I was driving to work today; a cloudy day. The light was turning red, so I started to slow down.
Looking to my right, I saw a man in a neon-green t-shirt sitting in front of the tanning salon. The light turned red, so I stopped.
He was smoking a cigarette and staring across the road. A bald man, with a shaggy, grey beard. The light was still red.
I kept looking. The man took a puff of his cigarette, and then ran his other hand through what was left of his hair; an exasperated look on his face during this process. The light was still red.
The man kept doing this pattern, with very little pause in between: Puff, run hand through hair, puff, run hand through hair, etc.
The light turned green, and I started to pull away. In my rear-view mirror, I could still see this man, doing this same pattern.
Fin
Monday, June 2, 2014
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Lords of Waterdeep
I don't know what to write about today. I've been playing lots of board games lately, so I am going to write about one of those. Lords of Waterdeep has become a favorite. It's a simple enough game. The players are cast in the roles of the secret Lords of this fantasy city known as Waterdeep. In the lore of the setting it is named for it's large natural harbor. Each player is given a number of agents to do their bidding throughout the city. So each round the players will send these agents to different parts of the city to recruit warriors, rogues, clerics, and wizard units to help complete quests for the Lords. The quests all have a setting specific flavor, like Domesticate Owlbears or Donating to the Priests of Oghma. Each one would require different combinations of the units to complete. The Domesticate Owlbears quest for example would require a warrior and some wizards; since Owlbears are dangerous magical creatures. Whereas Donating to the Priests of Oghma would require some clerics instead. Each quest has a Victory point total and some times additional other rewards. As your Lord completes quests you score these Victory points. Whoever has the most victory points after 7 or 8 rounds wins.
But, there is so much more. The different parts of the city you send your agents to recruit at are represented by famous locations in Waterdeep. Rogues are recruited two at a time from the Grinning Lion Tavern, while Wizards only come one at a time from the Blackstaff Tower. Once an agent has claimed one of these buildings, other Lords are unable to claim them without some special ability. In addition to these unit recruitment buildings there are several other special buildings as well. Waterdeep Castle for example can be claimed by one of your agents to claim the rights to place your Agent first on the following turn, and claim an Intrigue card.
Intrigue cards are special cards you can play when your Agents claim one of the three spots at Waterdeep Harbor. The cards themselves often have special abilities that let you interact with the other players. Stealing their accumulated units before they can score a quest with them. The fun Bidding War card lets you draw four Quests and pick one and pass them remainder around the table until everyone gets one. The last guy getting the one no one else wanted of course. As if playing Intrigue cards weren't awesome enough Agents assigned to Waterdeep Harbor get to be reassigned at the end of the round to any other unclaimed building. This is always a calculated risk, as the building you want to claim could have been snatched up while you played your Intrigue card, but before you can reassign the Agent.
Additionally, there is the ability to build additional buildings. A Builder's Hall building can be claimed by an Agent. The Builder's Hall always contains three buildings to choose from. Each will have a gold piece cost, and the player must be able to afford the Building that the choose. (There are other buildings for gaining gold as well) Once purchased a Building is placed on the board with the purchasing Lord's marker to indicate that Lord is the owner. Each of these buildings has a resource listed that will be gained when an Agent is used to claim it during a turn like any other building. They also have a separate resource that the owner of the building gets if an opponent's Agent claims the building.
It is getting late, so I am going to wrap this up now. If you haven't played this game you should, it is a lot of fun and I highly recommend it.
Comic Three
This comic was generated by pairing a random line of text from a table with a random image from a directory. Clicking on the link above will take you to the website for this 'avant-garde' project. Some comics the website generates might be unfunny, but there are roughly 9000 different comic combinations (and growing) and that is part of the fun!
Comic Two
This comic was generated by pairing a random line of text from a table with a random image from a directory. Clicking on the link above will take you to the website for this 'avant-garde' project. Some comics the website generates might be unfunny, but there are roughly 9000 different comic combinations (and growing) and that is part of the fun!
