I Am Not Alone

This idea, Mardi Gras 3000, has taken over my life. But I don't mean that every spare moment is utilized by MG3K (okay, I do) but that at any moment, at pretty much every moment, I can just start talking about the MG3K world and people... like... stare at me. No, seriously! I ordered a tall, single latte. And the next thing I knew I was telling the cashier about a deep, smooth, frothed milk drink was such a good idea, and the coffee flavor was such an earthy goodness flavor... but too bad about that whole it really is as addictive as nicotine and the fact the drinks have gotten bigger and bigger, and the number of shots per customer increases as time wears on, and, for a while in the 2004 at least, the coffee chain staff (you know which one) were being encouraged to ask customers if they wanted an extra shot in their drink to, you know, bring up the cost of the average sale... and feed those stupid addicts more of what they crave.

Should coffee come with warning labels like cigarettes? What would they say:

WARNING: Addictive stimulant. Cardiovascular effects: increased heart rate; increased blood pressure, and irregular heartbeat.

Of course, if this law were put into effect, just to be fair, several people I know would have to have these labels stuck to their shirts. LOL

Coming full circle: So, in a recent piece of MG3K fiction, the author announces that alcohol, nicotine, chocolate and caffeine are all controlled substances in the year 2056. What do you think? Interesting, huh? Crazy? Maybe not. But my point is...

THERE ARE MG3K AUTHORS NOW!!!!

Yes, I am screaming. With happiness and excitement. Because I love the players. They play the game with a dedication and an obsessive passion. They create moves. They make strategies. They are making the card game powerful. But the setting of the card game--the atmosphere, the universe--has to be rich for me to continue to live in this place. To be okay with how obsessive my own thoughts have become. A friend actually said, "Bonkers, E.J., are you speaking in tongues now?" When he asked if I wanted to go club hopping (to dance) and I answered him by reading 400 words out of a new MG3K story set in a night club. *Everything* ties into MG3K lately.

For a while, everyone (and, my gosh, I do mean everyone) seemed to have a MG3K idea. But, well, I didn't really get excited because I've worked at a publishing house. I've done the wanna-be author convention circuit thing. Yes, *everyone* always has an *idea* for a novel. But only .05% of them ever actually write it. And, heh, I'm not putting them down. You don't see me whipping out a novel either. My excitement came when authors actually started to ask for *contracts* and send in finished *stories*!! Suddenly, it was real. And it was really good.

The fact that the authors see the world and the characters in the same way that I do--even when the authors are miles or half a world away--is incredible and powerful. It inspires me to write very, very, very long posts on the forum. Where does that stuff all come from?

From the collective mind of the audience, my friends. Remember that post way back in the day? ;) The collective mind is proving itself. I believed. Now, let the good times roll.

E.J.

Flint Makes Sparks

I’m getting a lot of email lately and you guys all know how I really do love to hear from players. My favorite emails fall into three categories:

1. Emails from hardcore CCG players telling me how they thought Basic MG3K play was fun but that Advanced MG3K play rocks their worlds and they’ve now sold all their MTG cards to pay for Instants (which right now you can get in boosters or as singles... the new redesign coming this summer will have all Instants and most characters randomly sold in 12 card booster packs).

2. Emails from young authors who have discovered the MG3K sourcebook (which is being reorganized and updated by MG3K universe expert and published fantasy author Launa Sorensen) and are intrigued by the ideas of immortals, mythology, culture, kick-butt Christians and awesome 4D aliens.

3. Emails from individuals who are (fill in any organized religion OR absolutely no religion at all) and who feel it is of vital importance that they tell me how very delusion I am :)

I promised my friend Gille (who is the OM—Online Manager—for MG3K) that I would write a blog that wasn’t at all about religion, and I’m going to do that right after I say:

The deal is this: No man (or tabloid) knows when the Second Coming will be. Period. The Scripture says so. Look it up. Also, no man knows the truth of God because man is flawed and interpretations are flawed and God is not flawed. Period. If any man lives according to the Word as he knows it and to the best of his heart, striving to be a better person, one that does not harm others or preach a personal doctrine of hatred, then that person is living in a Holy manner. I *personally* may believe in and accept more than that, but for me to accept someone as a fellow Christian, that is all I look for. Respect. Compassion. Self-control. I don’t look at their sexuality. I don’t look at their skin color. I don’t look at whether or not they believe in prophets after Christ. I don’t look at whether or not they attend daily, weekly or monthly organized services. Likewise, just because a person might wear a cross, preach a sermon, teach Sunday school, or not drink, swear, or do drugs, doesn’t mean, to me, that they’re a Christian.

