, and stop worrying about what others want from me or think of me. I need find a new sanctuary that I can find my own pace in. I need to LET GO.
But mostly, I think I need to go reread Dhalgren.