June 2: The Itch
One of the very few things I'm good at is not itching mosquito bites. I really want to start writing short stories and I will. I want to maybe even put out some of my horrible poetry. But this 3 pages in the morning thing is hard for me because I feel like something with a coherent storyline deserves a little more attention than the type and paste methodology that I am currently employing. I really was going to do it today but I got out of bed this morning and the air was still cool and had a slightly wet crispness to it. I hit my snooze timer for 5 minutes and only activated it twice. When I got out of bed I had to carefully walk around the 2 sleeping children that had invaded our room some time in the night when the electricity when out and the air conditioner and fan also stopped. Sometimes I think they are just lying in bed waiting for the power to trip so that they can come inside and sleep on our floor. I walked out to the living room and felt as though I was actually pushing my body into a wall of hot jello. My unshowered body just started to itch and sweat and I sat out here on the porch with hardly a breeze in the world. Already at 8 in the morning the sweat is running down my back and sides and my thighs are quickly becoming quite tropical where the laptop rests.
Last night while watching Gravity with my young, hot wife I received 5 bites of some nefarious creature creating a consolation that brings to mind a long stemmed martini glass. Americans can complain all they want about mosquitoes being the state bird of Minnesota but American Mosquitoes produce a byte that itches and as long as you can keep your grubby fingernails away from it for 15 minutes you are fine, until you get dressed or bump it on the stucco wall of your friend's house, in which case it will blaze up in an itch inferno once again. Let me tell you, dear reader, that this is a blessing, not a burden. Enough discomfort to remind one that one is alive without any long term commitments of that sometimes odious reality. Certain times of the year the South Indian mosquito is similar. Certain times of the year a bite is only as bad as the dengue that it brings. But at other times of the year the bites itch for days with no relief. I don't know if it is a change in curry, a change in the grass the buffaloes eat, a different species of parasite, but it makes the process of being bitten much worse. The extra great news is that possibly due to the strange rain we have had through the year or my lessening tolerance due to extended exposure but these more aggravating bites are the ones that currently are residing in an alcoholic star pattern on my right forearm. Between the heat and the incessant itching, the tickling trickle of sweat droplets running down my back I don't feel the mood to attempt to sculpt something with quality, to craft the work of a wordsmith this morning. Which brings me to an interesting thought altogether different and hopefully distracting from my current physical discomfort.
If anyone knows me and has discussed creating stuff for any length of time with me they will know that Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance has had a profound effect on my life. Really changed the way that I look at some of the things I do with more attention to detail and creating art in the traditionally non-art fields. Wiring a dryer, writing a SQL query, spreading butter on bread. What is interesting is that in the dual collision of the Back to Work podcast I've been listening to and re-reading ZATAOMM for the nth time I have less desire to intake other people's stuff and really want to spend more time creating my stuff. I was listening to an interview with Trevor Talbert (Link?) and he was talking about what graphic novels and music he really enjoys. He said recently that he realized that if he wants to optimize his creative energy he had to spend less time taking in the created works of other people. This guy is one of the greatest American pipemakers of our generation as well as an illustrator and other side projects. At the time I had an internal stoppage when I heard that. I thought that this would cause a strange sort of creative incest, a self focused tunnel where you slowly lost your mind pursuing this art that no one else would recognize as such. Where would your inspiration come from? This has been residing in my subconscious now for a few weeks when I listened to the “Inspiration episode” on BTW.