Jennifer told me about a bumper sticker she saw: If going to church makes you a Christian, does standing in a garage make me a car?

I remind her of our favorite tee-shirt: What Would Jesus Do? He’d Kick Your Hypocritical Butt

END

Hey, folks! How about we kick it with a blog that has nothing to do with religion? I mean, come on, guys, cut me some slack, right? My mind can linger on matters of the soul for a while!

Hm... I think I just mentioned religion. Let me try again.

END

Yo, my loyal blog readers. What is *up* with the crazy weather in the Pacific North*wet*? What is going on with these chilly nights? I like to paint at night with the windows open. I tried. The paint congealed and froze on the pallet. I like to paint in my tank top and cut offs. By brown skin turned blue. I found myself sketching on the canvas instead. I sketched several very cold scenes. Punk rock polar bears. Blizzards. Burly, handsome men dressed in fuzzy parkas. You know. That kinda thing.

So, uh, anyway... LOL... I can’t keep this up! :D

The MG3K Fiction Forum is hopping right now. Really amazing stuff is happening. It’s worth it to logon and check out the awesome back stories for all those characters you’re playing with. There’s a lot happening all of sudden with MG3K. A whole team working on the RPG (oh, yes, you knew it was going to happen) and in-character blogs, as well as the deck and online game redesign. I’ve been named a “character expert” for Elijah, with rocks my world, and I would love some help. Any other folks out there who feel like they have a firm grip on the punky cool Elijah grrl? Or any other character, for that matter!

Come on over to the forum and share your ideas. We love new creative spark :)

E.J.

In a Christian Chat Room: Part One

**EJ has entered the room.**
Matthew: That’s why I think it’s real.
Mark: But you aren’t taking the historical context of the verse into account.
Luke: Hi, EJ. Welcome back!
Matthew: I’m not talking about history. Don’t start altering the scripture to fit your own needs.
EJ: Hey, Luke. What’s tonight’s topic?
Mark: Hardly. But context is of utmost importance here. I don’t think those references are meant to be taken literally.
Matthew: And it probably wasn’t a real virgin birth then either. Or he didn’t really rise again. In historical context, it was all figurative and politically motivated.
John: And what would be wrong with that if it accomplished the ministry of Christ?
Matthew: Hello! He wouldn’t be the son of God!
Mark: He wouldn’t be our savoir!
Luke: EJ, tonight’s topic is the begots and whether or not several Old Testament individuals lived hundreds of years.
John: Christ’s message was one of self-control and respect. Who cares how we get that message spread.
EJ: Seriously, Luke?
Mark: OMGosh, John! The end does not justify the means. What are you saying, man?!
Matthew: Lie, cheat, kill as long as it makes Christians?!!
John: No! But if metaphor were spoken as truth, that his words would indeed live forever and he could not be slain because his teachings are immortal.
Mark: You can’t just create a savior from stories and parables passed man to man. If there is no truth it wouldn’t carry to modern times.
John: And Christianity is just thriving right now? We need an infusion of the living word. I don’t care if Christ appears on YouTube, if it coverts nonbelievers I’m for it!
Matthew: John, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior? Do you believe that he is the son of God, our eternal father?
Mark: That he was crucified for our sins, washing them away, and then rose again?
John: You are both missing the point.
Luke: Most seriously, EJ.
Mark: There is no point, John, only Jesus Christ.
Matthew: Amen, Brother. Amen.
EJ: Looks like they’ve got it handled, Luke. I’ll check you later.
Luke: God bless, EJ. Surf safely.
**EJ has left the room.**

The Simple Day

You had guests tonight so I parked at the gate. I really came to see BeetleHat so don't get a swelled head. I thought we might talk about the Project Pupae. Maybe call Lunah and get her opines on the character pics. You know, toss around names, sketch out some skills. The Project will be my first real game as a designer. A game for my career, from my imagination. Not ministry like MG3K. Not so real it seems like truth.

