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Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Wrap Up - 2014

Wrap Up - 2014

2014.  You were not all you could have been.  You were a year that was filled with struggles.  A year where for three months, we had our noses to the grindstone, where we worked 16-18 hours a day.  Where we created, and we were uncertain, where we worried and worked and struggled.  2014.  Graduated another program, made a bunch of artistic works.  Floundered.

Got sick.  Really sick.  Saw the insides of more hospitals than I wanted to.  For myself and for those around me.  A depressing reminder of our own mortality.  Of new problems, of old aches.  Of needles, and taking blood, of medication and forms and talking to experts.  Of broken bones and drifting through the darkness.  Of taking time off.

I hate taking time off 2014. But I took two months off.  Two months away from art, away from work.  Two months spent reading, and thinking, and contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

Got back to it.  Made a game, and another, and another. Made things that were important to me. Close to my own heart, for no one else.  Things I'd never release, but demanded outlet.

Got hired, worked for a while on games. Met people, started again.

It was a year for dungeons and dragons. Got a commendation from Wizards as a Dungeon Master. Got recognized by other dungeon masters, other gamers, other players.  My work was put on the spotlight, new designs, new ideas and bridging interesting gaps.

It was a year for getting back into Magic.  Throwing cards down, building decks and finally organizing myself.  For getting my competitive edge back, and learning new formats, interesting formats, and new friends to play with and against.

It was a year of finding time for online friends.  Reconnecting, tweeting, engaging.  A year of letting go of the people who don't care, and finding communities who do.

You were a year of hardships for everyone.  A year of darkness.  A year that was filled with people dying, of sadness, of going quietly in the night.  You were a year of ugliness.  A year where a bleak parts of humans became unveiled.  Where communities we are close with showed an ugly side.  You were a year of misogyny, and hate, and viscera.  You should not be proud of that as your legacy.  The legacy of having divided communities where we worked hard to be inclusive, to be better, to be futurists and to be welcoming.  But now we are working hard to cut away the bad parts you have revealed.

You were a year where 114 children were gunned down at a school.

That's not a good thing.

But there were bright points as well. However few and far between.  A year where I reconnected with people, and close friends. A year of messages, and skype, and late night chats.  Of hugs. Of holding hands into the night. Of sitting close and laughing, telling jokes and sharing laughter.  They are bright moments that we remember, cast against the darkness that we might see luminescence.

Courage.  It was a year of finding courage.

2014. We are glad to be saying good night to you tonight.  You were not a great year.  You will hopefully be remembered as being relatively unremarkable, but we shall recall the truth.  You were a dark time. And we hope that in bidding you and your darkness goodbye, that the future might be a better one.

2015.  There's a different world out there.  We're still sorting it out. There's a lot of crazy things happening, where we're all still coming into ourselves because we don't know a lot of things.  But we're figuring it out.

2015. I for one am ready. I'm getting back to work. I took some time off last year, and it became clear that the rest of the world wasn't interested in waiting. So it's time to lace up these boots and get on with it.  There's a lot to be done, and no sense giving it to anyone else to do. Let's get on with it and fix the world.

It needs fixing. In case you didn't notice.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Poetry - Silence


"There are some qualities, some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade."

-Edgar Allan Poe, "Silence"

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Politician - Nenshi on Bill 10

Politician - Nenshi on Bill 10

Calgary Mayor Naheed Nenshi had the following, oustanding piece of oratory to say on the much derided Bill 10 of late:


“I pitch this city across Canada, and when I make that pitch, it may surprise you to know, I always get the same question. And I bet that question is going to surprise you, because you live here and you wouldn’t think this is a question.

“And the question I always get is: ‘Is Calgary welcoming? Is it homophobic? Is it racist? Is it diverse? Will not only I be accepted, but will my friends be accepted?’

“And, of course, I always say: ‘Look at me. I’m the mayor. We’re very welcoming, and for the vast majority of us, this place – our home – is the absolute epitome of meritocracy, of multiculturalism, of pluralism, of support, and of success.’

“But, I’ve got to tell you, the last couple of weeks in the provincial legislature have not made my job any easier.

“This damaging and hateful debate that we’ve been having in the provincial legislature around Bill 202 and Bill 10 does nothing but reinforce negative stereotypes.

“Two weeks ago, a member of the legislative assembly got up and proposed a bill that said any kid in school can set up a club and suddenly our provincial legislators – in a time when the price of oil is dropping, in a time when our infrastructure needs are extraordinary, in a time when we have urban and regional issues that we’ve got to get more done on – spent two weeks talking about what club a kid in school can join or not.
“How ridiculous is that?

“How additionally ridiculous is it that we know that these clubs help kids stay safe?
“We know that these clubs prevent suicide, among a group where one third of the kids attempt suicide, and we have the gall to say: ‘We have to balance off your rights.’ That your rights don’t include the right to be safe? To have support to prevent you from attempting suicide?

“What kind of a world do we live in here?

“So thank you very much to the premier – who is a good guy – for putting the brakes on this thing, and putting this thing on pause, because what was happening was dangerous. By saying not all rights are absolute, the government seemed to be saying that our children don’t have the right to be safe. That’s not right. That’s not fair.

“I could go on. OK, I will.

“If we say that we live in a city where we were thinking it would be OK for a 15-year-old to appear before a judge to ask the judge if the 15-year-old can start a club in his school that no one would be forced to belong to, well folks, that would the Scopes Monkey Trial of Alberta.

“We would end up having international attention toward what kinds of hillbillies we are. None of us need that.

“Today is the day for us to say, straight out, that we are indeed welcoming, that we are indeed working hard to make sure that every single person can succeed here, because that is the core of our strength.

“And I’m going to say something else to you, and I’m going to get political for a second, and I rarely get political, as you know. And, by the way, I hate it when the province talks about municipal issues, and so I’ve been holding my tongue on this for a while, but in the end we have to talk about humanity, and we have to talk about human-rights issues and what makes our place successful.

“We often hear people talk about why they vote, and sometimes we vote because we don’t believe or we do believe in a certain tax. Sometimes we vote to protect our narrow self-interests.

“But this conversation that we’ve had over the last couple of weeks gives us a very interesting reason to vote, because sometimes, we’ve got to vote just for what’s right. We’ve got to vote for the kind of community we want. We’ve got to vote for our dreams.

“And this would be a wonderful opportunity for you to let your MLAs know that your vote is available, that your vote is available for people who are committed to making Calgary and Alberta welcoming to everyone, to make sure that everyone – no matter what they look like, no matter where they come from, no matter whom they worship, no matter how they love – has the opportunity to live a great life right here.

“And that we will vote for that community. And that we will vote for that community that we want. And tell your MLA to do the right thing by these kids.”

Sunday, December 7, 2014

For Better or For Worse - The Writer

For Better or For Worse - The Writer

How wild your imagination becomes if someone you love is late coming home. You’re sure they’re safe, but…what if? What if your family is one of those about whom the headlines are written? After all, it’s the luck of the draw. Nobody is absolutely secure. Bad things can happen to any of us. In your mind, you go from imagining fatal accidents to acts of violence to kidnapping — all the stuff you see in the movies. Perhaps what we do is prepare ourselves for the worst. Maybe this is a good exercise, but it’s often far too stressful and far too frightening.

When folks ask how writers come up with so many weird ideas, I use the "missing at night" scenario to explain: Give yourself a situation in which you have no control, something that could go in any direction — this is when your writer’s hat goes on. You want to resolve the situation now; you want to be able to handle whatever happens, and so you let your imagination loose. The next thing you know, you are in the mind of a writer. One small idea bubbles into another. Could there have been an accident?

You visualize this awful possibility: the car, the people inside. Are they on a roadside? In the water? Soon, you’re bringing in sirens — an ambulance and police to the scene. You go from imagining the accident to living through the aftermath: the hospital, the anguish, the lives on the line. You argue with nurses, you fight for the right to know. You call relatives and tell them the news. You wait for the recovery, or you plan for the wake. This is how a writer works; even though you’re telling a story, you feel as though it’s real.

For a writer, imagination is a gift. For someone who is waiting and wondering, it’s a nuisance. The good thing is, by the time you reach the most agonizing chapter in your imaginary scenario, your missing person shows up and you have nothing to show for your night of woe but relief. And…isn’t that a great way for this all to end?

