Giving it Away

I write Facebook statuses when I ought to write blog posts.  My little nuggets of snark and brilliance (Snilliance?  Brark?) are usually wrung out responding to a political picture or a photograph of a friend diligently consuming an entire box of crayons.  I hadn’t considered this until I read a facebook status concerning the origins of Christmas traditions. Here's the transcript from the Thought-o-matic 4000:

I love Chritmas!

This is a cool academically minded person, I should join the discussion

I don’t really care where the traditions come from, but I do like the traditions

What traditions do I like?

*typing* I'm interested in holidays and traditions from an academic point of view, but usually the things that are most important to me are important because of the effect they have had on my personal life.  The reindeer and evergreen wreaths and bright halogen Christmas lights and Christmas Eve church service singing the alto line of "Silent Night" with my mother are the reasons that I-

At this point, the conductor on my train of thought threw the e-break (yes, that makes sense, quiet you).  I was noticing a few things about my status comment.  A) this is kind of ridiculously long, and B) this is the exact same process I use when I write a post.  In fact, my first instinct when I thought of that was to write a facebook status about how I never write blog posts.

Let’s back up before the Inception jokes begin.

I’ve been blessed to take a creative writing course with Pearls this semester.  She’s a wonderful lady, with a bachelors of creative writing out of New York, a head full of poetry and images, and the delightful inability to stay on task.  Her class has become something of an English major self-help group, with students derailing conversation into the terrifying abyss of their future and asking how we can become marketable to hiring agencies.  Pearls has done wonders to massage away the tensions of unworthiness and defeatism that inflict of the liberal arts major in all of us.

During one such self-help session, a girl in my class asked about when she should share her work.  The idea was alien to me: I was likely to blurt out my thoughts or concepts full SECONDS after they had occurred to me.  This strange young girl was waiting weeks, even months before even mentioning to those closest to her.

Pearls response shocked me further: wait until you publish to share it.  In her eyes, the best time for your family to discover that you had written a novel was by spewing fairly traded coffee onto the cover and upsetting the shop cat when they found it in a used bookstore, five years later.  I had always thought that sharing and collaborating were natural parts of the creative process.  But here was Pearls’, Goddess of the Written Word, descended upon me from the holiest realms of New York and tenure, telling me that this was the last thing that I should do.

I was enraged by this.  Well, maybe not enraged, but "mildly put off" seemed like a pathetic way to start a paragraph.  What was the goal of writing, if not to share with an audience?  Text was, after all, a form of communication, and communication cannot exist without both a speaker and a listener (you could argue that the speaker can also act as the listener, but we already chased out the half-formed Inception jokes with a ratty old broom, so let’s not go there).  Even my little facebook statuses, my half-formed novels, and my rotten poetry existed for the sake of sharing an idea with someone else. 

Thankfully, Pearls mended her advice: you HAVE to share your writing with someone, eventually (excepting truly personal works, diaries, etc, etc, you contrary people need to just calm down).  Pearls shared a story about a man that was so overly protective of his work that he never managed to fulfill his dream of being published because he was afraid of the editing his publishers would do.  “There is a time and a place to share your work,” she said, “but hold onto it for a while for God’s sake.  Take your time.  Let your ideas grow a little before you ask someone for their opinions.

That’s when it dawned on me.  The facebook statuses and snarled masses of notes that I call my “novels” were all only babies.  Newly hatched chicks, slimy and covered in bits of calcified exowomb, unable to open their bulbous creepy eyes to take in the world for themselves.  My ideas had hardly developed and yet I was thrusting them, squalling in terror, to my friends and family, asking them all how they would shape this concept, stoke the fires of life.  My ideas hadn’t had any time with me, to hold them close and play with them, to see the strange new directions they might turn.  Many had the potential to grow and fly, but I had to nurture them first.  Give them time, let them stretch their wings.

