Wednesday night, under a blood red moon, I climbed up the fire escape, past my upstairs neighbors making love on their couch, to the place where the metal framework bolts to the brick. I set a boot and bare hands carefully and I pulled myself up, lifting onto the arched bars then over the edge to the roof. In blue jeans and a black WWJD hoodie, a black leather jacket and two brown leather wristbands, I stood alone under the lunar eclipse and marveled at the blood of the sun.
Bobbi can’t understand skinny grrls. “How am I gonna find a double for *her*?” She rolls her big beautiful eyes with as much flare as her Texas accent rolling across her tongue. “No stunt double who can throw a punch has a butt that tiny.”
I spew Coke into my hand, laughing so hard my nostrils are carbonated. “I throw my own punches,” I offer.
Bobbie grimaces and pinches my cheek (not hard). “Have another chocolate cream.” Which is Bobbi-speak for, “Keep dreaming, Tiny.” Because at 5’11” and 185, Bobbi could be a stunt double for a stunt double.
Twice in my life I’ve fallen off fire escapes and broken bones. Once I jumped and once I was thrown but both times I fell. Guess the wings don’t always work. Now, when a throw a punch – a real punch – my wrist aches. My killer left hook makes me pay for it for three days afterwards. But I can’t stay away... not from defending myself and not from fire escapes.
They fascinate me. Which means that my cell phone memory is full up of snapshots of fire escapes from NYC to San Fran, from Phoenix to Vancouver. They catch my eye and I want to see what shape the bolts are and what state of disrepair they exist in. Are they caged in? Are they free? Are they accessible from the alley? Are they sharp with the scent of oxidization and time? Rusty old bones, metallic like blood, steadfast and patient. Hoping to never be used. Wishing they were. Forever useful. Never touched. Some kids like trees. I like fire escapes.
Wikipedia says Bobbi is: The chief grip on a set. Like a foreman, the key grip directs a crew of grips, some with specialized skills such as dolly grips, crane operators, camera car operators, etc. Additionally, the key grip is often the safety monitor, responsible for the safety of all personnel in the presence of theatrical ballistics, pyrotechnics, stunts, and any other potentially dangerous situations and devices operated by other departments.
A lady friend of mine calls Bobbi a guardian angel. I call Bobbi a friend but in my mind I kinda think of her as Mama Bobbi, or Big Sister Bobbi. Something past friend toward family.
A week or so ago, I chatted with Bobbi while she walked to her car. Her middle daughter was making dinner that night and Bobbi dreaded it. “What that grrl will do to my grandma’s recipes I do *not* want to see... let alone put in my mouth.” Bobbi worries that with no innate cooking skills, her daughter will grow up to live alone with cats.
“I live alone,” I offer as reassurance.
“You live with your mama. That’s not alone.” Then Bobbi pauses. “Plus, you don’t have no cats.”
We laugh and part ways. I didn’t tell her about the one-eyed, crooked tail cat that I sneak into my room at night and feed frosted animals crackers and Brazilian coffee with full cream. He lives on the fire escape outside my window. I think his name is Pelucir but he’s only whispered it once... when I fell asleep on my laptop and he had to wake my lame Qwerty self up.
Now don’t get me wrong. I read my lease. I know that the fire escape is not for climbing on. It is for emergency situations only and cannot be used as a plant stand, clothes dryer or urban balcony. But here’s the deal: I follow about 85% of man’s laws and 100% of God’s laws. I just don’t have room for more law-abidingness in my little ole life. So, I like to climb out my window when it rains. I like to sit out there, leaning back against the cold, hard metal, and let the rain drench me until my hair is straight and heavy, my jeans resemble scuba gear and my shirt is downright indecent. Because no one can see me. The sky is dark. The clouds are low. And the rain is right from God, falling on me in my little urban nest, all brick and steel. Because don’t all angels need a perch?
It seems like fire escapes are every where. Those little escapes from a fiery situation. There always seems to be a back way out. An easy way out. And I so rarely take it. My penchant for walking through fire only fuels my adoration of fire escapes. Maybe I like them because I know I’d never use them. How could I when walking through the flames brings me through more tempered?
Under that eclipse moon, circled with stars more brilliant than diamonds and certainly more intriguing, I thought about the nature of love. I thought about the hours in every day that I give to man and the hours in every day that I give to Christ. I pledged to drink less coffee... and take my bike out of storage. I thought about my father. I knew he was with me. I thought about you. So far away from me. I imagined you beside me. I smiled.
I decided that if there were a fire escape to Heaven, all rusty and old, never used and never needed, I would climb it just to stand up near that blood-red moon, to whisper in God’s ear, “Thank you.” And He would know exactly who I was talking about.
E.J.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Half-pint Chickadees & Acrylic
The overachievers start in. They think if they don’t make their crazy peeping calls that the sun won’t ever rise and all the world will be lost to darkness. Crazy little half-pint chickadees. Don’t they know they aren’t supposed to sing until after the sky turns? Don’t they know... omgosh! What time is it?
A radio is on somewhere. Shawn Colvin is singing:
It's a crazy world
On the head of a pin
You only need to look so far
As the smile on my face
To see the shape I'm in
I’m stripped down to my white tank which hasn’t been white in four hours, my blue jeans rolled around my ankles. A couple of toe rings catch the light... right next to fat, still-glistening tear drops of green and blue paint. My hair is down and wild, my eyes are bright, there’s white acrylic on my cheek and a black/forest mix smeared across my forearm. At some point I leaned into my palette leaving an interesting, if somewhat R-rated, impression across the custom colors. This tank top will never be white again.
Where is my alarm clock?
You don't look for love
It's gonna look for you
Well you found me, honey
And you sound so good
I learn something new about this body of mine every day. God didn’t want me to get bored, I suppose, so He hid all these Easter eggs in my eternal binary that reveal themselves with unknown triggers. Like: eating chocolate cake with raspberry swirl makes me want to buy silk sheets. Putting on my own perfume makes me think of someone else. And hearing birds outside my window makes me think I’m going to be late for a 5:15 call.
It also appears that when someone says “it was a promise” at 01:12:23 this triggers rampant blushing, exquisite muscle tension through my shoulders, lower back and thighs and a burning desire to touch brush to canvas. Intensely. For four hours.
I stepped to the easel, your voice still in my ears, replaying phrases and benedictions like Terrapyre Prayers. My brown gaze was locked on the painting even while I started to peel open the caddy and reach, blinding, for brushes, choosing by feel. I paint in layers and you have so many of them, don’t you, baby? There’s that blue spring sky – ‘cause only spring sky gets that blue – and the bare green-brown of slender branches, flexible, pliable fingers, with their nestled gems of opening buds, the pinks and whites of new life, new love, and soft petals. Sky first. Then branches. Then buds. The sheaths that hold them, splitting open like my heart. This is from the last three days. Now the time for more layers has arrived.
Before I start to apply new, wet paint, liquid color and texture and depth, I run my fingers along the tree branches and then off them. I trace what comes next, from mind’s eye to cloth. I haven’t gotten that final picture I need but I know your colors by heart, the shape of your face, the curve of your cheek, the fall of your hair. My fingertips find the picture first and then paint follows.
You're the object
Of my affection
Not a dream
Or make believe
You're the object
Of my affection
Not a phantom fantasy
Some time passes, I don’t know how long, but at some point I stop using brushes and start to blend finer tones with my smallest finger tip, tracing lines that I see as clearly in my mind as I’ll ever see in a photograph. But another trigger takes me. Something you said a week or two ago. Something you probably don’t even remember and I pause, my breath like a runner’s, deep and slow.
Sweet thoughts carry me to a local hotspot – no, not a club, a tea house with wifi – where the air always smells like chai and the room is dark wood and brown leather wingbacks. I’m standing by a bookshelf of antique books, but I look up when you walk in. I know you instantly. Even with my eyes closed, I know you.
You smile softly. You always smile softly. You aren’t prone to showy expressions. You stand for a moment and survey your surroundings. The sunlight, California springtime sunlight, slants through the stain glass Bird of Paradise hanging in the window and casts colors across your skin and jacket. The barista asks if she can get you something. She’s being reverent, of course. With your laptop tucked under your arm, you look like a writer.
You order chai. Decaf. With honey and coconut.
I have forgotten where I am.
You sit down at a small round table with only one chair. The cast-colors of the stain glass fall across the surface, an exotic flower creating a tablecloth of light. You look around again, as if seeing how things change from this new vantage.
My heart is pounding in my chest and I realize that breathing is optional.
You open your laptop. I see the orange and black, then blue and black screens of a familiar location. I hear you typing carefully. Send.
In the back pocket of my jeans, my FlipStart pings. You’ve got mail.
Hobbyist F. Brian Smith writes:
The Bird of Paradise flower is a spectacular blossom. Long stemmed flowers emerge from green boat-shaped bracts which are bordered in deep red or purple. The numerous pointed petals of brilliant orange are contrasted with an arrow-shaped tongue of vivid blue. If started from seed, Bird of Paradise takes three to seven years to first blossom. Pollinated primarily by sunbirds, the strelitzia nicolai can reach heights of ten meters tall and are world renown for the spectacular shape of their flowers.
At some point, I continued to paint. Remembering my professor’s words from years ago: “Keep you eyes on the model, E.J. Not on the canvas. You’re not painting the canvas, girl! You’re painting the woman!” I continued to paint but my gaze stayed on you in that tea house. Just following orders. Just being a good student.
At some point, I forget to set my alarm.
At some point, birds start to sing.
At this point... I am very late for work.
You're the object
Of my affection
Not a rescue remedy
You're the object
Of my affection
Come to me
A radio is on somewhere. Shawn Colvin is singing:
It's a crazy world
On the head of a pin
You only need to look so far
As the smile on my face
To see the shape I'm in
I’m stripped down to my white tank which hasn’t been white in four hours, my blue jeans rolled around my ankles. A couple of toe rings catch the light... right next to fat, still-glistening tear drops of green and blue paint. My hair is down and wild, my eyes are bright, there’s white acrylic on my cheek and a black/forest mix smeared across my forearm. At some point I leaned into my palette leaving an interesting, if somewhat R-rated, impression across the custom colors. This tank top will never be white again.
Where is my alarm clock?
You don't look for love
It's gonna look for you
Well you found me, honey
And you sound so good
I learn something new about this body of mine every day. God didn’t want me to get bored, I suppose, so He hid all these Easter eggs in my eternal binary that reveal themselves with unknown triggers. Like: eating chocolate cake with raspberry swirl makes me want to buy silk sheets. Putting on my own perfume makes me think of someone else. And hearing birds outside my window makes me think I’m going to be late for a 5:15 call.
It also appears that when someone says “it was a promise” at 01:12:23 this triggers rampant blushing, exquisite muscle tension through my shoulders, lower back and thighs and a burning desire to touch brush to canvas. Intensely. For four hours.
I stepped to the easel, your voice still in my ears, replaying phrases and benedictions like Terrapyre Prayers. My brown gaze was locked on the painting even while I started to peel open the caddy and reach, blinding, for brushes, choosing by feel. I paint in layers and you have so many of them, don’t you, baby? There’s that blue spring sky – ‘cause only spring sky gets that blue – and the bare green-brown of slender branches, flexible, pliable fingers, with their nestled gems of opening buds, the pinks and whites of new life, new love, and soft petals. Sky first. Then branches. Then buds. The sheaths that hold them, splitting open like my heart. This is from the last three days. Now the time for more layers has arrived.
Before I start to apply new, wet paint, liquid color and texture and depth, I run my fingers along the tree branches and then off them. I trace what comes next, from mind’s eye to cloth. I haven’t gotten that final picture I need but I know your colors by heart, the shape of your face, the curve of your cheek, the fall of your hair. My fingertips find the picture first and then paint follows.
You're the object
Of my affection
Not a dream
Or make believe
You're the object
Of my affection
Not a phantom fantasy
Some time passes, I don’t know how long, but at some point I stop using brushes and start to blend finer tones with my smallest finger tip, tracing lines that I see as clearly in my mind as I’ll ever see in a photograph. But another trigger takes me. Something you said a week or two ago. Something you probably don’t even remember and I pause, my breath like a runner’s, deep and slow.