-Lynn Johnston

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Incognita - Iceheart

Incognita - Iceheart

Flip was working late into the night. Which was not unusual in any sense. His Alchemy lab was bustling with activity, even as the moon rose towards midnight. Borico the transmuter mulled over a trio of bubbling cauldrons, the contents of which should have been unpleasant, but somehow gave off the scent of warm mulled wine. Hafiz was studying the bone totems on a workbench, and Mikaela the cleric was scribing scrolls, sitting at a desk surrounded by open tomes.

For himself, Flip had taken over a pair of workbenches, tomes were neatly arrayed out wards and a small magical circle had been painted in flowing ink on a silken roll of parchment. A glittering sliver of ice floated a handful of inches above the circle, sending a dancing cascade of light in all directions while he worked.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Drabble - On Humans

Drabble - On Humans

"Where there are men and women with things that others want, there shall be conflict in the pursuit of the taking or copying of those things."

That belief implies that humans are inherently covetous and evil.  What if we change our paradigm of thought and ask an important question.  Can that Envy be turned to Respect?

What would the world look like if it was?

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Writing - Incognita: Flip, Interrogation of a Prisoner

Writing - Incognita: Flip, Interrogation of a Prisoner

If anyone noted one more Halfling hedge wizard than usual in the docks of The Maw, it was unlikely they would’ve spoken on it.  After all, the flood of refugees had thrown the usually ordered, rocky harbour into a sense of disarray in the past few months.  Flip was adept at navigating the crowds, utilizing his mage hand and subtle applications of freezing winds around him, he managed to craft a bubble of space which pushed the press of bodies.  Somewhere behind Fyarr had been distracted by giving healing blessings to the rabble, but Flip pushed forward unhindered.

Instructions that had been given to him were clear, and he abruptly turned down an alleyway between buildings.  Another turn and the stone walls pressed ever closer, until he came upon a nondescript wooden door, carefully set.  He approached and rapped once upon the wall alongside it, careful to not trip the magical markings on the step.

“What’s the password?” a muffled voice from within.

Friday, November 21, 2014

Game Design - Tiny Moments

Game Design - Tiny Moments

I've been designing games around singular moments for the last two months.  In the depths of night, completely alone, with only hand crafted assets around single things.  I've been designing small games, tiny, infinitesimally small, unpolished games, usually one a week.  A lot of them are exercises.  To make sure I still know how to code in Game Maker, Flash and Unity.  Sometimes they are about figuring out how to do one little thing, dynamically dealing with specific problems or solving specific ideas.

Sometimes though, I make a tiny little game, because there's an idea that needs to get out.  It encompasses everything I do when I walk home, or to work.  I think about it while I eat lunch, I sketch it in the margins of my notebooks, I recite the lines of text or ideas of the game to myself while I listen to music.  It has to get out.

So I build a tiny little game.

This one is called Crosshair.

It's very simple.  You're a soldier on the back of a jeep, you have a machine gun, a .50 cal mounted to the back.  You're in an urban environment, and you have a spotter.  Your spotter designates possible targets, you swing around your crosshairs and sweep the street to check for the target possibilities.

45 seconds in, between the 4th and 5th target possibility you get a call out on the alley to the left.  The instant you swing over there, your crosshairs fix on a young Iraqi girl of 5.  She freezes.  Her mother appears behind her.  She also freezes.  As long as the crosshairs are pointed at them, they stay frozen.  You get text, and chatter, voice over, information...but as long as you stay pointed at them, they stay frozen.  If you point it away, but where they are going, they stay frozen.  You can only disengage and point it straight up, and you won't see them then, but they'll run across the screen and leave.

The game takes just over a minute.  The 'game'.  It's not really a game.  It's just a moment.

You're in full control.

I needed to make this.  And I'll never release it.  Ever.

I've been making tiny games, about super tiny little moments.

I'm not sure if it's for my sanity, or everyone else's.

Friday, November 14, 2014

Announcement - Desert Bus

Announcement - Desert Bus

It's Desert Bus time again!  Updates will be sparse, but if you want to tune in to an awesome charity that every year raises money to buy games and entertainment for sick children in hospitals, then you should go check out Desert Bus!

Desert Bus!

Monday, November 10, 2014

Writing - Remembrance Day

Writing - Remembrance Day

Forgive the late night ramblings of madmen.  Namely I.

Our house is quiet right now, half the household is out, working or partying, doing what they do I suppose.  I worked a full 10 hours today, then came home, ate some food and hung out with friends over the internet to play some games.

Tomorrow, I am waking up early with some of my compatriots, going down to Victory Square in the chilly November air and paying our respects.  We're going to wake up early, I'm probably going to shower and shave three weeks growth of beard off.  Don some nice clothing, and stand in the quiet of a tuesday morning while we listen to song, and poem, and the Last Post.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Incognita - 301A Interlude

Incognita - 301A Interlude

There was no sound made save the rustle of leather and cloth.  No halfling feet pittered over the stone, and no voices carried in the desolate dungeon rooms.  Above somewhere, the din of the refugee mob could be heard, the stamping of feet and the shouted voices.  The air above was jubilant, now that the plague had been solved and it looked like the Refugees would be shortly on their way.  The mage had drifted away, slipping silently down the twisting passages, he passed by underfoot unnoticed, subtle machinations of his magic weaved a safe course that ensured he'd never be trod upon or bumped into accidentally.

The door to the dungeons was still half open, and the application of some magical force crafted him a round invisible disc which he rode the stairs down on, leaving no trace of bootprint or otherwise in the dust.  The soldier in him was stoic, but some other part of him, oft forgotten, retched a little.  The stench of old blood was present, if muted.

The room was an array of cells and shackles, rotten straw lay about, refuse and dirt had been swept into corners but never scooped up, and the efflua of the living coalesced in the sewer troughs beneath, never being washed away into the sea for lack of caring.  The disc carried him soundlessly as he appraised the surroundings.  There were no prisoners here now, had not been in some time, except for the now shattered cage at the far end.  But the signs were telling.  Splatters of blood had stained the stone forever, would likely be impossible to clean.

He raised a hand, and a ball of flame formed between his fingers as he continued to drift around.  In his minds eye he could see the people that were once held in these cages, that were shackled to the ground.

Finally the disc came to a rest, half a foot off the ground where he had stood hours ago.  His arms crossed, and he waited, feeling the ebb and pull of magic as it swirled around.  It was difficult to describe to those not in tune with the weavings, but it was a living, if languid thing that pushed and pulled.  He just occasionally reached in and pulled what he wanted from it.

The lightning he had summoned had been draining.  It was still a spell new to him, and perhaps in many ways still outside his expertise.  Any skilled mage would be able to see the lancings which had scored much of the pathway between him and the abberation woman.  It had been a merciful and powerful spell, and he took no pride in its use.

He drifted closer to where she had stood.  There was nothing left of her.  Turned to dust and ash, any chitinous remains had been put to torch, not that there had been more than a handful to begin with.  She had hardly been defenseless, indeed, had she gotten loose there might have been a sense of true chaos for the group.  But he relived those scant moments before the fight over and over, the others had been quick to attack the source of the problem, but he had been unable to bring his magic to bear against the creature.

She had just been protecting her child.

So quickly had she turned to magic as the method of her revenge.

Just like him.

And in her haste, her magic had consumed her.  Her methods just slightly imperfect, her plan undone ever so slightly.

It was a strange thing to think on too deeply.

It would be some hours later when he emerged.  When asked in the dusklight of where he'd been, he would only shrug and point at his spellbook.  If anyone had noticed the stones of the Keep of Watcher's Crag warmed that day, they would not comment on it.  For surely the bluster of many people, rushing to and fro as they made haste to get off the island was the reason for the stifling air and unseasonable warmth.

It wouldn't be for a long time, weeks or months, when finally they forced the heavy wooden door of the dungeon open, it having been inexplicably barred from the inside, that soldiers would discover the dungeon had been completely wasted.  All the iron cages, the shackles, the soot and detritus had been scoured clean and melted to slag.  A rusted, flat iron floor left in its place in the dungeon.  It would be completely unusable, even the sewer drains had been plugged by slag metals, even the bolts that once held restraints had been melted from the walls.

They would stare in wonder then, at the whole floor which while rusted, was covered in unreadable arcane sigils.

And on the walls, they would murmur and speculate as they watched out over the sea.  What the sigils meant, and if they were indeed the work of that strange little halfling, feisty and boisterous who always proclaimed himself "Right".

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Charity - Extra Life

Charity - Extra Life

For most of the day I've been on and off watching the Wizards of the Coast DnD Extra Life Marathon.  Basically a large cast of rotating players, with DM Greg Bilsland are playing a 25 hour game or Hoard of the Dragon Queen.  As of the time of this writing, some...I guess 15 hours in? We've raised almost 75 000 dollars for Extra Life just through Wizards of the Coast.  Extra Life is a large, charity streaming event of gamers all across the world playing to raise money for the Children's Miracle Network Hospitals.