I usually have a strange reaction to when I know something and somebody tells me what I already knew. Somebody verbalizing what has been forming in my mind and I knew at a deeper level but did not know it in my conscious mind. For me those things are the things I tend to revolt against initially until someone else crystallizes them with words. Another person's work may inspire my inner person: make me think new thoughts and feel new feelings. This is crucial to be a healthy human being. But that kind of inspiration does 2 things to me. 1 is that I tend to research their work and get lost in the aethernet. I facebook their work and get lost in the aethernet. Or I allow the beauty of their work to create a feeling of “I could never do something like that”-ism and instead of inspiration it constipates the creative process. The other is that I cannot take in other people's creativity well and create well simultaneously. I am simply too human to do more than 1 thing at a time. Now I could listen to new music while I carve a briar, I could play a film while I turn a pen, but I will not do either of the two things well. In face I will do both of them horribly. Merlin Mann said, “The difference between people who create really cool stuff isn't that they live in San Francisco, the difference is that they make it,” more or less. I cannot create stuff if I hide in other people's work. I think I should spend some of my time absorbing new things. My unbounded curiosity has helped me become the person I am today. But if I do not sit down and shut out those things and make something than I will keep not making things.
I subscribe to about 50 different YouTube channels. From miniature gaming to blacksmithing to motorcycles to Tiny Desk Concerts I love the way YouTube allows you to learn things in a effortlessly multifaceted manner. One of the things that bothered me everyday was coming home and trying to catch up on all the videos that have been constructed in the last 24 hours. I watched a great video for an hour last night about a man creating a Damascus straight edge razor. I love watching craftspeople at work, which YouTube and vimeo are both great for. But I will never smith my own straight edge if I just watch you tube videos about it and more importantly I won't write and finish my sewing projects if I'm daydreaming about someday getting the equipment to learn how to be a blacksmith.
I love how the contributors to this blog are really approaching this morning pages exercise with zeal. We actually have content! It is amazing how inspirational it is to see someone else actually create something and do it then yourself. I sat down to write a short story that would change your life and make you cry but I'm sweaty and my arm itches. But I still sat down and created something. And you should too.
Last night while watching Gravity with my young, hot wife I received 5 bites of some nefarious creature creating a consolation that brings to mind a long stemmed martini glass. Americans can complain all they want about mosquitoes being the state bird of Minnesota but American Mosquitoes produce a byte that itches and as long as you can keep your grubby fingernails away from it for 15 minutes you are fine, until you get dressed or bump it on the stucco wall of your friend's house, in which case it will blaze up in an itch inferno once again. Let me tell you, dear reader, that this is a blessing, not a burden. Enough discomfort to remind one that one is alive without any long term commitments of that sometimes odious reality. Certain times of the year the South Indian mosquito is similar. Certain times of the year a bite is only as bad as the dengue that it brings. But at other times of the year the bites itch for days with no relief. I don't know if it is a change in curry, a change in the grass the buffaloes eat, a different species of parasite, but it makes the process of being bitten much worse. The extra great news is that possibly due to the strange rain we have had through the year or my lessening tolerance due to extended exposure but these more aggravating bites are the ones that currently are residing in an alcoholic star pattern on my right forearm. Between the heat and the incessant itching, the tickling trickle of sweat droplets running down my back I don't feel the mood to attempt to sculpt something with quality, to craft the work of a wordsmith this morning. Which brings me to an interesting thought altogether different and hopefully distracting from my current physical discomfort.
If anyone knows me and has discussed creating stuff for any length of time with me they will know that Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance has had a profound effect on my life. Really changed the way that I look at some of the things I do with more attention to detail and creating art in the traditionally non-art fields. Wiring a dryer, writing a SQL query, spreading butter on bread. What is interesting is that in the dual collision of the Back to Work podcast I've been listening to and re-reading ZATAOMM for the nth time I have less desire to intake other people's stuff and really want to spend more time creating my stuff. I was listening to an interview with Trevor Talbert (Link?) and he was talking about what graphic novels and music he really enjoys. He said recently that he realized that if he wants to optimize his creative energy he had to spend less time taking in the created works of other people. This guy is one of the greatest American pipemakers of our generation as well as an illustrator and other side projects. At the time I had an internal stoppage when I heard that. I thought that this would cause a strange sort of creative incest, a self focused tunnel where you slowly lost your mind pursuing this art that no one else would recognize as such. Where would your inspiration come from? This has been residing in my subconscious now for a few weeks when I listened to the “Inspiration episode” on BTW.