Sweet thoughts carry me to a local hotspot – no, not a club, a tea house with wifi – where the air always smells like chai and the room is dark wood and brown leather wingbacks. I’m standing by a bookshelf of antique books, but I look up when you walk in. I know you instantly. Even with my eyes closed, I know you.
You smile softly. You always smile softly. You aren’t prone to showy expressions. You stand for a moment and survey your surroundings. The sunlight, California springtime sunlight, slants through the stain glass Bird of Paradise hanging in the window and casts colors across your skin and jacket. The barista asks if she can get you something. She’s being reverent, of course. With your laptop tucked under your arm, you look like a writer.
You order chai. Decaf. With honey and coconut.
I have forgotten where I am.
You sit down at a small round table with only one chair. The cast-colors of the stain glass fall across the surface, an exotic flower creating a tablecloth of light. You look around again, as if seeing how things change from this new vantage.
My heart is pounding in my chest and I realize that breathing is optional.
You open your laptop. I see the orange and black, then blue and black screens of a familiar location. I hear you typing carefully. Send.
In the back pocket of my jeans, my FlipStart pings. You’ve got mail.
Hobbyist F. Brian Smith writes:
The Bird of Paradise flower is a spectacular blossom. Long stemmed flowers emerge from green boat-shaped bracts which are bordered in deep red or purple. The numerous pointed petals of brilliant orange are contrasted with an arrow-shaped tongue of vivid blue. If started from seed, Bird of Paradise takes three to seven years to first blossom. Pollinated primarily by sunbirds, the strelitzia nicolai can reach heights of ten meters tall and are world renown for the spectacular shape of their flowers.
At some point, I continued to paint. Remembering my professor’s words from years ago: “Keep you eyes on the model, E.J. Not on the canvas. You’re not painting the canvas, girl! You’re painting the woman!” I continued to paint but my gaze stayed on you in that tea house. Just following orders. Just being a good student.
At some point, I forget to set my alarm.
At some point, birds start to sing.
At this point... I am very late for work.
You're the object
Of my affection
Not a rescue remedy
You're the object
Of my affection
Come to me
Sunday, February 17, 2008
A Mother’s Path: Mother’s Day in February
I’ve written so much about the impassioned path that if you type it as a string at Google you get my blog. Pretty much all of us have *heard* of impassioned living but very few of us have come to associate it with much more than television preachers and revival meetings. Can everyday man walk the impassioned path in today’s reality? Do these paths -- laid down across the Earth in crimson and indigo by the blood and tears of a Living Christ upon His Ascension – do these paths still exist for us to seek and find?
About a week ago, I said to a new friend, “Getting married and having children is not a destiny. It’s not even a destination.” I felt pretty darn adamant at the time. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not a drum-beating feminist (sorry, Mom!). I actually *do* believe that one parent – especially a mom – should stay at home. I don’t believe that daycare should be a first or even a second choice. I think public schools and daycare centers tend to strip children of a moral code and I think the only “socialization” that happens is akin to ingraining the addiction for mob mentality, mass approval and conformity.
However, I also strongly believe that a mother should be interesting to her children. She should have a rich, creative and passionate life that gives her depth. She is not solely life-giver and cherisher. She is a person, a spirit, not just a care-taker. She is *not* “The Giving Tree” to be eaten from, climbed upon and over, and then, finally, cut down, used for raw materials, only then to be asked to stand strong with nothing. *That* is called subservience. Not motherhood. A mother should not be relegated to any single tree because she is the entire forest and she is an adventurer within that forest as well.
“Getting married and having children is not a destiny.” I was haunted by my own definitive. I couldn’t let it go. Then... like reading my mind (which too many of my good friends do), I got an email from another friend: “You know, E.J., all my life I wanted children, way back when I was a little girl playing house with dolls. But my career took off first. It just happened that way. And I am so pleased with my career. I could die tomorrow and feel I’ve left a legacy in my work that builds every day. But *none* of this means as much to me as looking at my kids. They mean more to me. I would walk away if they asked me to.”
That’s obviously a mother speaking. She’d throw it all away for her kids?! Do I write her back and preach about martyrdom and self-esteem and priorities? Do I counsel her that she can have it all? Or do I stop allowing my own self-righteousness to haunt me? Do I admit – no, accept – that being a mother, just being a mother, only being a mother – can indeed be a destiny, a destination, an impassioned path?
“Christ, give me an answer. Guide me. Walk with me. Show me the way.”
I started thinking about all the moms I knew. Golly, I know a lot of moms! Every single one of them have powerful, satisfying careers – even if those careers happen from their “office” room in their own home. Many of them live private, multifaceted lives. All of them are fascinating to their children. And, even though I didn’t pick up the phone or send out a bulk email poll, I do believe that most, if not all of them, would walk away in an instant if their child said, “I need you. I need *all* of you.”
I argued that it is not *being* a mother that is a destiny but what that mother *does* that is her path. What example does she set? What kindness, compassion and altruism does she bring to the lives of her children and to the world at large? In short, what else does she do? But you know what? She doesn’t have to do anything else. She doesn’t have to do anything other than raise the next generation. Because to do that right, you have to be an interesting person. To change with the times, to guide and shape young people who will rule in a time even more distant? To do all that, you must be open to the unexpected. You must be able to imagine the unimaginable. You must be fully alive.
Just feeding and clothing a child, shuffling them onto a school bus or shuttling them to and from Scout meetings, is not being a mom. That’s called maintenance. Houses, pets, children, even partners require maintenance. That, indeed, is not impassioned path. But we start walking on that path when we cross over to talking openly and honestly with our children about death, about God, about sex, about politics. About creativity and dreams and expectations and reality. About our own hearts. About their hearts. About how it all began and how it will all end.
Gazing at Angels? Yeah, we certainly are. But we’re not just gazing. We’re trekking. We’re journeying with angels. How can being a mother *not* be an impassioned path when we’re walking with angels?
In the forest that is a woman’s heart, she walks with her children until they find their own paths. Paths that, by her guidance and by the grace of God, will be impassioned paths. Paths that circle ‘round and return to the forest time and again, for spiritual encouragement and map-making. For love, for help, for companionship.
To the moms in my life, all subscribers on this beautiful Sunday, and to all the women in my life who see motherhood as part of their destiny – an important part of their destiny – I say: Thank you. Because I live in the world that your children will rule.
With respect and love,
E.J.
About a week ago, I said to a new friend, “Getting married and having children is not a destiny. It’s not even a destination.” I felt pretty darn adamant at the time. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not a drum-beating feminist (sorry, Mom!). I actually *do* believe that one parent – especially a mom – should stay at home. I don’t believe that daycare should be a first or even a second choice. I think public schools and daycare centers tend to strip children of a moral code and I think the only “socialization” that happens is akin to ingraining the addiction for mob mentality, mass approval and conformity.
However, I also strongly believe that a mother should be interesting to her children. She should have a rich, creative and passionate life that gives her depth. She is not solely life-giver and cherisher. She is a person, a spirit, not just a care-taker. She is *not* “The Giving Tree” to be eaten from, climbed upon and over, and then, finally, cut down, used for raw materials, only then to be asked to stand strong with nothing. *That* is called subservience. Not motherhood. A mother should not be relegated to any single tree because she is the entire forest and she is an adventurer within that forest as well.
“Getting married and having children is not a destiny.” I was haunted by my own definitive. I couldn’t let it go. Then... like reading my mind (which too many of my good friends do), I got an email from another friend: “You know, E.J., all my life I wanted children, way back when I was a little girl playing house with dolls. But my career took off first. It just happened that way. And I am so pleased with my career. I could die tomorrow and feel I’ve left a legacy in my work that builds every day. But *none* of this means as much to me as looking at my kids. They mean more to me. I would walk away if they asked me to.”
That’s obviously a mother speaking. She’d throw it all away for her kids?! Do I write her back and preach about martyrdom and self-esteem and priorities? Do I counsel her that she can have it all? Or do I stop allowing my own self-righteousness to haunt me? Do I admit – no, accept – that being a mother, just being a mother, only being a mother – can indeed be a destiny, a destination, an impassioned path?
“Christ, give me an answer. Guide me. Walk with me. Show me the way.”
I started thinking about all the moms I knew. Golly, I know a lot of moms! Every single one of them have powerful, satisfying careers – even if those careers happen from their “office” room in their own home. Many of them live private, multifaceted lives. All of them are fascinating to their children. And, even though I didn’t pick up the phone or send out a bulk email poll, I do believe that most, if not all of them, would walk away in an instant if their child said, “I need you. I need *all* of you.”
I argued that it is not *being* a mother that is a destiny but what that mother *does* that is her path. What example does she set? What kindness, compassion and altruism does she bring to the lives of her children and to the world at large? In short, what else does she do? But you know what? She doesn’t have to do anything else. She doesn’t have to do anything other than raise the next generation. Because to do that right, you have to be an interesting person. To change with the times, to guide and shape young people who will rule in a time even more distant? To do all that, you must be open to the unexpected. You must be able to imagine the unimaginable. You must be fully alive.
Just feeding and clothing a child, shuffling them onto a school bus or shuttling them to and from Scout meetings, is not being a mom. That’s called maintenance. Houses, pets, children, even partners require maintenance. That, indeed, is not impassioned path. But we start walking on that path when we cross over to talking openly and honestly with our children about death, about God, about sex, about politics. About creativity and dreams and expectations and reality. About our own hearts. About their hearts. About how it all began and how it will all end.
Gazing at Angels? Yeah, we certainly are. But we’re not just gazing. We’re trekking. We’re journeying with angels. How can being a mother *not* be an impassioned path when we’re walking with angels?
In the forest that is a woman’s heart, she walks with her children until they find their own paths. Paths that, by her guidance and by the grace of God, will be impassioned paths. Paths that circle ‘round and return to the forest time and again, for spiritual encouragement and map-making. For love, for help, for companionship.
To the moms in my life, all subscribers on this beautiful Sunday, and to all the women in my life who see motherhood as part of their destiny – an important part of their destiny – I say: Thank you. Because I live in the world that your children will rule.
With respect and love,
E.J.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
I Think of You and Music
It’s 4:09 a.m.. Looking out the window, everything is dark and the street lights are still on. There is a fine rain. It looks like a shower of sparks where it passes the lamps. Somewhere out there right now there are *real* angels and I sometimes wonder if they know who and what they are. I wonder if they even prescribe to organized religion. Sometimes, when I feel very deeply lonely, I think I feel them in the night air.
And somewhere, music plays, like a child's voice, murmuring dreams and sharing visions in the predawn day.
Poems are sketches with words.
Images that we paint for each other
when we're away from the canvas.
Rainforest rain
washed night from my sky
and I turned my gaze to your photo.
I studied and pondered
and was mesmerized
thinking myself in circles
over the wonder of you
the wonder of God
then you again.
I wanted to touch your hair
your cheek
to say words that would soothe
but not tame.
I wanted to tell you jokes
that made your serious countenance
fall away like the rain in Paris
on Valentines.
The things I wanted, whispered outside
angels or memories
brushing the cold window glass.
I realized with a breath that
looking at you in a photograph
wasn’t unlike talking with you
in digital paint.
Because, after all, no matter a photo
or pixels, or flesh-and-blood,
it’s all just God’s own light,
bouncing playfully off our eyes.
The heart resides somewhere else.
Somewhere between and beyond
all these mediums.
The heart is where I stand for you.
"There ain't much to ice fishing
'Til you miss a day or more
And the hole you've cut freezes over
And it's like you've never been there before."
--Bill Morrissey, "Ice Fishing"
Why since I met you, truly met you, why sleep has become a burden. Not to miss a day or more? Not to miss a moment.
Happy Valentines, everyone. Don't let it pass unnoticed.
And somewhere, music plays, like a child's voice, murmuring dreams and sharing visions in the predawn day.
Poems are sketches with words.