Across the entire Extra Life program, we've raised 4.2 million dollars this year so far.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Art - On Death

Art - On Death

I spend a lot of time as an artist thinking about death.  It’s morbid I know, but bear with me for a moment.  It’s a fixation point in most of the artwork I create.  I’m fascinated by grief, and more keenly than death itself, by the loss of possibility.  I obsess over chance and possibility, what people could or do or choose to amount to.  I find it fascinating to observe the decision-making process.  And there is something keen about the onset of death and how it presses on all the people around who observe it.  Whether they are personally connected to the death itself, or are a more casual observer.

I’ve done a tremendous amount of writing about death, and grief, loss and loneliness.  Truthfully I don’t really know why.  Stories about loss and death are my favourite, I write them, draw them, paint them, and make games around those moments.  I know it’s weird.

But for a long time I have struggled to really capture the myriad whirlwind of how humans deal with death.  I was really touched today when I read an article today by William Hughes.  It’s available here.  http://www.avclub.com/article/fake-deaths-cheap-resurrections-and-dealing-real-g-210402.  The article is beautiful, and sad, and raw.  It's raw because it means something, it's not covered in flowers and pretty words, it's harsh and hard, savage and ripping, and angry.  Really angry.  Angry at the possibilities of what might have been.  Angry at the trivialities that creators are taking with death.

It’s hard for us as creators to think about death and grief.  When we are in mindsets of creation, we want to capture pure emotions and reactions. Unfortunately we live in a society that is not obsessed with death like I am, but rather with killing.  I find myself at a strange crossroads where people push me to put the action of killing into my games.  Combat, warfare, weapons and guns. We are intrigued by the possibility of shooting, of pulling the trigger, of ending life.  Killing has become the causality of this strange fantasy we have of power.  We have actually lost sight of the possibility of death.

We rack up tremendous kill scores, ever increasing strange numbers of heads bashed in, limbs chopped off and bullets to the brain.

I’m walking this strange balance these days between designer and artist.  As a designer I understand the fundamentals of a repetitious cycle that reinforces engagement and entertainment.  I want to provide satisfaction, enjoyment and sloped ever-increasing challenges to my audience of players.  As an artist, my heart writhes in boredom.  I want to make games with stories, where there are no guns and no killing.  I want to think about absorbing people in the ideas of what grief really is, where there is only one death, and never another replay.  I’m in love with the game That Dragon Cancer, while my designer brain analyzes every challenge they will eventually face and wonders about how effectively they will overcome it.

These two sides juxtapose themselves against me, and I have no answers.


Well not no answers.  I’m making a game, quietly.  And I don’t know what it means.


Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Rant - Steps

Rant - Steps

In 1999, a terrible thing happened.  Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold murdered 13 people, including one teacher, and injured another 21 people.  They brought almost 99 explosive devices, firebombs, automatic weapons and shotguns with the express purpose of killing hundreds of students.

In the aftermath that happened, gamers everywhere stood up and decried that their pastime incited the pair to violence.  Numerous studies were commissioned, lawyers stepped up on both sides, psychologists analyzed children, we collectively took steps backwards and forwards in this strange dance around the ideas of interactivity and violence.

Yesterday, someone sent a message that said in opposition a person who wanted to give a talk about feminism in games, that they would actively oppose it with guns and bombs.  That they would make it worse than the "Montreal Massacre".  15 years later, and we are exactly what we fought so hard against, because there is a lunatic out there using games, and gaming as a shield.  15 years later, and a 'gamer' is actively engaged in terrorism.

We are now at the same place we were at that miserable day that 13 people died.  Our pasttime is under attack because there are unhinged people out there.  I wish it was common sense, but apparently that died a long time ago alongside common decency.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Writing - A Lighthouse Interlude

Writing - A Lighthouse Interlude

Darkness stole around the coast and the fog rolled low. Out amongst the crashing of waves, silence had fallen in the abandoned lighthouse, with embers glimmering in the pit. The stewpot was cooling, and sleep which had been a long time coming to the weary adventuring party had finally seemed to fall.

In the darkness, there was a flicking motion, as though a match had been struck, but no accompanying scent of sulfur. The mage, Flip rose to his feet, finger held out while what could’ve been a wickless candle cast soft glows around the room. Around his bedroll lay belts and pouches filled with various magical components, haphazardly bundled or strewn. His vellum spellbook sat clasped shut still, while the halfling stretched. Reaching for his black leather robes, he donned them in silence and pulled the hood up. Stepping lightly around the other adventurers, he ascended the stairs long and creaking, his flickering magic held before him like a lantern.

He sat among the ruined balcony of the lighthouse for a long while, staring out at the restless tides. Other halflings might have pulled out a pipe and had a pinch of greyweed then, but Flip was not like other halflings. Instead he reached into a pouch in his cloak and pulled free the strange stone mask that the slave had worn.

It was a curious thing, slightly heavy to the touch, emotionless in a slightly strange way, hewn from a single block of stone. The fixings on the side of the mask, where it had once attached to the face of the slave were messed and bloody still, but the past nights work had seen him clear any flesh from the thing. He sat there in the dark, with careful hands applying a steady bit of flame to clean the thing, burning what was left of gore from the fixings. It took an hour while he worked, absent-mindedly reciting spell cantrips and gesturing arcane symbology over and over in his mind while he focused.

Before the moon reached its zenith he was done, a small stream of water from a magically cupped hand erased any ash, sending it cascading into the ocean. For a long while, the mage stared into the mask, for a time he imagined he could see all the slaves whose faces it had adorned through the ages, men and women, faceless and nameless now. It was a kind of falsehood, he had little skill in necromancy or communing with the dead, the mask could have been brand new for all he knew. But it didn’t dilute the rage he felt when he held it.

There was no recourse for it at the moment though but he did hold out his hand and collect a handful of smoking sparks, magically conjured. With a solemn breath, he exhaled and sent them spiraling upwards into the night stars.

I will kill those who did this to you...

Then he padded silently back down the stairs, the mask once again safely concealed somewhere in his robes, lay down and went back to sleep.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Life - First Aid

Life - First Aid

This morning there was an accident right in front of me on Cambie and 41st.  Car ran through a red light (or a realllllly stale yellow) clipped another truck (one of those tiny little gardening-esque ones) and caused it to flip onto its side and skid down the road maybe 20 feet.  There's always that sort of instantaneous moment where everyone freezes, did that actually really happen?  We all watch in tableaux as everything comes to a stand still, a horn blares, people on the street look around to each other, and then...just slowly everything snaps into realtime.

I go rushing across the street to the flipped vehicle, another guy runs along the other intersection to it as well.  Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl walk to the car and see if that guy was alright, he's pulled to a stop though now on the far side.

We lean in to check on the driver, he's dazed but seems alright, a few cuts to his hands and face where the windows have shattered from hitting the pavement.  We tell him not to move, but he starts pulling at his seatbelt already anyway.  The other guy gets on his cell phone and starts to call 911.  I drop my bag and start rummaging for first aid supplies, a bandage, some alcohol wipes.  I am a stage manager still, I am always prepared.

Time slows, I see clearly traffic going east and west slowly begins to inch its way, people gawk from behind their steering wheels.  A young man walks past me, I catch his eyes, he deliberately puts on his headphones.  I see him then, and all around me, these two dozen souls going somewhere on a busy thursday morning.  Late for work, business, making money, open the shop up, places to be, business to do, class to attend.  A a young puts his headphones on.  He closes the world out, he ignores this thing which has impacted his day by minutes.  He puts his headphones on.  In his Reebok sneakers, slightly too tight jeans that aren't cuffed properly, his too-hipster toque and his Beats by Dre headphones.

His smirk.  As he ignores people in need.

He puts his headphones on, deliberately.  And walks on by.

The driver heaves himself out of his seat, time speeds up.  We get him to the grassy meridian and tell him to sit down.  He wants to help, to gather the stuff that has fallen off his truck, we tell him we'll get to it.  I bandage his hands, two cuts on his fingers, just behind the knuckles. One cut on his forehead, it's bleeding down into his eyes.  He tries to get up again, I tell him to wait until I'm done, that help is coming soon, that the three of us can't flip his truck back on its wheels anyway.

He tells me he's grateful, he thanks me, again, again, again.  He tells me that not many others would have stopped.  Not many others would have helped.