I usually have a strange reaction to when I know something and somebody tells me what I already knew. Somebody verbalizing what has been forming in my mind and I knew at a deeper level but did not know it in my conscious mind. For me those things are the things I tend to revolt against initially until someone else crystallizes them with words. Another person's work may inspire my inner person: make me think new thoughts and feel new feelings. This is crucial to be a healthy human being. But that kind of inspiration does 2 things to me. 1 is that I tend to research their work and get lost in the aethernet. I facebook their work and get lost in the aethernet. Or I allow the beauty of their work to create a feeling of “I could never do something like that”-ism and instead of inspiration it constipates the creative process. The other is that I cannot take in other people's creativity well and create well simultaneously. I am simply too human to do more than 1 thing at a time. Now I could listen to new music while I carve a briar, I could play a film while I turn a pen, but I will not do either of the two things well. In face I will do both of them horribly. Merlin Mann said, “The difference between people who create really cool stuff isn't that they live in San Francisco, the difference is that they make it,” more or less. I cannot create stuff if I hide in other people's work. I think I should spend some of my time absorbing new things. My unbounded curiosity has helped me become the person I am today. But if I do not sit down and shut out those things and make something than I will keep not making things.
I subscribe to about 50 different YouTube channels. From miniature gaming to blacksmithing to motorcycles to Tiny Desk Concerts I love the way YouTube allows you to learn things in a effortlessly multifaceted manner. One of the things that bothered me everyday was coming home and trying to catch up on all the videos that have been constructed in the last 24 hours. I watched a great video for an hour last night about a man creating a Damascus straight edge razor. I love watching craftspeople at work, which YouTube and vimeo are both great for. But I will never smith my own straight edge if I just watch you tube videos about it and more importantly I won't write and finish my sewing projects if I'm daydreaming about someday getting the equipment to learn how to be a blacksmith.
I love how the contributors to this blog are really approaching this morning pages exercise with zeal. We actually have content! It is amazing how inspirational it is to see someone else actually create something and do it then yourself. I sat down to write a short story that would change your life and make you cry but I'm sweaty and my arm itches. But I still sat down and created something. And you should too.
Comic One
This comic was generated by pairing a random line of text from a table with a random image from a directory. Clicking on the link above will take you to the website for this 'avant-garde' project. Some comics the website generates might be unfunny, but there are roughly 9000 different comic combinations (and growing) and that is part of the fun!
Rain on the Streets
Rain falls. Each drop drums on my galvanized soul, leaving a spot of rust where it falls. As I walk through the night, steam rises from the gutter like the ghosts of my troubled past, illuminated by the harsh, judgmental glare of the streetlights above. The pitter-patter on the pavement fills my ears, blocking out what joyful thoughts I have left.
I am tired, tired of trudging though this rain that soaks me to my soul, and the night that crushes my spirit on the pavement. This continued purgatory wearies me to the bone, and I scarce have the strength to continue my travels. But I carry on, regardless, like the inexorable march of time.
At last I see my destination. I duck into an alley to meet my contact. He steps out from behind a dumpster and gives me the sign. Through the dark rain, I can barely make out his grey features from above his coat.
"Why have you come to me?" he asks.
"I seek respite from my past." I answer.
"Why you want to escape it so badly? You know nothing I can do will be pleasant."
"I don't care. I have committed heinous crimes. I have betrayed, lied, stolen, killed. My friends are all gone because of my betrayal, I can no longer live with the thought of their shocked and accusing stares in my mind."
"Very well. I cannot turn back the past. It was too late as soon as you committed the crime. However, I can do something to help."
He pauses. I hold my breath waiting for him to continue. Did he have what I was seeking?