Images that we paint for each other
when we're away from the canvas.
Rainforest rain
washed night from my sky
and I turned my gaze to your photo.
I studied and pondered
and was mesmerized
thinking myself in circles
over the wonder of you
the wonder of God
then you again.
I wanted to touch your hair
your cheek
to say words that would soothe
but not tame.
I wanted to tell you jokes
that made your serious countenance
fall away like the rain in Paris
on Valentines.
The things I wanted, whispered outside
angels or memories
brushing the cold window glass.
I realized with a breath that
looking at you in a photograph
wasn’t unlike talking with you
in digital paint.
Because, after all, no matter a photo
or pixels, or flesh-and-blood,
it’s all just God’s own light,
bouncing playfully off our eyes.
The heart resides somewhere else.
Somewhere between and beyond
all these mediums.
The heart is where I stand for you.
"There ain't much to ice fishing
'Til you miss a day or more
And the hole you've cut freezes over
And it's like you've never been there before."
--Bill Morrissey, "Ice Fishing"
Why since I met you, truly met you, why sleep has become a burden. Not to miss a day or more? Not to miss a moment.
Happy Valentines, everyone. Don't let it pass unnoticed.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Good Morning, Sunshine
Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it springs the issues of life. —Proverbs 4:23
Before everyone thinks that I’ve gone and turned all Sunday school teacher (though... I have known some pretty powerful, beautiful and thought-provoking Sunday school teachers in my time), let me just mention that as I type these words on my swanky (but slow) little onyx eeePC, that I am sprawled across a thick, silky white carpet in tight blue jeans and a white tank, my shoulders, chest, face and arms splattered with dried paint in blues, reds, purples, and greens. I’m in my favorite white crew socks and my hair – which is long and brown and feathered for work – is tied back in a white bandana that smells of another woman’s perfume and that I most certainly will be taking home with me. Because, right, did I mention it? This isn’t my carpet.
;)
This is that *other* thing I do. I have the ole day job, then – mostly all night – I design games, and, on the side, I paint portraits and abstracts on commission. I got this job when a friend of a friend of a friend heard I was in town and offered to buy me everything new to do a piece (6 x 6 feet) immediately! The theme I was given was “maturity” and the props... well, they weren’t apples and oranges, baby. I did employ the excellent skills of six dozen open roses – red and white, twenty yards of forest green satin, and one very accommodating host. This is still life the way art intended. And if you have never painted or sketched with a model before, I highly recommend that you run out and join a class right now. Because as your eye and hand fall in sync to trace lines so mesmerizing they might as well be the map to the soul, you’ll never believe in evolution again. There is nothing ape-like about the curve of a hip, the arch of a neck, or shoulder blades that most surely once held wings.
The studio is all lit up. The studio being the entire living room of a house so large it probably has several living rooms. Three walls are floor to ceiling glass and offer a spectacular view that I expertly ignore. Not really a chore.
The lights were the most expensive part. I warned my friend: Lights are outrageous. But there was no stopping her. Her big sister was turning a certain age and a portrait was the only thing that would do. She sent me a package of general family-event photos of her sister about two weeks ago. I sketched out some basic stick and line ideas and faxed them over. She kept saying, “Nope. Something more. Something more powerful.” In the end it was a cascade of green and a shower of roses, draped in layers and waves, a long bronze body leaning back, one knee up, one arm draped over that knee, the lights playing on skin and petals and fabric. In the end it was five hours of sketching, then photos. Then dinner far nicer than I’ve had in years. Then five more hours of painting. Now exhaustion.
The canvas looks good so far. I use someone’s (probably my friend’s) old StepMaster to position myself just so, to ensure perspective is correct from low and high. I’m running out of brown.
I miss my own brushes. In moments of frustration, not wanting to waste a moment, I crack one and then two more over my knee cap, shortening the maddeningly long handles. I like to get paint on my fingers. I have whip lash from darting between subject and canvas, not trusting the new brushes to do my bidding.
At the end of the day, I start to pack up, to seal and cover and chill and spritz. I fold the satin and pick up the roses, pouring arm fulls of buds and petals into the large green glass bowl from India. Somewhere in the house I know the shower is running but I can’t hear it. I am swinging my jacket over my bare shoulders when her husband walks in, the brother-in-law. Still dressed from the office, a whiskey in his hand. He strides purposefully over to the canvas. Appraises. Sips. His eyes, but not his head, move to look at me. “What is she paying you?” He means my friend. I tell him casually. “I’ll match it,” he says and walks out. There’s no time or space or reason to argue.
My loving friend, the striking host, and the driven husband... they all share one thing. They all know their hearts. And, to me it seems, they know each other’s hearts as well. There is rarely a feeling more complimentary, more inspirational, and more magical than having your picture painted. We feel immortal. We feel beautiful. We feel happy.
I am just a small cog in this machine. I will come here again tomorrow and turn on the tall lights but I will paint alone, finishing the work over the course of the day, maybe ten more hours. My host will be friendly, elegant, and attentive. She will probably talk about politics or the writers’ strikes or the news. At one point I’ll whip sweat from my face and smear blues across my cheek. I’ll notice her standing in the wide arch way that leads away into the house. She’ll stand there, tall glass of hot tea in hand, her hair perfectly coifed, her blouse ruffles of silk, her slacks crisp, her heels high. She’ll have her eyes on the canvas. On herself. On that moment of time captured forever. Happy birthday.
I am just a small cog in so many machines. In the wikiworld creation of Mardi Gras 3000, I am one small voice. In the lives of my friends, I am often just text on a screen. I am a moment, fleeting from the start, in someone else’s life. A small gate to walk by or through. But here, like this, covered in paint, waiting for a taxi... sitting in an Internet café writing to you... I am happy.
E.J.
Before everyone thinks that I’ve gone and turned all Sunday school teacher (though... I have known some pretty powerful, beautiful and thought-provoking Sunday school teachers in my time), let me just mention that as I type these words on my swanky (but slow) little onyx eeePC, that I am sprawled across a thick, silky white carpet in tight blue jeans and a white tank, my shoulders, chest, face and arms splattered with dried paint in blues, reds, purples, and greens. I’m in my favorite white crew socks and my hair – which is long and brown and feathered for work – is tied back in a white bandana that smells of another woman’s perfume and that I most certainly will be taking home with me. Because, right, did I mention it? This isn’t my carpet.
;)
This is that *other* thing I do. I have the ole day job, then – mostly all night – I design games, and, on the side, I paint portraits and abstracts on commission. I got this job when a friend of a friend of a friend heard I was in town and offered to buy me everything new to do a piece (6 x 6 feet) immediately! The theme I was given was “maturity” and the props... well, they weren’t apples and oranges, baby. I did employ the excellent skills of six dozen open roses – red and white, twenty yards of forest green satin, and one very accommodating host. This is still life the way art intended. And if you have never painted or sketched with a model before, I highly recommend that you run out and join a class right now. Because as your eye and hand fall in sync to trace lines so mesmerizing they might as well be the map to the soul, you’ll never believe in evolution again. There is nothing ape-like about the curve of a hip, the arch of a neck, or shoulder blades that most surely once held wings.
The studio is all lit up. The studio being the entire living room of a house so large it probably has several living rooms. Three walls are floor to ceiling glass and offer a spectacular view that I expertly ignore. Not really a chore.
The lights were the most expensive part. I warned my friend: Lights are outrageous. But there was no stopping her. Her big sister was turning a certain age and a portrait was the only thing that would do. She sent me a package of general family-event photos of her sister about two weeks ago. I sketched out some basic stick and line ideas and faxed them over. She kept saying, “Nope. Something more. Something more powerful.” In the end it was a cascade of green and a shower of roses, draped in layers and waves, a long bronze body leaning back, one knee up, one arm draped over that knee, the lights playing on skin and petals and fabric. In the end it was five hours of sketching, then photos. Then dinner far nicer than I’ve had in years. Then five more hours of painting. Now exhaustion.
The canvas looks good so far. I use someone’s (probably my friend’s) old StepMaster to position myself just so, to ensure perspective is correct from low and high. I’m running out of brown.
I miss my own brushes. In moments of frustration, not wanting to waste a moment, I crack one and then two more over my knee cap, shortening the maddeningly long handles. I like to get paint on my fingers. I have whip lash from darting between subject and canvas, not trusting the new brushes to do my bidding.
At the end of the day, I start to pack up, to seal and cover and chill and spritz. I fold the satin and pick up the roses, pouring arm fulls of buds and petals into the large green glass bowl from India. Somewhere in the house I know the shower is running but I can’t hear it. I am swinging my jacket over my bare shoulders when her husband walks in, the brother-in-law. Still dressed from the office, a whiskey in his hand. He strides purposefully over to the canvas. Appraises. Sips. His eyes, but not his head, move to look at me. “What is she paying you?” He means my friend. I tell him casually. “I’ll match it,” he says and walks out. There’s no time or space or reason to argue.
My loving friend, the striking host, and the driven husband... they all share one thing. They all know their hearts. And, to me it seems, they know each other’s hearts as well. There is rarely a feeling more complimentary, more inspirational, and more magical than having your picture painted. We feel immortal. We feel beautiful. We feel happy.
I am just a small cog in this machine. I will come here again tomorrow and turn on the tall lights but I will paint alone, finishing the work over the course of the day, maybe ten more hours. My host will be friendly, elegant, and attentive. She will probably talk about politics or the writers’ strikes or the news. At one point I’ll whip sweat from my face and smear blues across my cheek. I’ll notice her standing in the wide arch way that leads away into the house. She’ll stand there, tall glass of hot tea in hand, her hair perfectly coifed, her blouse ruffles of silk, her slacks crisp, her heels high. She’ll have her eyes on the canvas. On herself. On that moment of time captured forever. Happy birthday.
I am just a small cog in so many machines. In the wikiworld creation of Mardi Gras 3000, I am one small voice. In the lives of my friends, I am often just text on a screen. I am a moment, fleeting from the start, in someone else’s life. A small gate to walk by or through. But here, like this, covered in paint, waiting for a taxi... sitting in an Internet café writing to you... I am happy.
E.J.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Remember the Sabbath
I wrote several days ago that life without gritty reality is not living. Because if we move through the motions of life without hardship then what are we really doing? How much are we truly thinking and contributing to our fellow man?
It seems for some time my life has progressed without much change. This does not mean without trial or windfall. One job ended suddenly and another was offered a few days later. Plans fizzled. Plans were made. Doors closed. Doors opened.
“I watched our personal sky unfolding and knew it would never fold again.”
As I write these words it’s raining. A steady sight that I first described in my mind as grey and ugly. I usually love rain. I’ve been known to do all kinds of crazy, joyful – and yes, Eris, loud -- things in the rain. I was four when I first left my parents’ house during the middle of a downpour, climbed onto the hood of our car, and stood with my hands high above my head… until my mother threw a beach towel over me and carried me back inside. She claims I was laughing. I think I was praying.
I remember the first time I stood in Ireland during a rain storm. I was with the greatest man in the world. He stood beside me and smiled at me and said, “Do you know from this how much Christ loves us?” And he was laughing, my dad, soaked to the skin, his brown hair, flattened to his shoulders. His brown eyes crinkled with life. I felt so alive. Yeah, I was cold. Yeah, I was heart broken at the time. Yeah, I felt like my world as I knew it was ending. But I also felt the perfection of God’s own rain. Of life, of that which most of our world and our bodies are made of, falling from the sky and drenching me completely. It was, in so any ways, a second baptism.
Completely different was the rain that fell in Brazil, visiting with family friends when I was in my early twenties. In their spacious, beautiful home, four floors of white stucco and red tile floors, I awoke in my guest room, the exposed wooden beams of the slated ceiling holding up a roof under the most thunderous rain I’d ever heard in my life. I leapt from bed like a thing possessed and went to the window. I threw it open, the sheer white curtains drawing out. The jungle encroached on every side and through the sheets of rain I could see only a solid indistinct green wash. But somewhere, somewhere in the yard beyond the patio and its white, wrought iron table and chairs, children were laughing. None of them even ten years old, the little ones of the household were running, in nightgowns out of a Julie Andrews’ film like “Song of Music,” they were running under that warm rain. And standing, their arms at each other’s waists, were the Lord and Lady of the house. Both tall and powerful figures. Both regal in black and white. They were standing and smiling, gazing out at the joy, tangible and alive, before them. God’s own children. Their children. This was a third baptism for me and I wasn’t even in the rain.