I tell him that isn't true.  I think of the young man, and his headphones.  I tell him that isn't true, but the words taste like a strange ash.  I tell him it isn't true, someone would've helped, lots of people saw, people would have helped.  People are helping, right? I think of the young man, and his headphones.

Five brisk minutes later, responders are already on the scene.  A fireman has taken my name and number, I'm walking down the stairs to the train.  I wait on the escalator, delicately brush a small piece of glass out of my jeans.  There's no blood on my fingers, I run a hand through my hair and exhale.

The young man is standing on the platform there.  In his hands is a Starbucks coffee, a small brown bag with some bakery pastry.  I look at him, he looks at me.  He has the good sense to look away almost immediately.  Scuffs his feet, looks down at his shoes. His Reebok sneakers.

Something rushes through me.  I want to scream at him, I want to yell and rage.  I want to ask him if that's what he was so pressed for.  His fucking Venti no-fat latte with fucking cinnamon and pumpkin spice?  His five minutes where he couldn't have even bothered to have asked if more assistance was needed.  His goddamn muffin or whatever is in his damn little bag?  A myriad whirlwind of thoughts goes by. I want him to feel bad, to feel small, to feel abashed and shamed and to question his humanity card. I want him to feel...something.  I close a fist, and then release it.

And then it burns itself out. I realize I'm tired.

I walk past him, as I get in front of him, I hesitate, and look out of the corner of my eye at him.  He stiffens.  I continue on, another ten feet down the platform and lean against the stone wall.  I wait for the train.

There are no answers.  I close my eyes.  Darkness floods in, and the rush of wind heralds a train coming through the tunnel.  I vanish into the people.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Quotes - The Universe and Math

Quotes - The Universe and Math

MORPHEUS: For the longest time, I wouldn't believe it. But then I saw the fields with my own eyes, watched them liquefy the dead so they could be fed intravenously to the living -
NEO (politely): Excuse me, please.
MORPHEUS: Yes, Neo?
NEO: I've kept quiet for as long as I could, but I feel a certain need to speak up at this point. The human body is the most inefficient source of energy you could possibly imagine. The efficiency of a power plant at converting thermal energy into electricity decreases as you run the turbines at lower temperatures. If you had any sort of food humans could eat, it would be more efficient to burn it in a furnace than feed it to humans. And now you're telling me that their food is the bodies of the dead, fed to the living? Haven't you ever heard of the laws of thermodynamics?
MORPHEUS: Where did you hear about the laws of thermodynamics, Neo?
NEO: Anyone who's made it past one science class in high school ought to know about the laws of thermodynamics!
MORPHEUS: Where did you go to high school, Neo?
(Pause.)
NEO: ...in the Matrix.
MORPHEUS: The machines tell elegant lies.
(Pause.)
NEO (in a small voice): Could I please have a real physics textbook?
MORPHEUS: There is no such thing, Neo. The universe doesn't run on math.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Game Design - Inside Tip

Game Design - Inside Tip

Let me give you an inside tip.  Game designers, game developers, game programmers...none of us sit around and debate to each other about some kind of weird mythical set of guidelines that define whether what we make is a 'game' or not.  This whole stupid debate around needing a fail state, needing gameplay, needing player choice or player motivation in order to make something a game?

None of us are talking about that.  We are talking about metrics, UX design, UI design, narrative, story, character driven scenes.  We're talking about tuning numbers, watching playtests, coming up with concept.  We are staring at code, long sheets of xml data, inputting weird database numbers and looking at what comes back.

We're watching lines of graphs printed out for us in real time and trying to draw conjecture out of it.

But let me tell you, none of us are sitting around asking each other if what we're making is a game or not.  Nobody cares.  We're making it, if it has any kind of interaction at all, and isn't a piece of productivity software, it's a game.  We don't debate that part, we just make games.  Lists of assets come down, milestones get declared, we tune the controls, replace big grey boxes with interesting things, watch people play and take notes.  Not even the dumbest intern at the lowest level of EA ever asks some senior dev "Is this really a game though?"  It just doesn't happen.

Just because you didn't like Gone Home? Just because you thought To The Moon was too linear? Just because you thought there's no difference in the narrative to Journey?  That's your problem.  Those games, perhaps are not for you.

I have a secret, not all games are for everyone.  In fact, I would even posit that many games are not for many people.  There is A game out there for everyone, but not every game is for every one.  That's a sad truth of the matter.  Some people like more guns, less guns, more blood, fewer jump scares, more jump scares. Some people like more variety in the art, others don't care about pixel art, maybe some people like vector, or painted styles.  Some of us like voice over, others are perfectly content with blocks of text.  Sometimes you want hip hop music in your game, I would think you're crazy because I like orchestra or minimalism, but I get that you like hip hop in your game.

Does that make sense?  Just because someone else sees the value in a game doesn't mean their opinion isn't valid.  But having weird little internet arguments over what are subjectively 'good' or 'bad' or 'not even' a game, games?  That doesn't even make any damn sense.  And beyond that, you're actively treading on people's REAL LIFE agency.  You're telling them what they can or can't love.  And why.  And the reasons you are presenting are stupid.

Criticize tangible things, like disagreements about flow, or textures, or functionality.  Criticize community, or policing, or the company's EULA.  But you want to tell a developer that their game isn't a game?  Well my immediate response to you will be "Your face, isn't even a face."  I mean what?  Your statement doesn't even make any OBJECTIVE SENSE.

Get over it.

And stop being so offended that I muted you that you went to harass my friends.  We're not in grade school any more.

Get.
Over.
It.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Notch - Leaving

Notch - Leaving and Minecraft

Notch wrote this post this morning, in light of the recent news that his company Mojang, and Minecraft are being purchased by Microsoft for 2.5 billion dollars.  I mean, superficially that's a lot of money, because it is.  But it's not just about the amount of money.  I've seen a tremendous number of posts this morning about the purchase and how Microsoft is never going to make that money back, that it's a poor business decision, that Minecraft only made 120 million dollars last year and it'll take more than ten years to see profitability after that...

But I think people are wrapped up in the fiscal numbers and have forgotten a few profound things about Minecraft, about Mojang and about Notch.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Writing - Pizza The Great Equilizer

Writing - Pizza The Great Equilizer

A neat piece of writing from muddyescapeartist:

One of the things I love about pizza besides it's deliciousness is that it levels the playing field. Everybody eats pizza. Well, ok, not EVERYbody, but damn near. As a driver, you are welcomed to people's homes - poor homes, rich homes, your run-of-the-mill upper lower middle class homes, hotels, businesses - and greeted by all types of people - drunk people, happy people, stingy bastards, students, the elderly, the insane, the kindred spirits, animal lovers, athletes, the infirm, and those people that always try to get a chuckle out of you in their two-minute window at the front door.

So often these people get reduced down to a number, specifically the dollar amount that they tip, but these people are beautiful! Even the shitty ones, the ones that pay in exact change, the sad ones that are trying to fill a void in their soul with a tasty midnight pie.... these people are just a microcosm of our society, a near perfect statistical representation of the world that we live in, and yes, I love them! I still bitch about them at times (who doesn't?), but without all the crazies, wouldn't our lives be a whole lot duller?

Perhaps not all delivery areas are as diverse, but I've had the pleasure of taking pizzas into lakeside mega-mansions, ethnically populated trailer parks, backwoods cabins, sprawling apartment complexes and the ticky-tacky houses of working-class suburbia. I am humbled to be given a glimpse into how the other sort live. Sometimes I am frightened, other times awed, by my experiences on the road. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

I have never felt as connected to a town as I do after I have delivered there for a while. You get to know the best and worst of your community. You get to feed the hungry masses. You get to have funny, awkward, creepy, angry, and drug-induced interactions with people that you would never have chosen to socialize with otherwise. You may never be 'equal' to your customer, but you are given a small window, a few minutes, to prove your worth in some seemingly insignificant but potentially positive way.

Don't miss your chance!

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Drabble - On Depression

Drabble - On Depression

There is this insidious, deep seated weird thing in your brain, when every time you hear a compliment you think to yourself "They're just being nice."

Writing - Hermione, Daughter of Dentists

Writing - Hermione, Daughter of Dentists

Written by Lion of Gryffindor.

My God, just think about her for a second.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Life - On Pax

Life - On Pax

It's taken me a few days, but I've started to put some of my thoughts to paper finally.  I make...literally...no secret of the fact that Pax is reliably one of the best times of the year for me.  For six years now, we've been attending Pax as gamers, and I now attend it as well as a developer.