So next time I have the impulse to write a facebook status, I’ll have to ask myself why I’m writing it.  Am I sharing a frivolous tidbit for other’s enjoyment?  Or am I casting the seeds of my imagination, malformed and premature, for the entire world to see?

Don't Starve - A Game Review

I will not play Don’t Starve.

I will not play Don’t Starve until my Prospectus is done.

I will not play Don’t Starve until I have worked on my homework for another class

I think we have a winner.

Don’t Starve is a wilderness survival game that fulfills pretty much everything I’ve been craving from gameplay lately.  You start as a little wild haired man in a macabre wilderness, where your only goal is to live as long as possible until you inevitably die.  You can set traps for rabbits, pick berry bushes, chop down trees for firewood when the sneaky creepy darkness of nightfall, and fend off a small host of spiders that are themselves attempting to not starve.  You can use materials such as sticks, grass, and flint to make torches, mining picks, axes, and a whole host of other objects and tools that are listed on the left toolbar.  So far, this may sound a lot like other wilderness survival games (such as Terraria or Minecraft) but what really sets Don’t Starve apart is a unique item that you can build early on: The Science Machine.

As you progress through the game, you can dump unwanted resources into the Science Machine to gain Idea Points.  These points can be used to unlock new inventions, starting with hammers and bug nets, and going all the way up to Alchemy engines.  The best part about Idea Points is that once you inevitably die, these points carry over to your next play through, along with any inventions that you have unlocked.  So while learning how to turn logs into boards, and then turn those boards into a chest (for storing items: inventory space comes at a premium in Don’t Starve) took me nearly ten game days to learn on my first play through, I had a chest built by day two on my second play through, because I had the knowledge of boards and chests unlocked previously.  This game mechanic allows for a feeling of progression throughout the game as a whole, and keeps the player from feeling worn out or frustrated with the game every time they die.  Instead of focusing on how much they have lost, the player can think about how much they have learned, and how exciting it will be to start a new game with the inventions and idea points they now possess.

I hope other games take from “Don’t Starve”s example and include elements of continuity in their gameplay.  Heck, I’d probably settle for more wilderness survival games being developed.  In the meantime, I have spiders to murder and a Science Machine to feed.  You know where to find me.

Fish, Goblins, and so forth

I've considered how different life would be as a fish in an aquarium.  Assuming I had the consciousness to consider such questions (and thought in English) would I wonder "why am I here?" or "is there a world outside of this one?" It's hard to say.  Maybe I'd be content with sucking at algae or mindlessly gulping down processed flakes from an unknown and unseen god.  I'd never have the joy of my wedding day, or the exhilaration of traveling to a new country, but then I'd also get to miss out on soul-crushing prom nights, or the sadness of a friend's miscarriage.  Ramen only seems like a terrible food when you eat it for weeks on end because you know about t-bone steaks and tiramisu.

If you had no options in life: no career paths, no vacations, no picking out new furniture, then maybe not having to worry about them would be a good thing.  My life would be reduced to eating (which I love already), playing tag, occasionally being bullied, and relieving myself wherever I saw fit.  The worst thing that would ever happen is getting scooped into a net and dumped into a new container every few months for cleaning.  To be fair, fish probably think they are going to die, like, FOR REAL, every time this happens, but it's never more then ten minutes until they're all perked up and swimming about joyously in an old cat-litter bucket.  What would life be like without the inane decisions of human life?  Without religion, without hope, but also without a care beyond your own existance?  It seems primal to those of us who have the more "refined" choices on our menu, but to them, life probably seems like a natural progression of eating, pooping, and sleeping.

Weirdly enough, I think I've just described the "dumb" races in high fantasy.  Goblins don't give a fig if you were once their friend.  If you're made of meat and dead, they're going to eat you.  Chances are you weren't even a friend.

However, Goblins ARE depicted as being capable of very basic religion, usually following some war god or otherwise barbaric overlord.  So maybe there still is goblin marriage and goblin families and goblin home decorating.  But nothing as sophisticated as human decor and architecture.  Is that racism speaking?  What if Mrs. Twacknsmack is very proud of her rabbitskin rug and the tidyness of her little goblin hut?