“Vindicate me, O Lord, for I have walked in my integrity, And I have trusted in the Lord without wavering.” Psalm 35:24
And I’m staring out at California rain now. And it isn’t tinted emerald and there is nothing regal outside my city window. Until I know eternity, my father will never stand beside me with his hand in mine and I will never see his hair, so fine and beautiful, plastered to his face and neck again. What I have instead is gritty reality.
I have $100 worth of Plato on my bed, that I haven’t slept in, in four days. I have my little black book for counting calories, strangely, alarmingly showing that I’ve had one waffle, two Cokes and five cups of coffee this week and nothing else. Shouldn’t I be dead right about now? I have a frown on my face and a blush in my cheeks that I know is dangerous. I know it because it leads to things like speeding tickets and walking alone in cities I don’t know. I want to strip off my flannels (why did I change into them if I knew darn well I wouldn’t sleep?) and don my jacket and jeans and scripture boots. I want to forget about my intellectual friend in Washington telling me to look to history to know the human heart and my other friend telling me to shut down, shut up and just work. Because the work is pure. And it is. But I want to just know me for a moment. Me in the arms of my God.
I don’t want to know how I feel. I don’t want anyone’s advice. I want personal revelation. One on one. I just want to get out there in that rain. In that steady… silver… big city rain. And so I do.
…
I promised Erik I’d write him a Sunday sermon. But I have so much to say on Saturday. I have a knack, Erik, for making something out of nothing. This can be very good. This can be very bad. Sometimes I second guess the people with the best intentions. All the times, I distrust the dogma and resist man’s authority. I want to talk about God’s laws. I want to talk about what, I believe, we all know as truth in our hearts.
I’ve heard it said that “Christ made us perfect but we live our lives imperfectly.”
What?
Fear is imperfect? Passion is imperfect? Dedication is imperfect? *What* is imperfect? If we do not lie to one another, and we do not steal from one another, and we are gentle and honest and forthright… are we perfect? No, not perfect like Christ. Perfect for each other. Perfect together.
Let’s go smaller, Erik. Let’s just talk about our community, the forum, on the web. Even smaller. Your family. Again smaller just me and you, two brand new friends. Less than a month friends. Where are the seeds of Christ?
You know realty. You know fear and pain and guilt and shame and hiding and finding and being born again. You know these things. In your heart. All these feelings are seeds of Christ. (And that you isn’t just you, Erik, it’s all of us.) Along with the loyalty and passion, and anger and confusion, and crying and laughing, and all of mine and MG’s typos, and speed chatting, and IMVU crashes, and PMs that make no sense (because I don’t want them to), and posts that make me laugh, think or say “Woot!” In everything I see the hand of Christ that is without platitude or excuse. That is vibrant and living. Like “bad guy” Eris trying to sway “good grrl” MG to walk on the dark side—it simply won’t happen. You don’t leap off the path of Christ once you find it and know it and feel it under your feet and in your heart. You don’t dance with the devil once you know the Divine. You throw fruit at the devil in the pale moonlight.
So, my new friend, and all my “old” friends, be not guided by righteousness or indignation. Be not guided by worldly means. Be guided by the seed of Christ that whispers from your heart. By the passion you feel for your art. By the impassioned vision that calls to you. By your own personal revelation. He is telling you to live, Erik. He is telling you to rejoice. Take tomorrow—Sunday, the Sabbath—and find a way to do just that. Find that thing that fills your heart with joy.
E.J.
It seems for some time my life has progressed without much change. This does not mean without trial or windfall. One job ended suddenly and another was offered a few days later. Plans fizzled. Plans were made. Doors closed. Doors opened.
“I watched our personal sky unfolding and knew it would never fold again.”
As I write these words it’s raining. A steady sight that I first described in my mind as grey and ugly. I usually love rain. I’ve been known to do all kinds of crazy, joyful – and yes, Eris, loud -- things in the rain. I was four when I first left my parents’ house during the middle of a downpour, climbed onto the hood of our car, and stood with my hands high above my head… until my mother threw a beach towel over me and carried me back inside. She claims I was laughing. I think I was praying.
I remember the first time I stood in Ireland during a rain storm. I was with the greatest man in the world. He stood beside me and smiled at me and said, “Do you know from this how much Christ loves us?” And he was laughing, my dad, soaked to the skin, his brown hair, flattened to his shoulders. His brown eyes crinkled with life. I felt so alive. Yeah, I was cold. Yeah, I was heart broken at the time. Yeah, I felt like my world as I knew it was ending. But I also felt the perfection of God’s own rain. Of life, of that which most of our world and our bodies are made of, falling from the sky and drenching me completely. It was, in so any ways, a second baptism.
Completely different was the rain that fell in Brazil, visiting with family friends when I was in my early twenties. In their spacious, beautiful home, four floors of white stucco and red tile floors, I awoke in my guest room, the exposed wooden beams of the slated ceiling holding up a roof under the most thunderous rain I’d ever heard in my life. I leapt from bed like a thing possessed and went to the window. I threw it open, the sheer white curtains drawing out. The jungle encroached on every side and through the sheets of rain I could see only a solid indistinct green wash. But somewhere, somewhere in the yard beyond the patio and its white, wrought iron table and chairs, children were laughing. None of them even ten years old, the little ones of the household were running, in nightgowns out of a Julie Andrews’ film like “Song of Music,” they were running under that warm rain. And standing, their arms at each other’s waists, were the Lord and Lady of the house. Both tall and powerful figures. Both regal in black and white. They were standing and smiling, gazing out at the joy, tangible and alive, before them. God’s own children. Their children. This was a third baptism for me and I wasn’t even in the rain.
“Vindicate me, O Lord, for I have walked in my integrity, And I have trusted in the Lord without wavering.” Psalm 35:24
And I’m staring out at California rain now. And it isn’t tinted emerald and there is nothing regal outside my city window. Until I know eternity, my father will never stand beside me with his hand in mine and I will never see his hair, so fine and beautiful, plastered to his face and neck again. What I have instead is gritty reality.
I have $100 worth of Plato on my bed, that I haven’t slept in, in four days. I have my little black book for counting calories, strangely, alarmingly showing that I’ve had one waffle, two Cokes and five cups of coffee this week and nothing else. Shouldn’t I be dead right about now? I have a frown on my face and a blush in my cheeks that I know is dangerous. I know it because it leads to things like speeding tickets and walking alone in cities I don’t know. I want to strip off my flannels (why did I change into them if I knew darn well I wouldn’t sleep?) and don my jacket and jeans and scripture boots. I want to forget about my intellectual friend in Washington telling me to look to history to know the human heart and my other friend telling me to shut down, shut up and just work. Because the work is pure. And it is. But I want to just know me for a moment. Me in the arms of my God.
I don’t want to know how I feel. I don’t want anyone’s advice. I want personal revelation. One on one. I just want to get out there in that rain. In that steady… silver… big city rain. And so I do.
…
I promised Erik I’d write him a Sunday sermon. But I have so much to say on Saturday. I have a knack, Erik, for making something out of nothing. This can be very good. This can be very bad. Sometimes I second guess the people with the best intentions. All the times, I distrust the dogma and resist man’s authority. I want to talk about God’s laws. I want to talk about what, I believe, we all know as truth in our hearts.
I’ve heard it said that “Christ made us perfect but we live our lives imperfectly.”
What?
Fear is imperfect? Passion is imperfect? Dedication is imperfect? *What* is imperfect? If we do not lie to one another, and we do not steal from one another, and we are gentle and honest and forthright… are we perfect? No, not perfect like Christ. Perfect for each other. Perfect together.
Let’s go smaller, Erik. Let’s just talk about our community, the forum, on the web. Even smaller. Your family. Again smaller just me and you, two brand new friends. Less than a month friends. Where are the seeds of Christ?
You know realty. You know fear and pain and guilt and shame and hiding and finding and being born again. You know these things. In your heart. All these feelings are seeds of Christ. (And that you isn’t just you, Erik, it’s all of us.) Along with the loyalty and passion, and anger and confusion, and crying and laughing, and all of mine and MG’s typos, and speed chatting, and IMVU crashes, and PMs that make no sense (because I don’t want them to), and posts that make me laugh, think or say “Woot!” In everything I see the hand of Christ that is without platitude or excuse. That is vibrant and living. Like “bad guy” Eris trying to sway “good grrl” MG to walk on the dark side—it simply won’t happen. You don’t leap off the path of Christ once you find it and know it and feel it under your feet and in your heart. You don’t dance with the devil once you know the Divine. You throw fruit at the devil in the pale moonlight.
So, my new friend, and all my “old” friends, be not guided by righteousness or indignation. Be not guided by worldly means. Be guided by the seed of Christ that whispers from your heart. By the passion you feel for your art. By the impassioned vision that calls to you. By your own personal revelation. He is telling you to live, Erik. He is telling you to rejoice. Take tomorrow—Sunday, the Sabbath—and find a way to do just that. Find that thing that fills your heart with joy.
E.J.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Enthusiasm
Enthusiasm (ancient Greek: enthousiasmos) originally meant inspiration or possession by the presence of a god. In current vernacular the word simply means enjoyment, interest, or approval. Isn't that an unfortunate and even sad sign of the times?
The addictive Wikipedia tells us: "Enthusiasm: root - en-theos = in God. An enthusiast is a person inspired by god. Theopneustos = literally God breathed. When the early Christians would see someone convert to Christianity there was this overwhelming joy that followed the gift of Salvation but they had a problem: There was no word to describe this feeling. So they combined the two words (in God) creating the word (entheos) from which we get the English word Enthusiasm."
Is this the perfect example of the stripping of religion and Christ from our everyday lives? Yeah, sure, we all know to be outraged or at least incredulous over "Xmas" and "Winter Break," but the bastardization of powerful words like "enthusiasm" is more subtle and much more damaging.
How much have Christians contributed to the world? If you didn't immediately shout "Immeasurably!" then you don't know Christian history. But today I'm just talking about this one word. A word that I can't let go of lately.
The journey started with a feeling. All the best journeys do. I wanted to describe to someone far away what I felt in my heart. I cannot *stand* using platitudes and clichés and I'm annoyed when they leap to my mind. It's like my aversion to "overplayed" music; Yeah, I might *love* a song but if I hear it seven times a day every time I turn on the radio, I will hate it by the end of day three.
So how did I feel? "Inspired"? Well, yeah. But still, kind of weak. "Amazed"? So banal. "Fervor"? Hmm. That was getting closer. And that word, smacked into Google, my other constant companion like Wikipedia, brought me to the definition of "enthusiasm" as "Its uses are confined to a belief in religious inspiration, or to intense religious fervor or emotion."
!!!
"Really?!" I said aloud. "Geesh, that's not the 'enthusiasm' I've ever used before." But, omgosh, that is the enthusiasm I'm feeling today. Let me try to use this incredible, *Christian* word in a sentence... or attached to twelve sentences.
"When I see you, a great enthusiasm races through my body, stops my heart and I cannot breathe. I am frozen in heat, a warmth like tropical ocean tides, coursing over me. My eyes tear. I am moved from where I am to a place where you are. Where we are together. When I see you again, I know I'll be lost and found in your gaze. I am confounded by the power of your touch, memories of your hands on my face. Across thousands of miles, it is your words, white on black, blinking back at me across this digital age, that paint us together. A landscape of my amazement. Of you tearing down walls of false assumptions about what is possible and what is real. I knew at once that you were strong. I did not know until now that I was in love with you."
Yeah, enthusiasm is a very Terrapyre word.
E.J.