After 20 seconds, he starts speaking again. "I can give you a new start. While you won't ever forget what you have done, it will seem a bit...more distant. Bearable."
He continues "I must warn you, this will be an ordeal. A trial by fire, if you will."
"What must I do?" I ask.
"You must leave. Exile yourself. Leave everything, including your very self, behind."
"How do I do that?"
He hands me small box. It is made of opaque white glass and is slightly heavy.
I take the box. "What do I do with this?"
He answers "There is a dropbox at the end of the street you were on. Put this in the dropbox, and you will be able to carry on with your life from that point."
He continues "However, if you fail, it will be the end of you."
I start a bit. Surely I want the reward from this, but his warning gave me pause. The end of me?
However, after thinking about it, I agree. "Yes, I will do this."
He nods, and the turns around and walks into the depths of the alley, disappearing.
I turn around and walk back into the street. It is raining even heavier now, and the spray obscures the ground, forming a twinkling layer from the streetlight's glare. Over the roar of the rain, I can hear distant rumbles of thunder.
However, filled with hope, I start walking briskly down the street. I can already see a dead-end sign in the distance.
I increase my pace. Steam rises from my face as I start breathing hard from the effort. I carry the box in both hands, keeping it as still as possible.
Then, with a bang, the streetlights turn off, stopping me where I stand. I can see only the blackness of the storm, and hear only the roar of the rain. Carefully, I edge myself forward, feeling for obstacles that could trip me up and cause me to fall.
After proceeding like this for some time, I notice another sound on the edge of my hearing. As it grows louder I recognize the sound of screaming, of ignored pleading for mercy, and of the cries of the betrayed. The din envelops me as it intensifies, rising above the sound of the rain. I keep moving, trying without avail to block out the sounds of my past.
After inching forward despite the din, I notice that the rain that is soaking me is getting hotter. Soon enough, the drops hiss as they boil down on me. The hissing of the rain adds a background of snakes to the cries of my victims. The rain burns like molten lead when it falls on my skin, causing my vision of the darkness to nova with the scarlet of agony. Screaming from torment into the storm, I press on unsteadily but carefully.
After several more minutes of the tortuous boiling rain, I notice that the box is growing heavier. What was once a like a small bag of flour was now like a box of lead shot. I strain with all my might to maintain my grip, hoping and praying with all my soul that I will feel the curb at the end of the street with each next step. As the box grows even move heavy, my vision begins to darken even through the pain and burden. I cannot carry on any further, and the box slips from my grasp.
As I watch, the box starts to glow as it falls to the ground as slow as a feather through the rapidly rising terror. As it hastens toward its meeting with the pavement, a thought enters my mind "Better no hope than false hope." And finally, over the din of the rain and my haunting memories, I can clearly hear the box shatter like a crystal wineglass as it contacts the ground, bursting into a thousand shards that shimmer like the cold void of the midnight sky. From that point, a darkness even darker than the blackness of the rainstorm rushes toward me. All sound is muffled out as the void embraces me. Then I can see a light from the source of the darkness approaching me.
I open my eyes to find myself on a wooden platform. It is a clear day, and the sun is breaking over the horizon to the east. I feel a rough rope around my neck, and cold steel surrounding my wrists and ankles. I hear a voice "Have you any last words?"
I say, hoarsely "I could never clean the blood on my hands. God help me, I am so sorry."
The voice says "Very well." I await my fate with bated breath. Then, I hear a bang, and the world falls out from under me.
I am tired, tired of trudging though this rain that soaks me to my soul, and the night that crushes my spirit on the pavement. This continued purgatory wearies me to the bone, and I scarce have the strength to continue my travels. But I carry on, regardless, like the inexorable march of time.
At last I see my destination. I duck into an alley to meet my contact. He steps out from behind a dumpster and gives me the sign. Through the dark rain, I can barely make out his grey features from above his coat.
"Why have you come to me?" he asks.
"I seek respite from my past." I answer.