For those that don't know, Pax is a conflagration of gamers hitting Seattle for the Labour Day Weekend.  Over 4 days, games are literally celebrated.  If you play games, there's probably something at Pax for you.  And I don't just mean video games, although video games are a considerable part of that.  Exhibitors show off the latest and upcoming in video games, technology and merchandise.  Tabletop, board games, pen and paper, card games and deck building all show up and are played extensively everywhere.  You literally can't walk fifteen feet without tripping over someone in a hallway playing Zombie Dice or Cards against Humanity.  There are massive tournaments and tiny tournaments for games, everything from Towerfall tournaments to the League of Legends Championship Series that encompasses a hall for probably 5000+ people.  People bring their personal computers and set up a massive LAN play area, there are retro consoles, and D&D, there are huge tournaments and a hundred panels to attend.

There's something for everyone, in our crazy community.


Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Words - Gamer

Words - Gamer

Do you know what a gamer is?  Media, modern media would have you believe it is a sociopath, or a psycho.  It would have you believe a gamer, and I include myself in this, that a gamer is a person who is fundamentally mentally unhinged.  A person who cannot distinguish right from wrong, who enjoys killing, and violence.  A person who is wrapped in a kind of illusionary reality, an escapism from the 'real' world.  That gamers are predominantly unhinged young men suffering from acute mental trauma, who are more capable of stripping down a 9mm gun than asking a normal person for directions.

That is what people would have you believe by the word, gamer.  This catcheism, this strange, curious word that somehow categorizes us and dennounces us at the same time as less than human.  Gamers are violent, vitrolic.  They have no mastery of the spoken or written word.  They are sexist, chauvanistic, and prone to tantrums or displays of threatening behaviour.  They live in their parents' basements, subsist on cheetos and mountain dew.  They do not bathe, are pasty white, greasy unkempt hair, and black t-shirts.  They are the dregs of a digital society.

That's what people would have you believe by the terminology, gamer.  Is that not so?

No.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Gesture - Hug

Gesture - Hug

Do you know what a hug is?  It's a gesture profile of arms wrapped around another person.  It's near universal, every culture has variations, and it is practiced among all age groups, all demographics and across gendered lines?

Do you know what a hug is?  I give someone a hug when I don't know what else to say.  And I'm verbose.  I'm articulate.  Sometimes though, words fail, words fail to provide comfort, or understanding, or sympathy, or empathy.  Words fail.  Interpretations are hard, cadence and word selection don't always explain appropriately what I mean.  But a hug?

A hug says I know you exist.  I hear you.  I don't know what specifically to offer you, but I hear you, I hear you and I am here.  Right here, right now, you have my complete and full attention.  Say anything.  Do anything.  I'm here.  I'm holding on to you, I won't let you go until you need me to.

That's what a hug from me is.  I'm right here.  Right HERE.  Immediate.  Connected to you.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Inspiration - Be Loud

Inspiration - Be Loud

We are oft reminded that we live in a shitty world, with shitty human beings. So when reminded of that, maybe the rest of us need to step up and be loud, be loud and say no, that we will not accept their hatred, that we will not accept their harassment or their abuse. We need to step up and say loudly that we do not condone their actions, that we are not represented by them and their hate, and ill will.

Be counted, friends. Be counted and bring more light into the world, and be LOUD.

This is mostly a post in response to the threats of violence against Anita Sarkeesian.  Response might not be the correct word, but in support of the difficulties she, and many other women in vocal positions are in when threatened.  It isn't right.  I say again it isn't right that they be attacked in such a way, it isn't right that they be attacked in any way that threatens, demeans, degrades or abuses them.  We discourse that we might enlighten, challenge, illuminate, and debate.  We do not commit attacks upon each other because we disagree.

Freedom of speech does not preclude one from the freedom of responsibility of actions.  I hope those who are filled with the threat, imagined or otherwise of violence are brought to justice.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Grief - Waves

Grief - Waves

/u/GSnow once wrote something that I have read during hard times.

He said:

Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life. Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

Hope that helps. Im sorry for your loss.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Rant - Trolling

Rant - Trolling

Let's declare a cessation on the word 'trolling' and call it like what it is. Criminal harassment. Verbal Abuse. This frontier of digital assault should be in the twilight of its days now, not becoming worse and worse with every passing day. Let us get the names of these people, who hide behind monikers and anonymity. Let us have their faces, and let them stand trial for their actions. Let them speak in a public forum and defend themselves, and let the rest of the world know that there is no defense for these terrible actions.

"In the name of a joke, or Just Kidding" is no longer a defensible excuse for not being an upright human being.

Friday, August 8, 2014

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Drabble - Empty Book

Drabble - Empty Book

She hands me an empty book, and bids me read from blank pages.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Drabble - Me

Drabble - Me

It's not you, it's me.  It's never you, it's always me.

It's me.

Me.

Me with an imperfect belly.  The wrong curve to my hips.  The wrong smirk.  The wrong eye color.  Me, with too-frizzy hair, and eyes that are a little too wide-set.

Me, with the eccentric need to eat too-hard boiled eggs in the morning.

Me who cooks pasta in unsalted water.

It's not you, it's me.  Me who wears socks to sleep in summer.  Who packs a rain coat on a clear day.  Who pats every dog, shies away from every cat.

Me who reads sad romance novels, and the funnies on sundays.

Me who dances with two left feet, who drives a little too fast, who mismatches purse and sandals.

It's not you, it's me.  Me who blinks during photos.

Who spills ice water at dinner.  Who uses the fork in the right hand, and the knife in the left.

Who writes too much, and stares at the stars too long.

Who isn't right for you.  Who won't be what you want.  Too fat, too thin, too tall, too short.  Hair too straight, too curly, too much moustache, not enough beard, too muscular, not tan enough.

It's not you, it's me.  Me who is all wrong for you.  Me who tells myself it will never work.  That your eyes glass past mine every time.

It's not you.  It's me.

It's always me.

Always.

Me.

Life - Not What We Are Looking For

Life - Not What We Are Looking For

Dear [Name],

Thank you for applying for the position of [Title],

We appreciate your interest in this position, and your taking the time to apply.  However we are sorry to inform you that after careful consideration, we have decided to follow up with other applicants who more closely match the requirements for this position, and the needs of the department.  We feel you would not be a good fit for our corporate structure and the fit of our current employee environment.

We think you are a dreamer, and that you want different things.  We think that you are unsuitable because we cannot offer you an outlet for your creative interests.  We are of the opinion that you are too talented, too creative, too innovative, too different, too strange, too outgoing, too loud, too quiet, too under-qualified, too over-qualified.  We want someone who conforms, who fits, who is easy, and simple, and straightforward.

We think you have too many jagged corners, that you are filled with too many stories to tell, too many anecdotes and ideas.  We think you use two words where one is often good, and none are better.  We wonder if you will have your head in the clouds, dreaming of different worlds, of the way people interact and come together, exchange words and become different.  Instead of being pragmatic, instead of looking at the methodology we require of how two plus two is four.  Because two plus two is always four.  And for you, sometimes two plus two is five.  And sometimes, two plus two is three.

We think you are a thing that is not human, because you dream of different things.  We think we will never be able to offer you money to stay grounded, because you don't care about compensation.  We think we cannot control you with dental plans, or healthcare, or vacation pay because these concepts are foreign to you.  We think you will not adhere to a 9 hour work day, that you will stay too late, and take work home, and dream and work, and work and dream.  That your life might be intertwined too closely with the job, and we cannot have that.

We are sorry to inform you that upon careful consideration, these reasons are too much for us to ignore, and we have decided to pursue other applicants and candidates.  It is not personal.  You are just too outlier.

We encourage you to visit our career site often to see what jobs become available that might be a better fit for you.  We will keep your credentials and profile in our database.  If you would like to receive automated notifications for new openings, please, sign up with a profile to our human resources department.

Sincerely,
Human Resources

Replies to this message are undeliverable, and will not reach HR.  Please, do not reply.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Writing - PostModernism

Writing - PostModernism

I can think of a lot of uplifting or at least energizing rather than enervating postmodern fiction: e.g. If Upon a Winter's night a Traveler by Italo Calvino, Fight club by Palahniuk, virtually anything by Neil Gaiman, virtually anything by Alan Moore, figures like Hunter S, Thompson and Hakim Bey, and in the more mainstream and funny sense: the great postmodern sitcoms like Larry David's Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm and Louis C.K. and Tina Fey and the like.