The addictive Wikipedia tells us: "Enthusiasm: root - en-theos = in God. An enthusiast is a person inspired by god. Theopneustos = literally God breathed. When the early Christians would see someone convert to Christianity there was this overwhelming joy that followed the gift of Salvation but they had a problem: There was no word to describe this feeling. So they combined the two words (in God) creating the word (entheos) from which we get the English word Enthusiasm."
Is this the perfect example of the stripping of religion and Christ from our everyday lives? Yeah, sure, we all know to be outraged or at least incredulous over "Xmas" and "Winter Break," but the bastardization of powerful words like "enthusiasm" is more subtle and much more damaging.
How much have Christians contributed to the world? If you didn't immediately shout "Immeasurably!" then you don't know Christian history. But today I'm just talking about this one word. A word that I can't let go of lately.
The journey started with a feeling. All the best journeys do. I wanted to describe to someone far away what I felt in my heart. I cannot *stand* using platitudes and clichés and I'm annoyed when they leap to my mind. It's like my aversion to "overplayed" music; Yeah, I might *love* a song but if I hear it seven times a day every time I turn on the radio, I will hate it by the end of day three.
So how did I feel? "Inspired"? Well, yeah. But still, kind of weak. "Amazed"? So banal. "Fervor"? Hmm. That was getting closer. And that word, smacked into Google, my other constant companion like Wikipedia, brought me to the definition of "enthusiasm" as "Its uses are confined to a belief in religious inspiration, or to intense religious fervor or emotion."
!!!
"Really?!" I said aloud. "Geesh, that's not the 'enthusiasm' I've ever used before." But, omgosh, that is the enthusiasm I'm feeling today. Let me try to use this incredible, *Christian* word in a sentence... or attached to twelve sentences.
"When I see you, a great enthusiasm races through my body, stops my heart and I cannot breathe. I am frozen in heat, a warmth like tropical ocean tides, coursing over me. My eyes tear. I am moved from where I am to a place where you are. Where we are together. When I see you again, I know I'll be lost and found in your gaze. I am confounded by the power of your touch, memories of your hands on my face. Across thousands of miles, it is your words, white on black, blinking back at me across this digital age, that paint us together. A landscape of my amazement. Of you tearing down walls of false assumptions about what is possible and what is real. I knew at once that you were strong. I did not know until now that I was in love with you."
Yeah, enthusiasm is a very Terrapyre word.
E.J.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Have Faith
Just gotta have it. There’s no way to get through this life without it. I see all kinds of people everyday. So many of them have replaced faith—you know, Faith—with money or drugs. But wow do these “Earthly” things wear off at the worst possible moments. Your happiness depends on something that man can take away? Ooo-boy. That’s pretty risky right there.
Now I’m not a religious fanatic (okay, maybe I am in my own way) wearing blinders through life. I’m also not comfortably cushioned from sharp realities like unpaid medical bills, or late fees. I don’t live in grant-supported wonderland; I live in the real world and I believe, kinda like my friend Sha quoted recently, that life isn’t living without gritty realities.
“Faith is not a leap to make. Faith is the path you take.” Miriam Sunchild, a New Testament Christian speaker and writer, says that. She means that you don’t grab hold of Faith when you need to leap a chasm. You walk with Faith, on the impassioned path, every single day. And when you do, those chasms that open up, gaping and ugly in all our real lives, will be noticed with a mere glance as we cross over, barely breaking our strike, using the sturdy bridge that Faith has made us.
My friends Jennifer and Cris have a daughter named Faith. Jennifer likes to tease that Faith was named after a certain vampire slayer but Cris just rolls her eyes. Both moms are New Testament Christians and pretty darn kickin’ cool. Faith, however, is a strong-willed, wild, jump-off-the-back-of-the-couch, loving, crazy beast. She also has Type 1 diabetes. That’s the type that doesn’t come from primarily being under-active or overweight; doctors have no idea where it comes from. It just kills the pancreas and laughs. It strikes mostly children. Faith wasn’t even two years old.
Now this means that Faith lives with nine blood checks and seven shots a day. Every day. No exceptions. Her parents keep tight control on her condition and, at almost six years old, she has absolutely no complications or side-effects and she has never been hospitalized. However, in the beginning, the diagnosis was slow coming. And other things, like Cooms (a blood incompatibility with her biological mom, Jennifer) had her in and out of the hospital, under special lights, on IVs, etc. At one point, so fed up with IV tubes and boards to keep her arm straight, Faith whacked one of the nurses over the head and broke the little board right in half. Cris still have that board in her hope chest.
Okay... maybe Faith *was* named after the vampire slayer ;)
In the beginning, when her moms were at their wits’ and their hearts’ end, when tears and prayers didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere, a family member sent them a letter. The letter said simply, “You named her Faith. There must have been a reason. She *will* pull through. You just have to look to Faith.”
Are you looking to Faith or man for your answers? Don’t want to talk to me about Christ? Fine. Cool. “Whatev,” as Brianne might say. I’m over it, okay? But what about Faith? Are you plunging ahead to make every decision that will kill or save you? Or are you asking someone? Are you asking Faith? Are you walking your path with your mortal, flawed body, or are you walking—running, flying—with your eternal body?
People say, “Follow your heart.” I’m asking you to follow your Faith. Faith outlives even the heart.
In Fellowship,
E.J.
Now I’m not a religious fanatic (okay, maybe I am in my own way) wearing blinders through life. I’m also not comfortably cushioned from sharp realities like unpaid medical bills, or late fees. I don’t live in grant-supported wonderland; I live in the real world and I believe, kinda like my friend Sha quoted recently, that life isn’t living without gritty realities.
“Faith is not a leap to make. Faith is the path you take.” Miriam Sunchild, a New Testament Christian speaker and writer, says that. She means that you don’t grab hold of Faith when you need to leap a chasm. You walk with Faith, on the impassioned path, every single day. And when you do, those chasms that open up, gaping and ugly in all our real lives, will be noticed with a mere glance as we cross over, barely breaking our strike, using the sturdy bridge that Faith has made us.
My friends Jennifer and Cris have a daughter named Faith. Jennifer likes to tease that Faith was named after a certain vampire slayer but Cris just rolls her eyes. Both moms are New Testament Christians and pretty darn kickin’ cool. Faith, however, is a strong-willed, wild, jump-off-the-back-of-the-couch, loving, crazy beast. She also has Type 1 diabetes. That’s the type that doesn’t come from primarily being under-active or overweight; doctors have no idea where it comes from. It just kills the pancreas and laughs. It strikes mostly children. Faith wasn’t even two years old.
Now this means that Faith lives with nine blood checks and seven shots a day. Every day. No exceptions. Her parents keep tight control on her condition and, at almost six years old, she has absolutely no complications or side-effects and she has never been hospitalized. However, in the beginning, the diagnosis was slow coming. And other things, like Cooms (a blood incompatibility with her biological mom, Jennifer) had her in and out of the hospital, under special lights, on IVs, etc. At one point, so fed up with IV tubes and boards to keep her arm straight, Faith whacked one of the nurses over the head and broke the little board right in half. Cris still have that board in her hope chest.
Okay... maybe Faith *was* named after the vampire slayer ;)
In the beginning, when her moms were at their wits’ and their hearts’ end, when tears and prayers didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere, a family member sent them a letter. The letter said simply, “You named her Faith. There must have been a reason. She *will* pull through. You just have to look to Faith.”
Are you looking to Faith or man for your answers? Don’t want to talk to me about Christ? Fine. Cool. “Whatev,” as Brianne might say. I’m over it, okay? But what about Faith? Are you plunging ahead to make every decision that will kill or save you? Or are you asking someone? Are you asking Faith? Are you walking your path with your mortal, flawed body, or are you walking—running, flying—with your eternal body?
People say, “Follow your heart.” I’m asking you to follow your Faith. Faith outlives even the heart.
In Fellowship,
E.J.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Welcome to my wikiWorld
There’s this saying, “We all make our own reality.” On the surface, most of us might readily agree. But then, after a few sips of coffee, gazing over the rim into the smiling eyes of a thinking companion, I find myself scrunching up my face. “You know, actually...” and I’m away on a roll.
If you’re reading this blog you probably already know who I am. I’m a delightfully small-time game designer whose game world kinda, well, caught on. Now a single trading card game (that has only appeared to a lucky few as Beta Decks and doesn’t launch as National Decks until 2009) is probably better known for the most excellent fiction based in the world.
Mardi Gras 3000 is taking off but not “over-night sensation” garbage. I met a grrl when I was still a teen-ager. She was a writer. She got burned by a corporate press. She bought her own publishing house. Years later, I met her again at a convention. I pitched a game to her. She pushed me to, “Make It So!” I did. She published it. Right about that time, she was talking to some other grrls at a bookstore (kinda how she met me way back). She met Launa. Launa was a teen. Launa knew php. Launa liked to build forums... and she was also the author of half a dozen books.
Launa interns for my friend. She builds a forum for MG3K. She posts on other forums about MG3K. Writers start to come to the forum... and they start to build a world.
Now time tests everyone. The online world can seem less important and less real than the offline world. But time shows who sees the Vision of this little ole idea. Some writers drift away. Some try and can’t make it work. Then others start to come in. Word spreads. And then the words start to arrive. After that, it’s the snowball effect. Little excerpts and ideas lead to the 800 word “Introducing the Tribe” and the 8,000 word “Immortal Dreaming.” Then 1,500 word “Immortal Waking: Eris” and 1,800 word “Immortal Waking: Chiron.” And, of course, 56,000 word “Harper,” a full novel of riveting words.
Brianne, Launa, Pahmela, Eric, Luz, Jean and Sha, are joined by Erik, and then artists Anthony and Abbie. Cris, our dedicated, very hands-on, weekly phone calls and lots of encouragement editor joins the ranks as a writer as well. The world grows and grows.
Erik posts on the forum: “I’m glad to have found this wikiworld.”
And it hits me. That’s what we have. When all the writers tell me (and they tell me this a lot, and I love them for it): “Thank you for inviting us into your world!” I feel that something is a little off. And that’s what it is. This isn’t *my* world. I’m just an editor. And not even the Senior Editor LOL This is *our* world. This a world we’re creating together. We’re creating our own realities. We’re writing a world that we can all play in.
Heck, dear reader, this is YOUR world. Come join us.
http://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/index.php
E.J.
If you’re reading this blog you probably already know who I am. I’m a delightfully small-time game designer whose game world kinda, well, caught on. Now a single trading card game (that has only appeared to a lucky few as Beta Decks and doesn’t launch as National Decks until 2009) is probably better known for the most excellent fiction based in the world.
Mardi Gras 3000 is taking off but not “over-night sensation” garbage. I met a grrl when I was still a teen-ager. She was a writer. She got burned by a corporate press. She bought her own publishing house. Years later, I met her again at a convention. I pitched a game to her. She pushed me to, “Make It So!” I did. She published it. Right about that time, she was talking to some other grrls at a bookstore (kinda how she met me way back). She met Launa. Launa was a teen. Launa knew php. Launa liked to build forums... and she was also the author of half a dozen books.
Launa interns for my friend. She builds a forum for MG3K. She posts on other forums about MG3K. Writers start to come to the forum... and they start to build a world.
Now time tests everyone. The online world can seem less important and less real than the offline world. But time shows who sees the Vision of this little ole idea. Some writers drift away. Some try and can’t make it work. Then others start to come in. Word spreads. And then the words start to arrive. After that, it’s the snowball effect. Little excerpts and ideas lead to the 800 word “Introducing the Tribe” and the 8,000 word “Immortal Dreaming.” Then 1,500 word “Immortal Waking: Eris” and 1,800 word “Immortal Waking: Chiron.” And, of course, 56,000 word “Harper,” a full novel of riveting words.
Brianne, Launa, Pahmela, Eric, Luz, Jean and Sha, are joined by Erik, and then artists Anthony and Abbie. Cris, our dedicated, very hands-on, weekly phone calls and lots of encouragement editor joins the ranks as a writer as well. The world grows and grows.
Erik posts on the forum: “I’m glad to have found this wikiworld.”