"You are so flawed," a total stranger emailed me today. Two days after I removed the moderating feature on my account. Wow. Am I now? Thou shalt not judge except on Tuesdays, I guess. I suppose the next message will continue to try to shake me down until I repent and turn to the covenant of stupidity and ignorance. Whose way leads to more death and hatred? Big question. Try it on for size. Hard question.

After laying back on the bike for an hour, I started to think maybe you had an overnight visitor. I'd left my cellphone at home. The stars are incredible above your dark circle of land. I think I could rise forever. How melodramatic is that? But so true. Lay on your back and tell me I lie. Tell me that under that sky of gems and inky night you don't feel yourself rise. You are part of that marvel. That great wheel.

Laying back, I was a bit above the holly leaves you've woven through the wrought iron gate. I love that. You've stretched the deep green and pale green of the leaves and twined the stems that whole fifteen foot length. A living thing that stretches across the drive.

"You are so flawed," I said to myself. I'm talking to myself more and more now. With dad gone, maybe I'm talking to him. A friend, not a stranger, Jared said with a gentle smile, "You're getting too emo. Come for dinner. Jay will make miso steak." I don't want miso steak, Jared. I don't want to see you and Jay so happy. I don't want to hear about the GLBT-friendly Mormon scripture study group you formed. I'm not ready to be happy. Not today.

We're made with a gorgeous range of emotion. But when we're honest about our feelings, because they are all cliche and documented in textbooks, by Hollywood and on YouTube, we're seen as broken, lesser, immature. "Oh, look at that teen angst!" we all laugh and point. Funny, but I don't remember my teen years being laughable. "Oh, look at her doing the stages of grief thing." Please. Shut your mouth, Fiend.

Or better yet, buddy, instead of sending me an email, why don't you come on over and let me kick your ***. I need a good anger release.

Keeping on, keeping creative.

Love you. You know it.

E.J.

Your Secret Ingredient

There is some part of you that will forever be hidden from me. I think it lies somewhere beyond the scent of your perfume (subtle cherry blossoms) and before the waves in your thick, black hair. It is something that I thought, as a child, I would grow to have. That it slept within me but the first time I fell in love or saw the face of God in the ocean’s tide, it would awaken and I would know it instantly as my inheritance from you.

It has been, as you say, “too many years to count” since you’ve stood in your native homeland, yet your accent is rich and smooth. Why didn’t I learn to speak as you do? I suppose my father’s great love of everything American insured that my annunciations would all be just so. Not the liquid warmth of your cadence or the rumbling laughter that will always say to me, “elegant woman.”

I was twenty-five before I woke and stepped to the mirror. I was living alone in Los Angeles. I stood, in my boy’s sleepware, my dark brown hair messed from sleep, my mouth full, my cheeks creased from the too-new pillow case. I looked into my eyes. They are brown, like yours, but nothing like yours. In that moment, for the first time in all my life, I realized that I would never grow up to me you. You had a secret ingredient that I lacked. A secret ingredient that my genes could not or would not replicate. You are the diamond blade and I am steel.

That realization was not a welcome one. Time passed. The feelings sank into me but the thread of sorrow running through my nervous system never entirely left.

Today I felt wild. I wanted something I could not have. I prayed. I broke a paint brush. A broke a coffee mug. I went riding even though you told me not to drive upset.

I wasn’t upset. I was on fire.

The speed swept the flames away but did not still my mind. I want to show you I am intelligent and mature. Instead I manage “witty” and “thoughtful.” I want to show you that I do not desire what I cannot have. That I know patience. I have mastered control. Instead, you look at me with still, deep, quiet eyes and whisper, “I love you.”

I want to accept you—the embodiment of the elegance and eloquence that a woman can have—into my heart but I feel unworthy. I have not made a place for you that is lined in silk and edged in gold. I am a small flame, quick to burn, and you are flint, able to create anything. Light a candle. Start an inferno.

In the shower, after five hours on the road, crisscrossing the State as well as my state of mind, I allowed the cold water to strip everything away. To leave me, bones alone, beneath the spray. “Remake me, Lord,” I whispered into the spray. “Remake me.”

But He does not remake. To remake would be to admit mistakes. He does not make mistakes. We are each beautifully, terribly made. Utterly alone. Forever with one another. All of us.

I accept you into my heart. But it may take some time for me to join you there.

E.J.