Maybe elves view humans the same way humans view goblins.  Elves think of us as similar, and yet (adorably) beneath their capabilities of art and politics.  Goblins don't even come to mind when they think of humanoid races (maybe like we think of monkeys?).  Any human that rises to their ranks has only done so because they were a cute pet, or necessary to some crazy prophecy.

Maybe THAT'S why elf/human relationships are so looked down upon by elves... Not only are they (usually) rejecting a long lifespan, but they're falling in love with a creature so basic, so unrefined compared to their society.  When Ymir runs off with Jimmy, it seems to the elves that she's been captured by some dirty hippie.

Do rich people think of me this way?
Am I this closed-minded to the poor?

On Hospitality

   I've always enjoyed playing hostess for my friends.  I love cooking for them, gathering mix and match pillows and blankets for the evening, and laying out towels for showers in the morning.  When we're gaming (see: Always) I make sure there is room on the table for the crackers and cheese, and fetch drinks and refills when it isn't my turn.  I take pride in ensuring that no one feels excluded, bored, or hungry.
   Yesterday I was reminded where I picked up my love of entertaining: my parents.  They have always enforced an open door policy, ensuring my friends had a place to go when things went wrong.  Dad has fixed one of my friend's cars when she was behind on rent and afraid of losing her only source of transportation.  Mom has reminded my friends time and again that they are welcome to come any time, even if my brothers and I are not around.  Regardless of the nights they kept them up, the extensive amounts of food they consumed, and the number of things they have broken, my parents have continued allowing them to come over, yell their lungs out, chow down... and fix the house they've all but destroyed (high school was a trying time for the walls and furniture in the basement).  Through them, I learned that hospitality means more than room and board.  It's an honest desire to reinforce assurance and well being.
  This morning, I woke up in my old room, husband sound asleep from coming to bed at four in the morning, and friends sprawled out on any available furniture.  Coming upstairs, I took inventory of everyone, making sure they had blankets to keep them warm, and cellphones near at hand.  Once they had all been seen to, I saw to my own needs and went to the kitchen scrounge up something to eat.  As I was taking stock of what was available for everyone's morning meal, I saw a plain brown box on the stove.  On it was a single piece of scotch tape (lock and key for the cats) and a short message, in my mother's even handwriting.
  "Breakfast :)"
   Even after returning from a late night concert, waking up at six to attend church this morning, and likely bidding the MtG crew upstairs a good night, she found time to spoil us all with doughnuts for breakfast.  It's good to know that after all these years, my parents are still able and willing to help me help others.  And when you spend so much time concerning yourself about the welfare of others, it's awesome to have someone to fall back on, with full confidence that they'll catch you.
  Mom, Dad, thanks for everything.  And today especially, thank you for your couches, refrigerators, showers, and sheets.  Some day, I'll pay you back in kind for these generosities but for now I'll keep it simple:  Thank you for your hospitality, and for always having my back.

Night Class

A young woman returns home
cold: the darkness held at bay by city lights.
But where fear could stand lies her imagination.
Fending off boredom, and giving her safety.

One night, the bicycle beneath her is a quarter horse,
and she is a ranch hand, returning home from checking the herds
upset as she, he blows at the cold
mentally, she pats his neck, assuring him that home is close

The week before, she was a Trainer
a giant, tiger striped wolf striding alongside.
She keeps a hand on his side
Feeling his intense heat, and strong heartbeat.

Other nights, she is alone
and the eyes of an archer analyze her surroundings.
The dragons are a fearsome foe
but she knows how to read their signs.

As home approaches,
The horse, the wolf, the Kajiit all fall away.
For now her imagination may rest,
tucked away until next Tuesday evening.

The Time Has Come

Fate alone would have me discover NaNoWriMo the first day of November.