And it hits me. That’s what we have. When all the writers tell me (and they tell me this a lot, and I love them for it): “Thank you for inviting us into your world!” I feel that something is a little off. And that’s what it is. This isn’t *my* world. I’m just an editor. And not even the Senior Editor LOL This is *our* world. This a world we’re creating together. We’re creating our own realities. We’re writing a world that we can all play in.
Heck, dear reader, this is YOUR world. Come join us.
http://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/index.php
E.J.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Killing our Artists
I have a friend who never complains. Her attitude -- no, her personal religion -- is that no matter what life throws you (and I seriously mean "no matter what") you better just be glad to be alive. You just deal with it and fight on.
She might have this approach for a wide variety of reasons. Her father was murdered when she was five. The first person she seriously dated unexpectedly committed suicide. As a preteen she was abducted by a distant relative and repeatedly raped. As a grown woman and a mother, she struggles with Chronic Fatigue and two amazing but special needs children. She says to all of this: "What does not kill me, makes me stronger." And she says it with this half-smile, this sad/wise/thankful grin that has broken and melted my heart in turns.
I like to call her and ask, "So, what's bothering you today?" I don't think anyone in their right mind would ever ask her this question because, eventually, she'd get so annoyed she'd pop 'em one. But I always dare to ask. On Friday she actually answered me, "We're killing our artists."
And we are.
I'm not going to repeat the polite excuses she offered up for all the parents who quash the creative and the beautiful in their children. I'm not that kind. There is no excuse. There should only be in your face confrontation condoned in the name of saving society from its own soulless unravelling.
Think I'm being dramatic? Of course I'm being dramatic. This is a *blog.* No one reads or writes a blog about grass growing... unless they tie it to the cosmic unravelling of every spark of genius and innovative thought.
You're online right now. You probably love quizs. Here's a quiz:
Is it more socially acceptable for a teen to:
A) watch reality TV with the family
B) sit in his room and write
C) message friends on MySpace
D) use the Internet to research history for a role-playing game he's creating
E) work full-time at a grocery store
F) work part-time at a publishing house
G) go to college at eighteen
H) wait until going to college feels right
How'd you answer? Do you have kids? Were you being honest? Do you have kids for eighteen years or for life? When do you expect/want your kids to move out? When will you shift how you think about them from your little angels to other adults who just up your water and electric bills? When does the "family home" become "my house"?
My buddy Cris says to her kids, "This isn't *my* house. This is our house. Your rooms are not your only spaces. Every room is your room." I seriously doubt that Cris' kids will move out until they marry. Cris' kids have been known to say, "Mama, I really need some down time today." And she makes that happen.
Are *you* your child's patron?
Or are you there to break his will and make him see the error of his ways?
It should go without saying: We each have one life. We can make only our own choices. Our children are not ours to shape (read: manipulate). Our children are ours to guide, to love, and to marvel at.
I cannot *imagine* Cris turning to her son and saying, "You've been silently drawing for six hours! Get off your bum and go outside and play football!" I *can* imagine her praising him endlessly for his creative mind -- even as she is washing floors, making meals, and doing dishes. Why? Because *she* chose to have children.
International bestselling author Jeanette Winterson writes in her book "Weight:"
"Right now, human beings as a mass, have a gruesome appetite for what they call 'real', whether it's Reality TV or the kind of plodding fiction that only works as low-grade documentary, or at the better end, the factual programmes and biographies and 'true life' accounts that occupy the space where imagination used to sit.
"Such a phenomenon points to a terror of the inner life, of the sublime, of the poetic, of the non-material, of the contemplative."
If you don't feel the cold fingers of dread and sudden illumination chill you when you read that, if you're not nodding your head and murmuring, "Dear God, that's it." Then read it again. If you aren't angry, you aren't paying attention. Let me give it to you like this:
We want our kids to grow up, get out, a do what we tell them is valuable because then we, as parents, as human beings, are valuable. We've raised 'em right. We've done good.
We want our children to have jobs in the real world -- the dirty, hard, tangible world. Not jobs that start in dreams. Not jobs that they even enjoy.
We want all of this because that's what *we* did, damn it, and if they don't do what we did (or what we couldn't do) than we are no longer valid. We are no longer current. We are outdated and ridiculous.
"My son is an artist. He lives at home. He paints twelve hours a day. He makes no mess for me. He sits and eats all three meals with me and we talk. We meet at midnight and share a mug of tea. My son is an artist. Sometimes he sells his paintings. Sometimes I just get to hang them on my walls. He lives with me. I am his father. I am so proud of him I could burst. He is gentle and kind. He is loving and funny. I am so glad he didn't do what his mother told him and grow up to be a doctor."
In college, the boy across the hall had that taped to his door. It was a prose-poem written by his dad in blue ballpoint. When we graduated (and he moved back home), I asked if I could have it. "Sure," he shrugged. "I don't need it now. I'll have my dad." I've kept it ever since.
Because creative children are arcane and wonderful. They are unexpected and passionate. They are fiery and hard to live with. They are temperamental. They are be real snits one minute and loving snugglers the next. They are flighty and forgetful. They whine. They will write or paint or draw for fourteen hours and forget to take out the trash. They can have *real* conversations with you about *real* things before they're old enough to drive... heck, before they're old enough to tie their own shoes.
Creative children *scare* mundane parents. They scare mundane society. They *are* the sublime, the poetic, the non-material, the contemplative. They are our darkest fears and our brightest hopes all laid out in the open. They are smarter than us. They are better than us. They have already ascended this dirty and hard world and found their own heaven.
Are you your daughter's patron?
Or are you doing her a favor by handing her a reality check signed with your tough love?
"Immortal Madre, I wanna walk away from a lucrative career. I wanna create an open universe with a trading card game, a role-playing game, and novels, where everyone is welcome to create together. All of this will bring glory to Christ and the gentle, underlying message will touch hearts and change souls. It will take time. But it's God's work. It's good work. I feel it in my heart. I feel it in my everything. And I'm ready."
And she answered, "Let me be your patron."
She might have this approach for a wide variety of reasons. Her father was murdered when she was five. The first person she seriously dated unexpectedly committed suicide. As a preteen she was abducted by a distant relative and repeatedly raped. As a grown woman and a mother, she struggles with Chronic Fatigue and two amazing but special needs children. She says to all of this: "What does not kill me, makes me stronger." And she says it with this half-smile, this sad/wise/thankful grin that has broken and melted my heart in turns.
I like to call her and ask, "So, what's bothering you today?" I don't think anyone in their right mind would ever ask her this question because, eventually, she'd get so annoyed she'd pop 'em one. But I always dare to ask. On Friday she actually answered me, "We're killing our artists."
And we are.
I'm not going to repeat the polite excuses she offered up for all the parents who quash the creative and the beautiful in their children. I'm not that kind. There is no excuse. There should only be in your face confrontation condoned in the name of saving society from its own soulless unravelling.
Think I'm being dramatic? Of course I'm being dramatic. This is a *blog.* No one reads or writes a blog about grass growing... unless they tie it to the cosmic unravelling of every spark of genius and innovative thought.
You're online right now. You probably love quizs. Here's a quiz:
Is it more socially acceptable for a teen to:
A) watch reality TV with the family
B) sit in his room and write
C) message friends on MySpace
D) use the Internet to research history for a role-playing game he's creating
E) work full-time at a grocery store
F) work part-time at a publishing house
G) go to college at eighteen
H) wait until going to college feels right
How'd you answer? Do you have kids? Were you being honest? Do you have kids for eighteen years or for life? When do you expect/want your kids to move out? When will you shift how you think about them from your little angels to other adults who just up your water and electric bills? When does the "family home" become "my house"?
My buddy Cris says to her kids, "This isn't *my* house. This is our house. Your rooms are not your only spaces. Every room is your room." I seriously doubt that Cris' kids will move out until they marry. Cris' kids have been known to say, "Mama, I really need some down time today." And she makes that happen.
Are *you* your child's patron?
Or are you there to break his will and make him see the error of his ways?
It should go without saying: We each have one life. We can make only our own choices. Our children are not ours to shape (read: manipulate). Our children are ours to guide, to love, and to marvel at.
I cannot *imagine* Cris turning to her son and saying, "You've been silently drawing for six hours! Get off your bum and go outside and play football!" I *can* imagine her praising him endlessly for his creative mind -- even as she is washing floors, making meals, and doing dishes. Why? Because *she* chose to have children.
International bestselling author Jeanette Winterson writes in her book "Weight:"
"Right now, human beings as a mass, have a gruesome appetite for what they call 'real', whether it's Reality TV or the kind of plodding fiction that only works as low-grade documentary, or at the better end, the factual programmes and biographies and 'true life' accounts that occupy the space where imagination used to sit.
"Such a phenomenon points to a terror of the inner life, of the sublime, of the poetic, of the non-material, of the contemplative."
If you don't feel the cold fingers of dread and sudden illumination chill you when you read that, if you're not nodding your head and murmuring, "Dear God, that's it." Then read it again. If you aren't angry, you aren't paying attention. Let me give it to you like this:
We want our kids to grow up, get out, a do what we tell them is valuable because then we, as parents, as human beings, are valuable. We've raised 'em right. We've done good.
We want our children to have jobs in the real world -- the dirty, hard, tangible world. Not jobs that start in dreams. Not jobs that they even enjoy.
We want all of this because that's what *we* did, damn it, and if they don't do what we did (or what we couldn't do) than we are no longer valid. We are no longer current. We are outdated and ridiculous.
"My son is an artist. He lives at home. He paints twelve hours a day. He makes no mess for me. He sits and eats all three meals with me and we talk. We meet at midnight and share a mug of tea. My son is an artist. Sometimes he sells his paintings. Sometimes I just get to hang them on my walls. He lives with me. I am his father. I am so proud of him I could burst. He is gentle and kind. He is loving and funny. I am so glad he didn't do what his mother told him and grow up to be a doctor."
In college, the boy across the hall had that taped to his door. It was a prose-poem written by his dad in blue ballpoint. When we graduated (and he moved back home), I asked if I could have it. "Sure," he shrugged. "I don't need it now. I'll have my dad." I've kept it ever since.
Because creative children are arcane and wonderful. They are unexpected and passionate. They are fiery and hard to live with. They are temperamental. They are be real snits one minute and loving snugglers the next. They are flighty and forgetful. They whine. They will write or paint or draw for fourteen hours and forget to take out the trash. They can have *real* conversations with you about *real* things before they're old enough to drive... heck, before they're old enough to tie their own shoes.
Creative children *scare* mundane parents. They scare mundane society. They *are* the sublime, the poetic, the non-material, the contemplative. They are our darkest fears and our brightest hopes all laid out in the open. They are smarter than us. They are better than us. They have already ascended this dirty and hard world and found their own heaven.
Are you your daughter's patron?
Or are you doing her a favor by handing her a reality check signed with your tough love?
"Immortal Madre, I wanna walk away from a lucrative career. I wanna create an open universe with a trading card game, a role-playing game, and novels, where everyone is welcome to create together. All of this will bring glory to Christ and the gentle, underlying message will touch hearts and change souls. It will take time. But it's God's work. It's good work. I feel it in my heart. I feel it in my everything. And I'm ready."
And she answered, "Let me be your patron."
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Tired in the Morning
I watch her from across the room.
She’s contemplating her interior spaces.
Cathedrals filled with stain glass memories
from five countries and more than fifty years.
Elegant experience. She turns heads then, now.
What are you thinking?
I would never presume to ask.
But if I did I know the ghost of a smile I’d receive.
The sadness in the cinnabar eyes.
The “sweetheart” or “honey”
prefacing the “Don’t worry. Nothing.”
It’s the End Times, Mom. You down with that?
She wouldn’t be rattled.
Tired of me writing about my Immortal Madre?
Yeah, Patrick, maybe you’re ripe for another shower scene, huh?
Brianne is rolling her eyes, “Whatev.”
There’s a man sitting alone across the cluster of small round tables.
He is perfectly framed, the image of reflection,
the backdrop of Starbucks mermaids and sirens.
Dear God, he looks so alone.