I don't think that just because something like Seinfeld is ironic, self-referential and categorically against enlightenment and the lifting of the spirits like in the more conventional "Friends" ("no hugs" being Seinfeld internal slogan as the show was conceived), it is automatically desolate and hopeless, much less cruel.
Conversely, I can think of a ton of dour modernist works and classic novels (Bleak House, anyone?) Chekhov?

Postmodern thought is dismissive of high-minded notions of true beauty and ultimate meaning and such, but it pretty much embraces the trickster, free play, the willingness to survive and outmaneuver the terrible monolithic forces hedging our lives, to be a gadfly and a libertine and a force of and for pleasure.

Modernist absolute truth often came with a demand for heroism or sacrifice, while the postmodern absence of absolute truth comes with an injunction to make your own contingent but consistent meanings. Both are related models for existential validation in an uncaring universe, but one seeks to correct the other by minimizing the coersive and authoritarian elements implicit in its modeling of "truth".

People always blame postmodernism for the disillusionment with absolute values, but postmodernism merely described what was happening to the whole West after the traumas of the second world war and the holocaust, Postmodernists didn't hide the values everyone believed in and didn't destroy them, they just drew a suggestive image of the world as already disenchanted, complete with shreds of the shattered discourses that once validated everything and made everything seem simple.

The values of the Enlightenment project didn't crumble from postmodernism, they crumbled because the nation responsible for the most potent philosophy of the Enlightenment used those ideas to justify unprecedented atrocities, while the Ford assembly line model of efficiency through reason and productivity turned into the gas chamber. It is the modernist Adorno that declared that there can be no more poetry after Auschwitz, postmodernism has largely sought to prove Adorno wrong.

Postmodernism didn't hollow the grand narratives out, it pointed out that they were always already hollow.
Besides, if you can find something as soulcrushing as Chekhov's "In the Pit" /v Ovrage in all of postmodernism, Id love to see it. There is no lifting of the spirits in Chekhov and never was.

Monday, June 30, 2014

Zen - Chop Wood, Carry Water

Zen - Chop Wood, Carry Water


A common misconception in following a spiritual life is the belief that in order to follow the practice that one must live in a cave, wear a saffron robe and beg for alms. This picture of a monk with a shaved head living in the mountains leads one to believe a spiritual practice is not possible unless one practices asceticism. This commitment level and practice is too much for some so they refrain completely from practicing a spiritual life. This all or nothing mentality creates a missing in a person’s life. It IS possible to have a spiritual existence without a shaved head and bamboo cup.


Many masters in India as well as spiritual practitioners across the globe live a regular life with a family, and a job. How is such a life possible?The essence of living a spiritual life is contained in the Zen quote “when hungry eat, when tired sleep.” Now before your mind reacts and you say to yourself….’Gee thanks for that incredibly obvious piece of wisdom.’ Look at this quote more closely, along with the initial passage above ‘before enlightenment chop wood, carry water…after enlightenment chop wood, carry water.’ Break life down into the simplicity of the present moment.


As human beings we do not live in the present moment. We carry our past forward with us, we yearn for something in the future and all the time we miss what is in front of us at all times. Life is beautiful right in front of us at every moment. Focusing on this moment right now removes the mind from drifting to wants, needs, desires….all driven by the mind in search of attachment. With attachment comes suffering.


When I am in the mind-set of when hungry eat, when tired sleep I am fully present to the simple needs I actually have to survive and I am present to life AS it is happening. I can see a child’s smile across the park. I can see the bird in the tree. I can smell the lilac tree as I run by. I can feel the rain on my skin and the presence of the divine in every moment.


In the early days of the Zen monasteries, the number of monks grew to the point that it was necessary to split up tasks, chores throughout the day to keep the place running. It was impractical to have all sit in meditation all day as there was upkeep and food needed. The practice of meditation while awake and doing chores was brought into practice. This practice was a supplement to the actual sitting meditation with the intent to find PRESENCE at all times throughout the day. Do not let your mind wander. Bring it forth to the present moment be it listening to another, focusing on a task, or going for a walk.


The simplicity of a spiritual life is available for anyone, no shaved heads required. It involves staying present, getting the mind under control, practicing love and compassion. Clear your mind….Chop wood, Carry Water.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Comics - Responding To Sexism

Comics - Responding To Sexism

I understand trying to make comics female friendly, but aren't you guys worried that you're going to lose your core audience which is male? In the X-books you've had more focus on the likes on these females like jean and kitty while it should be Cyclops who has been the star of the X-Men comics for years. What warrants these characters more page time than him? Jean and kitty are secondary characters. You guys listen too much to women bitching. They cause so much freakin drama in comicdom. -Anon




Wow.  you are the first person who I am kind of glad asked your question anonymously because I don’t want to know you.
As a reader of my work I want you to listen to me very carefully: you have major major issues. almost every line of your question reeks of complete misunderstanding of yourself as a man and of women in general.
It’s okay to find yourself more interested in something than others, of course it is,  it’s okay to like Cyclops more than Jean Grey, but for you to draw the line at women characters not being interesting to you because you are a man or that you think I am being manipulated by some bitching women is really out there.
And as a reader of the X-Men whose entire philosophy is about tolerance and understanding… you are missing the point.
-Brian Michael Bendis

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Life - Decide

Life - Decide

What would you choose?

I think it speaks hilariously to my personal dichotomy that I would either choose Escape or Dominion...

Mari and Raena brought up that Nakama would make an amazing film though (or television series).  I've actually begun sketching out ideas based on that now for a game too...

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Math - Blood Longsword

Math - Blood Longsword

Redditor SecretCoyote did the math.

The average man has 4 grams of iron in his blood.
http://www.irondisorders.org/how-much-iron-is-in-the-body/

According to Wikipedia, the average British longsword was between 1.1 and 1.8 kg. We'll use 1.45, the median value.
http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Longsword

Also according to Wikipedia, the carbon content of steel is anywhere between .002% and 2.1%. Averaged, the carbon percentage of steel is 1.051%, though I doubt the percentage was anything approaching consistent (if anyone has better numbers for that please share).
http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steel


So 1.45kg - (1.45kg * 1.051%) = 1.4347605kg of iron in the average longsword. At .004kg of iron in the average man, and assuming complete iron extraction from each corpse, forging a sword from blood-iron would have taken 358.69, or 359 dead men (far fewer than I expected, frankly).

TL;DR: at 359 humans, it's one damn expensive sword to make.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Writing - Luminary Memories

Writing - Luminary Memories

I am a wanderer.  Tracing barely remembered paths up and down back streets, through alleyways and down that dappled lane.  This wayward stroll, following vanishing friends and fading memories, the sounds of the past and moments gone.  We have all grown up, become other people and done other things.  The buildings are boarded over, replaced with fresh paint and new glass, the cars a shiny varnish, and what's left of a rainstorm drifts down the gutters with languidity.

A long hug, warm embrace and the ghost touch of lips on skin.

I remember the late nights, a drunken stumble and our loud laughter.  We were the kings and queens of our world, striding four abreast across this river of stilted concrete and crumbling stone.  We pushed our way through knee-high snow and blowing winds.  We strolled along waxing poetic, plying words to our whimsy as we debated the intricacies of terms and things barely known.

I remember the tea and music, of dancing and sweeping and joyous exaltation.  Of closing up shop and brewing another batch, we played keyboards and guitars, warrior musicians of a different age, sipping chai to the fading light until we closed the doors.  Another round of coffee for my brothers, the night is but young, and there are topics yet un-debated for our ripe minds to pick at.

I remember running through the streets, a superhero, the time an enemy.  Floods of people part and I yell "Sorry" behind me.  Bag bumps my hip, binder heavy in my hands.  The race across the streets from one show to another.  I chart the path I took that day with my eyes, see the crowds, the excitement; "Artist coming through!" a knowing smile, a call time that can't be missed.

The press of clay between fingers, muddy hands entwined as we folded pots in on themselves and laughed.  Smudged and dirty, trying to coax earth impossibly high and errantly thinner.  Painting glaze and imagining wonders and not children's toys.

Dancing, a swirl of bodies and sweat and warmth and love and the beat, the beat that rushes through our feet and moves us.  Moves us.  We can't help but drift stellar across the floor smiling at each other beneath lashes and long hair, fingers entwine, you grab my shirt and pull me where you will.

I remember a bridge, the open water, a rising sun and a belly full of donuts.  We climbed that mountain of steel and rivets, doing impossible things and wanting to see impossible sights.  We laughed, and ignored the scuff marks on our hands and the rips in our jeans.