"Why you want to escape it so badly? You know nothing I can do will be pleasant."
"I don't care. I have committed heinous crimes. I have betrayed, lied, stolen, killed. My friends are all gone because of my betrayal, I can no longer live with the thought of their shocked and accusing stares in my mind."
"Very well. I cannot turn back the past. It was too late as soon as you committed the crime. However, I can do something to help."
He pauses. I hold my breath waiting for him to continue. Did he have what I was seeking?
After 20 seconds, he starts speaking again. "I can give you a new start. While you won't ever forget what you have done, it will seem a bit...more distant. Bearable."
He continues "I must warn you, this will be an ordeal. A trial by fire, if you will."
"What must I do?" I ask.
"You must leave. Exile yourself. Leave everything, including your very self, behind."
"How do I do that?"
He hands me small box. It is made of opaque white glass and is slightly heavy.
I take the box. "What do I do with this?"
He answers "There is a dropbox at the end of the street you were on. Put this in the dropbox, and you will be able to carry on with your life from that point."
He continues "However, if you fail, it will be the end of you."
I start a bit. Surely I want the reward from this, but his warning gave me pause. The end of me?
However, after thinking about it, I agree. "Yes, I will do this."
He nods, and the turns around and walks into the depths of the alley, disappearing.
I turn around and walk back into the street. It is raining even heavier now, and the spray obscures the ground, forming a twinkling layer from the streetlight's glare. Over the roar of the rain, I can hear distant rumbles of thunder.
However, filled with hope, I start walking briskly down the street. I can already see a dead-end sign in the distance.
I increase my pace. Steam rises from my face as I start breathing hard from the effort. I carry the box in both hands, keeping it as still as possible.
Then, with a bang, the streetlights turn off, stopping me where I stand. I can see only the blackness of the storm, and hear only the roar of the rain. Carefully, I edge myself forward, feeling for obstacles that could trip me up and cause me to fall.
After proceeding like this for some time, I notice another sound on the edge of my hearing. As it grows louder I recognize the sound of screaming, of ignored pleading for mercy, and of the cries of the betrayed. The din envelops me as it intensifies, rising above the sound of the rain. I keep moving, trying without avail to block out the sounds of my past.
After inching forward despite the din, I notice that the rain that is soaking me is getting hotter. Soon enough, the drops hiss as they boil down on me. The hissing of the rain adds a background of snakes to the cries of my victims. The rain burns like molten lead when it falls on my skin, causing my vision of the darkness to nova with the scarlet of agony. Screaming from torment into the storm, I press on unsteadily but carefully.
After several more minutes of the tortuous boiling rain, I notice that the box is growing heavier. What was once a like a small bag of flour was now like a box of lead shot. I strain with all my might to maintain my grip, hoping and praying with all my soul that I will feel the curb at the end of the street with each next step. As the box grows even move heavy, my vision begins to darken even through the pain and burden. I cannot carry on any further, and the box slips from my grasp.
As I watch, the box starts to glow as it falls to the ground as slow as a feather through the rapidly rising terror. As it hastens toward its meeting with the pavement, a thought enters my mind "Better no hope than false hope." And finally, over the din of the rain and my haunting memories, I can clearly hear the box shatter like a crystal wineglass as it contacts the ground, bursting into a thousand shards that shimmer like the cold void of the midnight sky. From that point, a darkness even darker than the blackness of the rainstorm rushes toward me. All sound is muffled out as the void embraces me. Then I can see a light from the source of the darkness approaching me.
I open my eyes to find myself on a wooden platform. It is a clear day, and the sun is breaking over the horizon to the east. I feel a rough rope around my neck, and cold steel surrounding my wrists and ankles. I hear a voice "Have you any last words?"
I say, hoarsely "I could never clean the blood on my hands. God help me, I am so sorry."
The voice says "Very well." I await my fate with bated breath. Then, I hear a bang, and the world falls out from under me.
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