He’s Greek or Italian or some other olive-skinned,
rugged Mediterranean locale.
When he ordered his drink, his accent was thick, a rumble,
a sound I want to listen to.
His black curls are shot with silver.
His wide brown eyes close for a moment,
thick black lashes like butterfly kisses.
“Why isn’t he drinking, Mom?” I ask impulsively.
She doesn’t look up from the New York Times.
“Because he isn’t here for the coffee.”
Thirty minutes later he leaves.
The full tall-cup drops into the trash.
$2.75. It makes a solid sound. He makes no sound.
I watch him walk away into a crisp winter world.
Tired of me writing with my contemplative muse on my shoulder?
Rather having a rave? A flash of speed? A lap dance?
Launa laughs. “You’re fine, grrl. Just write.”
Christmas bells, Christmas bells, shopping all the day.
Why do we always finds ourselves at the mall?
“How about Victoria’s Secrets?”
I give her an incredulous look and steal the last bite of Cinnabon.
“How about Wilson’s Suede and Leather?”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
She rolls her eyes at me, “So glad I had a son.”
But we wind up at a kiosk with cheap steel jewelry.
I like the heavy weight of the rings on my fingers.
“I want a blank book.”
“Only if it plugs into a USB,” I tell her.
“Sometimes, sweetheart, I write things
that I have no intention of sharing.”
And she walks into Hallmark. Leaving me standing, staring.
Some yuppie in a business suit with a Blackberry
openly cruises her – short feathered hair, cinnamon skin,
tailored jacket and knee-length skirt.
I consider an elbow to the gut and a growl,
“Hey, bud, that’s my mom.”
Tired of the Freudian, Old World vignettes?
Feeling like my life -- unlike your life -- is stuck in rehash?
Wondering why I don't just:
Grow Up
Get Over It
Get a Life, Baby
Looking for a review of Halo 3 (cr*p) or BioShock (uh...)
to put the “Gamer” with “Grrl”?
Slinky pushes auburn bangs out of her face. Looks at me with cool blue eyes. Hands me a cup of coffee because suddenly I can't breathe. “You know I’m always reading.”
Yeah. Don’t I know.
I know so well who’s out there.
She’s contemplating her interior spaces.
Cathedrals filled with stain glass memories
from five countries and more than fifty years.
Elegant experience. She turns heads then, now.
What are you thinking?
I would never presume to ask.
But if I did I know the ghost of a smile I’d receive.
The sadness in the cinnabar eyes.
The “sweetheart” or “honey”
prefacing the “Don’t worry. Nothing.”
It’s the End Times, Mom. You down with that?
She wouldn’t be rattled.
Tired of me writing about my Immortal Madre?
Yeah, Patrick, maybe you’re ripe for another shower scene, huh?
Brianne is rolling her eyes, “Whatev.”
There’s a man sitting alone across the cluster of small round tables.
He is perfectly framed, the image of reflection,
the backdrop of Starbucks mermaids and sirens.
Dear God, he looks so alone.
He’s Greek or Italian or some other olive-skinned,
rugged Mediterranean locale.
When he ordered his drink, his accent was thick, a rumble,
a sound I want to listen to.
His black curls are shot with silver.
His wide brown eyes close for a moment,
thick black lashes like butterfly kisses.
“Why isn’t he drinking, Mom?” I ask impulsively.
She doesn’t look up from the New York Times.
“Because he isn’t here for the coffee.”
Thirty minutes later he leaves.
The full tall-cup drops into the trash.
$2.75. It makes a solid sound. He makes no sound.
I watch him walk away into a crisp winter world.
Tired of me writing with my contemplative muse on my shoulder?
Rather having a rave? A flash of speed? A lap dance?
Launa laughs. “You’re fine, grrl. Just write.”
Christmas bells, Christmas bells, shopping all the day.
Why do we always finds ourselves at the mall?
“How about Victoria’s Secrets?”
I give her an incredulous look and steal the last bite of Cinnabon.
“How about Wilson’s Suede and Leather?”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
She rolls her eyes at me, “So glad I had a son.”
But we wind up at a kiosk with cheap steel jewelry.
I like the heavy weight of the rings on my fingers.
“I want a blank book.”
“Only if it plugs into a USB,” I tell her.
“Sometimes, sweetheart, I write things
that I have no intention of sharing.”
And she walks into Hallmark. Leaving me standing, staring.
Some yuppie in a business suit with a Blackberry
openly cruises her – short feathered hair, cinnamon skin,
tailored jacket and knee-length skirt.
I consider an elbow to the gut and a growl,
“Hey, bud, that’s my mom.”
Tired of the Freudian, Old World vignettes?
Feeling like my life -- unlike your life -- is stuck in rehash?
Wondering why I don't just:
Grow Up
Get Over It
Get a Life, Baby
Looking for a review of Halo 3 (cr*p) or BioShock (uh...)
to put the “Gamer” with “Grrl”?
Slinky pushes auburn bangs out of her face. Looks at me with cool blue eyes. Hands me a cup of coffee because suddenly I can't breathe. “You know I’m always reading.”
Yeah. Don’t I know.
I know so well who’s out there.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Minister2Me, Baby
A man stopped me on the street today. Downtown Seattle. Cold day. Silver sky. Got in my space. Spoke too loudly. Held a black Bible at chest level. Just under his fully buttoned, very white shirt. He spied me crossing the street. In my riding chaps and leather jacket buttoned up against the cold. My dark hair streaked with neon red because I'm off work 'til January.
He said (it wasn't asked), "Have you been saved?" He knew what he thought the answer was. He was already opening his mouth to continue when I said, "How many have you saved today?"
There was an awkward moment. I suppose it was awkward, I mean. He looked kind of uncomfortable. And I know my Immortal Madre (that's mom's nickname) squeezed my elbow really hard. I just kept talking.
"I can't imagine that you reach many young people with this approach. Teens. Twentysomethings. They're so wary of the authority figures that this culture shoves down their throats. Plus so many aren't blessed with great parents in the first place. I mean, Christ really bucked the system, didn't He? Just like every teenager boarding in the no loiter zones. Bet they never think much about how Christ would have sat down on the edge of the half-pipe with them and talked about what to do the next time their dad got drunk and starting busting heads. Bet Christ would talk about survival and addiction and places to go for help. Not just some turn the other cheek and pray stuff.
"Is that your Bible? Your own Bible? And of course it would be too easy to ask, Have you read it? Sure you have. My Bible is pretty dog-eared and marked up and stuff. It also fits in my back pocket and all the best parts fit in my head, already translated into pop speak. New Testament Christians have got it easy, I guess.
"I have a friend who recruits without a Bible. She's brought the Light into more people's lives than anyone else I know. She's just chill. She's just got it all going on in here, you know? In her heart. She talks about Christ and you have to listen. She smiles at everyone and has this gentle wit. She's tough as nails but she speaks the language of the people. Whatever people. She can just talk to anyone. Never cops an attitude. She just *moves* people. I wanna do that. I wanna bring people to Christ without ever saying, Have you been saved? Because you know what? Saying stuff like that conjures images of this right now, right here, for every punk, raver, raw, wild person without the Spirit. I say, Jesus Christ is your personal Lord, and they think: Here's some stuffed shift, up in my face, in the street, when I just wanna Christmas shop with my mom. That's what they think."
And because it's Seattle, and because I've been taught to project, and because I'm not too short, and Immortal Madre is just darn tall, and because Jesus likes it when people talk about Him, it happens to be that when I stop talking there are a bunch of people standing around and looking at me. They kind of look like they recognize me. They kind of look like they recognize the situation. Or maybe they just wanna catch their bus, get their newspaper, or cross the street.
Some young guy in a blue and green knit hat mutters, "Amen." And Mom and I walk on. I open the door of the bookstore for her, my helmet under my other arm, and Mom walks in and a few other people too. I'm standing there, feeling kinda mad. Feeling kind of like there isn't too many people willing to do this right. Feeling like spreading the Word isn't about pretentious, pious Scripture-spouting... Feeling like I wanna shout, "Build a house! Plant a garden! Design a game!! Do something *real* for them. Give a nonbeliever something to Believe in!"
Then I turn inside the store, and I look up for Mom. There she is, by the stairs going down into the cafe. Around her are strangers. Three or four. She is smiling at me in her elegant, composed way, and she beckons to me. "Let's all go downstairs for coffee," she says. "Come on, darling."
Come on, E.J. Come minister.
He said (it wasn't asked), "Have you been saved?" He knew what he thought the answer was. He was already opening his mouth to continue when I said, "How many have you saved today?"
There was an awkward moment. I suppose it was awkward, I mean. He looked kind of uncomfortable. And I know my Immortal Madre (that's mom's nickname) squeezed my elbow really hard. I just kept talking.
"I can't imagine that you reach many young people with this approach. Teens. Twentysomethings. They're so wary of the authority figures that this culture shoves down their throats. Plus so many aren't blessed with great parents in the first place. I mean, Christ really bucked the system, didn't He? Just like every teenager boarding in the no loiter zones. Bet they never think much about how Christ would have sat down on the edge of the half-pipe with them and talked about what to do the next time their dad got drunk and starting busting heads. Bet Christ would talk about survival and addiction and places to go for help. Not just some turn the other cheek and pray stuff.
"Is that your Bible? Your own Bible? And of course it would be too easy to ask, Have you read it? Sure you have. My Bible is pretty dog-eared and marked up and stuff. It also fits in my back pocket and all the best parts fit in my head, already translated into pop speak. New Testament Christians have got it easy, I guess.
"I have a friend who recruits without a Bible. She's brought the Light into more people's lives than anyone else I know. She's just chill. She's just got it all going on in here, you know? In her heart. She talks about Christ and you have to listen. She smiles at everyone and has this gentle wit. She's tough as nails but she speaks the language of the people. Whatever people. She can just talk to anyone. Never cops an attitude. She just *moves* people. I wanna do that. I wanna bring people to Christ without ever saying, Have you been saved? Because you know what? Saying stuff like that conjures images of this right now, right here, for every punk, raver, raw, wild person without the Spirit. I say, Jesus Christ is your personal Lord, and they think: Here's some stuffed shift, up in my face, in the street, when I just wanna Christmas shop with my mom. That's what they think."
And because it's Seattle, and because I've been taught to project, and because I'm not too short, and Immortal Madre is just darn tall, and because Jesus likes it when people talk about Him, it happens to be that when I stop talking there are a bunch of people standing around and looking at me. They kind of look like they recognize me. They kind of look like they recognize the situation. Or maybe they just wanna catch their bus, get their newspaper, or cross the street.
Some young guy in a blue and green knit hat mutters, "Amen." And Mom and I walk on. I open the door of the bookstore for her, my helmet under my other arm, and Mom walks in and a few other people too. I'm standing there, feeling kinda mad. Feeling kind of like there isn't too many people willing to do this right. Feeling like spreading the Word isn't about pretentious, pious Scripture-spouting... Feeling like I wanna shout, "Build a house! Plant a garden! Design a game!! Do something *real* for them. Give a nonbeliever something to Believe in!"
Then I turn inside the store, and I look up for Mom. There she is, by the stairs going down into the cafe. Around her are strangers. Three or four. She is smiling at me in her elegant, composed way, and she beckons to me. "Let's all go downstairs for coffee," she says. "Come on, darling."
Come on, E.J. Come minister.
Monday, May 21, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
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.**
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.**
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
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.
"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.
Monday, May 14, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Begin the Begin
Tonight, from 8 pm PST until 11:30 pm PST, five managers--General Manager, Votary Manager, CCG Manager, Production Manager and Online Manager--met online and discussed my future and the future of Mardi Gras 3000. No, not live or die type of future, but the fine details that make life worth living: the how, why, when and what. The nitty gritty. The chewy center of the Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop.
That's right my sweet friends. There have been changes large and small. I've added a fast and speedy link to subscribe to my blog (see the bottom of the sidebar) and my publisher has hired the Fab Five--the coveted manager positions have been filled.