We walked arm in arm, singing tunes and being children in a time of adulthood.  We whistled at each other and dissolved in a fit of helpless giggles.

Running out into a blizzard to get some ice cream.  We were young and silly and foolish.  We got frostbite for it.

Playing pingpong, crushing tiny plastic balls against the stonework in the summer air on the back of a loading bay, we would rush there and play a handful of games, paddles flying and keeping score.

A plate of nachos too big for all four of us to finish, a thing of ice and alcohol that we drank in the hot summer sun, wings and beer, late night pizza, bites of steak and chips and corn.  Green onion cakes on rainy summer days, a morning bagel and coffee to warm us up.

The smell of books, of meeting amidst the stacks and pointing out the covers and the names.  The swirl of colors and characters that danced on book jackets before our eyes, we flipped pages and watched words collide, meandering, imagining.

Open spaces and possibilities, with pinpoint lights and racks of steel.  With speakers high and seats down low.  The black decks a canvas for our ideas, our dreams and imaginations.  Our voices raised high, our hearts beat down low.  We were these gods of these empty buildings and spaces, between brick and concrete, building worlds with the flick of a wrist or a twist of the head, watching light and hearing sound expand, fill and explore.

I remember a bite of your sandwich.  And you stealing my fries to dip them in ketchup, and vinegar, and gravy.  You are weird.

A hacky-sack game in the shade.

A glass of lemonade so sour it made our mouths pucker.

Sitting in the grass watching a magician ply his trade while I signed your cast.

Our friends serenaded us with guitar and ukelele, with violin and keyboard, with a harmonica.  With spoons.

We propped ourselves up back to back and watched the world pass by.

I remember arms wide open and jubilation, yelling at the heavens.

I remember singing.

I remember loving.

I remember living.

I did not die that day on the open plains, waist deep in snow and storm, blowing wind and howling fury.

I did not die that day on the bridge of steel and iron, that colossus of earthwork that rises above the river.

I did not die that day in the open air, plummeting with the rush of earth and wind.

I did not die that day, with eyes slowly closing and with breath drifting from my lungs.  I did not die, surrounded by linens and cloth, feel the slowing of my heartbeat, and the darkness at the edges.  I did not die, with vermillion leaking out my veins and crystal falling from my eyes.

I did not die that day, I am here, remember, and live and still.

I hug you again, again, again, I crush you to me, and me to you, breathe in and know and remember and commit these thoughts forever and a day.

Again.  I hug you friend, again.  I live.  I remember.  I am here and the fading memories, they fade no more.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Quotes - Plato

Quotes - Plato

Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eye are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye. - Plato

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Play - Fluxx

Play - Fluxx

I once was taking care of a 7 year old, for like 15-20 minutes while her aunt cooked something in the kitchen. There was a Chinese checkers board, so we played that.

It wasn't feasible to play Chinese checkers properly, so I just let her dictate the rules. "Let's say you can jump like this". Okay fine. I followed the 'rules' and moved my marbles around the board according to her rules. I tried to get my marbles on the other end of the board, she just randomly moved the marbles around, sometimes playing my pieces.

Then she said "Lets throw the marbles at the board and try to get them to land in places". Okay, we did that for a while. So we did that. Then we made pictures with the marbles for a bit. I think even was able to add 'rules' of my own, like "bounce the marbles once before they land".

It was sort of an epiphany moment for me though. Because even though we played a lot of different games with the board, not once did we have a score, or a way to "Win". When kid's play with each other, they don't win or lose. They just play.

Don't play fluxx like it's a way to "beat" people, or even like it's a skill. Fluxx is a different sort of game. It's a Game that you just play. Bring to a restaurant with a friend. Have a conversation while you play. Don't try to win. Don't try to lose. Just play.

It's more like having a Frisbee or hacky sack with a circle of friends. No you don't get any points for doing tricks. There's no way to win. You can try to do tricks if you want. You can just pass it if you want. You can purposely throw the Frisbee poorly so your friend has to reach too far. You can try to land it on their head.

Whatever.

Play Fluxx like that.

Sometimes, for a bit, I might I try to make it so the rules are super complicated. Then maybe on a whim I'll make it simple. Then if I get bored I'll try to end the game. Or maybe I'll try to extend it. Maybe I'll try to get all food keepers. Maybe I'll try to get all the creepers. Maybe I'll try to give my friend all the creepers. Maybe I'll almost win, and then purposely not win.

Whatever.

It's just a way for you to interact with you're friends. Don't think too much about it. Don't try to win. Don't force anything. Just play.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Thoughts - Justice

Thoughts - Justice

We do not just defend the meek, the weak, or the disenfranchised.  We should strive to empower them that they might discern right from wrong, rise up and defend themselves from bullies, and take a controlling interest in their own destinies.

If we are forever defending, and not educating, are they not just trading one slavemaster for another?

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Quotes - Martha Graham - Doubt

Quotes - Martha Graham - Doubt

"There is no place for arrogance in the arts, but neither is there room for doubt or a perpetual need for affirmation. If you come to me with doubts about a particular move in a piece, or if you come to me and ask if what you've written has truth and power in it, these are doubts I can handle and respect. But if you come to me and moan about whether or not you really have a place in the dance or the theatre or in film, I'll be the first person to pack your bags and walk you to the door. You are either admitting that you lack the talent and the will, or you are just looking for some easy attention. I don't have time for that. The world doesn't have time for that. Believe in your worth and work with a will so that others will see it. That's how it is done; that's how it was always done." --Martha Graham


Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Writing - Dogs Don't Die

Writing - Dogs Don't Die

Some of you, particularly those who think they have recently lost a dog to “death”, don’t really understand this. I’ve had no desire to explain, but won’t be around forever and must. 

Dogs never die. 

They don’t know how to. They get tired, and very old, and their bones hurt. Of course they don’t die. If they did they would not want to always go for a walk, even long after their old bones say:” No, no, not a good idea. Let’s not go for a walk.” Nope, dogs always want to go for a walk. They might get one step before their aging tendons collapse them into a heap on the floor, but that’s what dogs are. They walk. 

It’s not that they dislike your company. On the contrary, a walk with you is all there is. Their boss, and the cacaphonic symphony of odor that the world is. Cat poop, another dog’s mark, a rotting chicken bone ( exultation), and you. That’s what makes their world perfect, and in a perfect world death has no place. 

However, dogs get very very sleepy. That’s the thing, you see. They don’t teach you that at the fancy university where they explain about quarks, gluons, and Keynesian economics. They know so much they forget that dogs never die. It’s a shame, really. Dogs have so much to offer and people just talk a lot. When you think your dog has died, it has just fallen asleep in your heart. And by the way, it is wagging it’s tail madly, you see, and that’s why your chest hurts so much and you cry all the time. Who would not cry with a happy dog wagging its tail in their chest. Ouch! Wap wap wap wap wap, that hurts. But they only wag when they wake up. That’s when they say: “Thanks Boss! Thanks for a warm place to sleep and always next to your heart, the best place.” 

When they first fall asleep, they wake up all the time, and that’s why, of course, you cry all the time. Wap, wap, wap. After a while they sleep more. (remember, a dog while is not a human while. You take your dog for walk, it’s a day full of adventure in an hour. Then you come home and it’s a week, well one of your days, but a week, really, before the dog gets another walk. No WONDER they love walks.) 

Anyway, like I was saying, they fall asleep in your heart, and when they wake up, they wag their tail. After a few dog years, they sleep for longer naps, and you would too. They were a GOOD DOG all their life, and you both know it. It gets tiring being a good dog all the time, particularly when you get old and your bones hurt and you fall on your face and don’t want to go outside to pee when it is raining but do anyway, because you are a good dog. 

So understand, after they have been sleeping in your heart, they will sleep longer and longer. But don’t get fooled. They are not “dead.” There’s no such thing, really. They are sleeping in your heart, and they will wake up, usually when you’re not expecting it. It’s just who they are. I feel sorry for people who don’t have dogs sleeping in their heart. 

You’ve missed so much.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Poetry - Dark Sonnet - By Neil Gaiman

Poetry - Dark Sonnet - By Neil Gaiman

Dark Sonnet by Neil Gaiman


I don’t think that I’ve been in love as such,
although I liked a few folk pretty well.
Love must be vaster than my smiles or touch, for brave men died and empires rose and fell.
For love, girls follow boys to foreign lands, and men have followed women into hell.
In plays and poems someone understands, there’s something makes us more than blood and bone.
And more than biological demands for me love’s like the wind unseen, unknown.
I see the trees are bending where it’s been.
I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown.
I really don’t know what "I love you" means.
I think it means don’t leave me here alone...