I've always wanted to write a novel.
I'm having hot flashes.
I told Alien about it.
I posted it on Facebook.
I'm writing on my blog.
This is as real as it gets guys.

I have a feeling that I'm going to end up with a caffeine addiction after this.  I'm scared.  I'm excited.  I'm going... to start writing.

Lessons Learned from Three Weeks of Marriage

I've learned a few things in a rather short amount of time, ranging from minor to profound.


Life Lesson #1:  Cactus loves cooking

This has been known for some time, but now that I'm responsible for feeding myself 24/7 (instead of showing up at the dining hall and demanding to be fed), this has become more apparent.  I don't just cook to eat either: if I did, I would make quickly prepared meals.  As it is, cooking has become an enjoyable task, that I'm willing to spend over an hour a day doing.  For big dinners, I've been seen in the kitchen for as much as twice that, chopping, sauteing, stewing, and of course tasting.  I seem to follow my family's example of following recipes only loosely if at all.  Since they have far more experience than I do, this has led to odd and rather bland meals thus far.  Fortunately, Alien and my friends are helpful as well as encouraging, so my culinary skills should see improvement.  At least I'm under spicing and not over spicing: less wasteful if nothing else.  And I'm still a pro cookie baker, so that has to count for something.


Life Lesson #2: Cactus keeps a clean house
My mother laughed at me when I told her this.  "Seriously," she asked.  "Are you sure you're my daughter?  The one that found Halloween candy in her backpack at Easter?" Yes mom, same girl.  But where she had done the cleaning for me at home, our apartment refuses to clean itself.  Alien helps, but being a chem e keeps him on a tight schedule.  So now, when I come home from class, I clean.  I clean before I read, before I check the internet, before I eat.  To be honest, the last is probably the reason I clean: I can't STAND a dirty kitchen.  I sweep every three days, and wipe down the counters and wash the sinks weekly.  I even cleaned out the fridge today.  Just because it needed done.  I cleaned my BATHROOM today, with no one telling me to.  I used to cry about doing that chore.  And if you want to know why an apartment is so different than having a dorm... don't ask.  It just is.


Life Lesson #3: Cactus STILL HATES doing the dishes
Yes, even if it means cluttering my kitchen.  I won't touch them unless forced with confrontation.  I pick them up off of the coffee table, night stand, desk, what have you, and BRING them to the kitchen, but the dishes are Alien's job.  Thankfully, he's a trooper, and more than willing to do them himself.  Having a dishwasher (the machine, not the husband) helps too.  But it seems to have flunked out of dish washing school.  It loudly protests to it's job for the whole duration of the washing, and then refuses to rinse used food out of the back right corner.  It leaves dried particles on all the glasses, and hard water spots have become part of life.  It does seem to have learned the "heat cycle" lessons though: everything that comes out of it, while possibly dirty, is certainly hot enough to kill lifeforms large and small.  With all of this evidence, I have drawn the conclusion that my dishwasher houses a temperamental dragon.  Excavations are scheduled for the future to find the creature to keep as a pet, or sell for a hill of gold.  The end result will be entirely dependent on how much grocery money we have when I find him.


Life Lesson #4:  Despite all other cleaning, Cactus' bedroom will always be messy because Alien shares a room with her now.

Since no one needs to go in there besides Alien and I, the bedroom has become a site of neglect.  This is largely due to Alien's ritualistic desire to throw his clothes at least five feet from his body, and ANYWHERE but the hamper.  In an attempt to coexist with the creature, I have made peace with the garment flinging, but have demanded that the bed be made at all times. He helped make the bed once, right after a trip to Bed Bath and Beyond where we bought disgustingly expensive and luxurious bedding, but this was largely because he wanted to test the sheets.  My further requests to make the bed have ended with him rolling about on the covers, cocooning himself, and inevitably throwing himself on the ground, laughing maniacally all the while.

I don't ask him to make the bed anymore.