Sunday, April 27, 2014

Game Design - Ludum Dare 48

Game Design - Ludum Dare 48

Quick sample of the writing I've been working on for Ludum Dare this weekend:

In darkness and silence,
A splintered faith moves without direction.

There, a ruin of stone and metal,
...and death.

Time drags eternal, and the rain stops
The land runs over, green to grey
and grey to black.

And the splintered faith cares not,
for worldly matters.
Deep beneath the nowhere.

Until it found a breath...

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Life - Change

Life - Change

Sometimes you close your eyes, and you linger there for just a little bit too long.  A moment too long.  And when you open your eyes again, everything has whirled round.

And everything is different.

And you don't know how you got there.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Writing - A Box

Writing - A Box

Upon coming of age, every human being is given a box. The box can be opened only three times, and the only certainty is that opening will radically change your life. You are on your deathbed when you decide to open your box for the first time.

Writing - Potoo

Writing - Potoo

Potoo.  Space.  Writing prompt from Rachel.


Friday, April 18, 2014

Art - Hobbes and Bacon

Art - Hobbes and Bacon

I just had to share these the other day, because they are so wonderfully beautiful.  I'm a sucker for nostalgia, but it tugs at my childhood heart strings something fierce...they don't teach you a lot in school about character or growing up, but these hit the spot wonderfully.

http://imgur.com/tUzAL

Enjoy.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Reblog - A Gay Dad's Requiem on the Death of Fred Phelps

Reblog - A Gay Dad's Requiem on the Death of Fred Phelps

This is a reblog from http://evolequals.com/2014/03/16/a-gay-dads-requiem-on-the-death-of-fred-phelps/

I have been fighting for LGBT rights for a long, long time.  Fred Phelps was not always in that fight, but it feels like he was.  It feels like he has always been and always will be anti-gay hatred personified.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Life - Onism

Life - Onism

n. the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time, which is like standing in front of the departures screen at an airport, flickering over with strange place names like other people’s passwords, each representing one more thing you’ll never get to see before you die—and all because, as the arrow on the map helpfully points out, you are here.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Poetry - A Boy Has A Right To Dream

Poetry - A Boy Has A Right To Dream

A boy has the right to dream.
Endless Possibilities stretch out before him.
What awaits him down the path he will choose?
The boy doesn't know.
Before he knows it, the boy has become an adult...
... and he learns what he was able to make of himself.
Joy and Sadness accompany this.
When this happens, does he bid his past farewell in his
heart?
Once a Boy Becomes an adult, he cannot go back to being a
boy.
The boy is now a man.
Only one thing can be said: A boy has the right to dream.
Endless possibilities stretch out before him
All men were once boys.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Liminality of Death - Light

Liminality of Death - Light



My friend,

we … are going home

I close your eyes now

we are going. Home.

Home.


Monday, February 10, 2014

Liminality of Death - Darkness

Liminality of Death - Darkness



My friend
you are a lost thing


But it need not
be terrifying


No color
no substance
emptiness


You are not stopped
by anything,


You are now at neither
a beginning
nor an end


Death has happened
It will happen to everyone

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Liminality of Death - Water

Liminality of Death - Water



My friend
you are feeling light


The wind element in your body
drifts away on the wings of crows
to plummet and become rain


Be rain, fall
and fly


Your spirit is light.
It has no anchors


Every thought you have now,
has a kind of power


Don’t pity yourself
Don’t make yourself small


You want things,

your things.

But they are no use now
and you are no use
to them.


Release them
and yourself

Liminality of Death - Wind

Liminality of Death - Wind

My friend
you are feeling heavy


The fire element in your body
burns itself out
and drifts on the free air

No more external sounds
No more internal sounds

You have no saliva
No sweat


Now you feel cold
You have a sense of far off
of Vastness


You see fireflies or sparks
in the smoke rising


You can’t get enough air
you are become a hollowness

Quotes - Martha Graham

Quotes - Martha Graham



There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. ... No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others. 
 - Martha Graham

Thursday, February 6, 2014

Liminality of Death - Fire

Liminality of Death - Fire

My friend,
you are feeling heavy

The earth element in your body
is igniting and burning

Your breath forms soundless words
the mind forms wordless images
the images shatter

Your mind is losing its hold
You grab at this thing
then you reach for that thing

Blood slows
Faintness

Logic, and the chair
and the table
and the air dissolve.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Liminality of Death - Earth

Liminality of Death - Earth

My friend,
You are feeling heavy,


The time has come
for you to start out.


You can no longer open
or close your eyes


Blue, yellow, red, green
are turning to white.


And white to grey
and grey to black.


You try to remember
who you love.


But your memories,
are fading embers.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Liminality of Death - Introduction

Liminality of Death - Introduction

Liminality of Death is the new game I'm working on, here's a taste of the introduction.  I've been researching and inspired by the Bardo Thodol for this game.

You, oh you

You who have come

to this place

Sisters, brothers, friends

This person is dying

He has not chosen

to do so

She is suffering greatly

He has no home

She has no friends

He is falling, as from a cliff

a great height

She is entering

a forest of strangeness.



Monday, February 3, 2014

Inspiration - Table 9

Inspiration - Table 9

Sometimes doing the right thing does not make everyone happy -- just the people who need it the most.

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Inspiration - Teaching

Inspiration - Teaching

This read was inspiring.  Just really really cool.  Teachers are awesome.


Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Monday, January 20, 2014

Conversation - Lost

Conversation - Lost

Ava: No one is lost, so have some fun.

Me: What if we're all lost Ava?  What if we are all lost.

Ava: Oh God you're right!  Correction: We're all lost, so have some fun.

Thursday, January 16, 2014

Writing - I Almost

Writing - I Almost

I almost clicked on your name tonight.  I saw you pop up for but a scant second the first time in a while I had caught it.  The green blinking button of 'available' taunted me on.  I almost clicked on your name tonight.  But I didn't.

I didn't because I didn't have anything to say.  I didn't because I had nothing to talk about.  I didn't because I imagined you would not be interested in anything I had been doing.  That we had become such different people, living different lives.  That what we remembered of one another was from a decade hence.  I didn't click on your name because I didn't want to have to explain.  I didn't want to sort out whether or how much joy I should convey, how much happiness.

I didn't because I don't know how honest I can, or should be with you.

I didn't click on your name because we haven't spoken in forever, we haven't left one another a message in...years.  We do this strange little dance around each other on our birthdays, leave cookie cutter messages and cookie cutter 'like' clicks.  I wonder if you are caught up with the whirlwind that is my world.  I wonder if I'm caught up with yours.  I can't be.  We haven't spoken.

I didn't click on your name because that's energy, to reconnect.  To hear the stories about.  To hear you talk about your dog or your cat, your girlfriend or your boyfriend.  Your wife.  Your husband.  Your son.  Or daughter.

Or your new car.

I didn't click on your name because you found me boring, a decade before.  You found me boring because I wasn't worth getting to know, in your mind at least.  Maybe that's still true.  Maybe you'd still find me boring.  That's alright.  I understand that.

I didn't click on your name, because I'm afraid the sound of your laugh might not be the same as I remember it.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Thoughts - Writing

Thoughts - Writing

We write for but one person.  And it's a comedy when they know.  And a tragedy when they don't.
-Me

Thoughts - Design vs Art in Video Games

Thoughts - Design vs Art in Video Games

I've been thinking and writing a lot about design and art.  Not in a particularly adversarial way either, but in the tail end of my degree now, I cannot help but think of the two as being somewhat opposed.  Design, as I have often seen it can encompass some art, but the main focus of design is to create function.  Design is always purposeful, it's usually related to interpreting function, it is premeditated (or should be at least), it has a sense of intention.

Friday, January 10, 2014

Thoughts - Alone in the Universe

Thoughts - Alone in the Universe

I think...the thought that humanity is the only thing in the universe, that we are completely alone out there is one of the most terrifying things.

What why?  Why do you think it's terrifying to be alone?

Comics - Camp Weedonwancha

Comics - Camp Weedonwancha

I'm not really sure why, but the newest Camp Weedonwancha comic for yesterday really struck a chord with me.  I was thinking about it for a while all day today, even tweeted creator Katie Rice about it and expressed my admiration.

You can see it here.

http://www.campcomic.com/comic/55

It took me a little bit, but I think I understand why now.  It's a laugh, a poop joke, and then something serene and beautiful to balance it all out.

Maybe that's a metaphor for our lives.