Here's a link to Jennifer's post where she tells the interesting and even snarky and hilarious stories of the applicants:
http://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=140
The MG3K Forum is becoming a fiction hub and the announcements, player registration, rankings, tournament announcements, and all the other great stuff--including places to suggest/request new Instants--is shifting over to the official website to launch at the end of May. Actually, it looks like everything is happening in May! Go, May!
The Starter Deck (retail edition)... In-character fiction... A new sourcebook... A trade paperback sourcebook... The website with chat rooms, characters, free online play... It's all coming in May.
While the managers were doing what they do so well (which is organize and collaborate to incredible ends), Jennifer (publisher) and I were chatting. She reminded me of the evil truth: The Fab Five have sixty days to blow her mind. She's not a big woman. She's barely out of her twenties. But darn if folks are set to shivering by her. At Windstorm, she can veto anything. There's no Board telling her what her to do or taking risk by vote. It rests on her shoulders. All of it. And now, here's five people who really, really, really want these jobs and who have to fight to keep them.
Sound mean? It isn't. The approach is: No free lunch. You want it, you fight for it. Yes, you were better than the other applicants but now show your stuff. Are you all talk or can you innovate? I *love* this part.
Now is when miracles happen.
E.J.
That's right my sweet friends. There have been changes large and small. I've added a fast and speedy link to subscribe to my blog (see the bottom of the sidebar) and my publisher has hired the Fab Five--the coveted manager positions have been filled.
Here's a link to Jennifer's post where she tells the interesting and even snarky and hilarious stories of the applicants:
http://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=140
The MG3K Forum is becoming a fiction hub and the announcements, player registration, rankings, tournament announcements, and all the other great stuff--including places to suggest/request new Instants--is shifting over to the official website to launch at the end of May. Actually, it looks like everything is happening in May! Go, May!
The Starter Deck (retail edition)... In-character fiction... A new sourcebook... A trade paperback sourcebook... The website with chat rooms, characters, free online play... It's all coming in May.
While the managers were doing what they do so well (which is organize and collaborate to incredible ends), Jennifer (publisher) and I were chatting. She reminded me of the evil truth: The Fab Five have sixty days to blow her mind. She's not a big woman. She's barely out of her twenties. But darn if folks are set to shivering by her. At Windstorm, she can veto anything. There's no Board telling her what her to do or taking risk by vote. It rests on her shoulders. All of it. And now, here's five people who really, really, really want these jobs and who have to fight to keep them.
Sound mean? It isn't. The approach is: No free lunch. You want it, you fight for it. Yes, you were better than the other applicants but now show your stuff. Are you all talk or can you innovate? I *love* this part.
Now is when miracles happen.
E.J.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Once Again, From On High
Hey, Blog Readers (is there a hip name for that? Peeps who peep?), here's the word from my over-worked, under-paid, really-mean, seriously strict, incredibly freaking brilliant, still-in-business-and-thriving-when-nineteen-other-small-presses-have-folded-in-the-last-five-years, publisher (also known, I guess, as Jennifer) on the process of selecting five managers to handle all things Mardi Gras 3000.
And now, those words from our sponsor... ah, publisher:
Thank you, everyone, for the amazing response to these five positions. Between the interest from forum members and subscribers to E.J.’s blog, we received a total of fifty-five applications that included more than two hundred pages of intent to succeed.
The shortest application was two pages of dense, market-supported analysis and conclusions for the General Manager position, followed with a single page, full-color design of an “Angel Games” display. The longest application, for the Online Manager position, was forty-nine pages of code, diagrams, network connections, screen captures, and URLs to existing mock ups.
The application breakdown was:
4 General Manager
3 Production Manager
26 CCG Manager
13 Online Manager
9 Votary Manager
In honesty, I am running a day behind with all of this incredible reading. I won’t have my final decision until tomorrow. However, if your proposal isn’t one of the final three I’m considering in each category, I will be contacting you today before 6 pm PST.
There were so many qualified applicants! There were so many applicants that I had no qualms about, no hesitations, and such amazing ideas, that I wish I had twice as many positions. My final decisions will be posted tomorrow, along with contact information for each new manager, and a short description of their background and their plans.
Thank you again, everyone, for all the time and energy you invested in this process. I am certain that the Mardi Gras 3000 universe will be richer because of this reorganization.
Jennifer
Now, back to our show... E.J.!
Personally, I was surprised there were so few applicants. I've heard from many more than fifty players who has asked how they can get in on the "ground floor" of this start-up venture. I always told people the same things:
Be a team player. Be funny. Be witty. Be loyal. Call and chat with Jennifer or Cris. Send fan fiction. Play. Play. Play.
I'm not disappointed, exactly, because Jennifer mentions that the applications looked really good. And I guess, when the time comes to really get down, dirty and work, the crowds do thin out. I think a lot of players think that working for a gaming company is all play testing... but even playing testing can be grueling!
Another interesting fact was that only three or four (I can't remember exactly what she told me--our talk was no names just a lot of numbers) forum members applied. I think the other applicants came from players who are blog readers. I suppose I understand this, though. The forum, without an empowered and paid VM (who doesn't have to check in with me all the time and stuff like that), can really, understandably, hit long, slow periods. I'm the first to admit that I don't really know how to keep members posting. The blog, on the other hand, is pretty constant (at least, it's easier for me to maintain a pace) so the fact that players "gather" around the blog makes sense.
Everyone who applied knew the game really well and a couple people mentioned playing in unofficial tournaments at stores who have taken product from cold calls! (That will be followed up on for sure.)
I like the idea of the managers maybe all being players first and foremost. There's something cool about that. Not business types but real gaming types. Except the Votary Manager position! That one should be an author, I think. Oh. And the General Manager position. That should be a suit. Oh... uh... hm.
Of course, my opinion isn't needed this time, and I am *so* okay with that. This whole organizing of the universe was, in a small part, to allow me to concentrate on
And now, those words from our sponsor... ah, publisher:
Thank you, everyone, for the amazing response to these five positions. Between the interest from forum members and subscribers to E.J.’s blog, we received a total of fifty-five applications that included more than two hundred pages of intent to succeed.
The shortest application was two pages of dense, market-supported analysis and conclusions for the General Manager position, followed with a single page, full-color design of an “Angel Games” display. The longest application, for the Online Manager position, was forty-nine pages of code, diagrams, network connections, screen captures, and URLs to existing mock ups.
The application breakdown was:
4 General Manager
3 Production Manager
26 CCG Manager
13 Online Manager
9 Votary Manager
In honesty, I am running a day behind with all of this incredible reading. I won’t have my final decision until tomorrow. However, if your proposal isn’t one of the final three I’m considering in each category, I will be contacting you today before 6 pm PST.
There were so many qualified applicants! There were so many applicants that I had no qualms about, no hesitations, and such amazing ideas, that I wish I had twice as many positions. My final decisions will be posted tomorrow, along with contact information for each new manager, and a short description of their background and their plans.
Thank you again, everyone, for all the time and energy you invested in this process. I am certain that the Mardi Gras 3000 universe will be richer because of this reorganization.
Jennifer
Now, back to our show... E.J.!
Personally, I was surprised there were so few applicants. I've heard from many more than fifty players who has asked how they can get in on the "ground floor" of this start-up venture. I always told people the same things:
Be a team player. Be funny. Be witty. Be loyal. Call and chat with Jennifer or Cris. Send fan fiction. Play. Play. Play.
I'm not disappointed, exactly, because Jennifer mentions that the applications looked really good. And I guess, when the time comes to really get down, dirty and work, the crowds do thin out. I think a lot of players think that working for a gaming company is all play testing... but even playing testing can be grueling!
Another interesting fact was that only three or four (I can't remember exactly what she told me--our talk was no names just a lot of numbers) forum members applied. I think the other applicants came from players who are blog readers. I suppose I understand this, though. The forum, without an empowered and paid VM (who doesn't have to check in with me all the time and stuff like that), can really, understandably, hit long, slow periods. I'm the first to admit that I don't really know how to keep members posting. The blog, on the other hand, is pretty constant (at least, it's easier for me to maintain a pace) so the fact that players "gather" around the blog makes sense.
Everyone who applied knew the game really well and a couple people mentioned playing in unofficial tournaments at stores who have taken product from cold calls! (That will be followed up on for sure.)
I like the idea of the managers maybe all being players first and foremost. There's something cool about that. Not business types but real gaming types. Except the Votary Manager position! That one should be an author, I think. Oh. And the General Manager position. That should be a suit. Oh... uh... hm.
Of course, my opinion isn't needed this time, and I am *so* okay with that. This whole organizing of the universe was, in a small part, to allow me to concentrate on
game design. No more hosting, organizing, cajoling, etc. Just game design. Of course, I'll still post and blog but hopefully my inbox won't be so packed and everyone will get their answers faster... and the universe will grow at the speed of light!
I eagerly await the opening of the five golden envelopes...
E.J.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
How Cool is That?
I met the coolest guy today. Stop laughing! I’m serious! (Pip, you’re a punk, and I everything your little mind is thinking. Everything!)
So I ran into this... problem... with my top secret project. I’ve been trying to find this... component... and it has been eluding me. I was starting to feel a little bit hopeless, I must admit. It didn’t help when I sent an image (without the component) to my publisher and held the phone up to her daughter. Sweetie Faith said, “I like your picture very much. It’s quite good.” Thank you, I told her with a big smile. Then she added, “I especially like the hat!”
There was no hat.
A few days later (once I’d stopped crying), I called Cris (Remember her? My editor?) and begged for her help. She didn’t miss a beat: “Email Kevin Radthorne.”
Okay. If you are an epic-fantasy fan and you don’t know who I’m talking about then you need to sell your signed, first edition of “The Hobbit” to someone who deserves it. Kevin writes rich fantasy set in a world that has a decidedly Asian flavor. The books (there are two, divided into four thick parts) are so engaging you’d forget that it all isn’t real if it weren’t for the gorgeous magick. They are worthy reads, by far.
Oh, but that’s not all, no, that’s not all!
Kevin also did all four of his book covers. I know, I know. How do I know all this cool insidery stuff? Well, I’m just kick-butt that way. And Kevin says he does his covers on the Biography page of his website (www.kevinradthorne.com). Actually, I know about Kevin because, as an intern at Windstorm back in the day, I unpacked boxes of his books as one of my first duties. I feel in love with his artwork then and have been thrilled (and often breathless!) with his growing collection of artwork at his website.
I *could* have emailed Kevin ages ago, of course. I mean, I’m allowed to be a fangrrl because that only proves that I’m human (which you already know so well). But I never have because... I don’t know... I just never have. But now I not only had permission to write Kevin but a REASON!
Yeah, “Hey, you’re so cool, I love your books and artwork,” is a reason but he probably gets, like someone else I know, forty million fan messages and even though I *love* hearing from folks, I also sometimes feel overwhelmed. I want to answer everyone but, if I do, I will seriously run out of time to design anything new... let alone more MG3K expansions. I hate even saying that because I truly *do* love hearing from all the players. I haven’t heard a complaint in forever and there have been no more proposals of marriage (see what reprinting emails in my blog does?) and so I do feel a little thrill when my inbox fills up... but I also feel bad that folks have to wait so long to just get a little “Hey, thanks!” from pokey me.
Where was I?
Got it. So now I had a reason to write to Kevin and... I... did! Yay, me! Now here’s for the shocker: Kevin wrote back. Yes! I proposed a solution to my missing component problems and he graciously and gracefully told me, uh, that my solution sucked, basically. No, seriously, he actually just told me about this other way of getting what I needed—and tons of them in a handful of variants! It was so awesome.
Have you ever had a deal where you write to a stranger and they’re an ass? I mean, like they’re rude, brusk and heartless? Goodness knows, I’ve had this happen. Heck, I’ve had this happen with people I know! LOL! Writing Kevin was the exact OPPOSITE of that. He was helpful, patient, and articulate. But now for the kicker:
Kevin might (just might!) work with me on the new, top secret, super cool, totally amazing, international team project! OMG!
...
...
...
Wow. I just fainted. Hey, he might be too busy for a CCG (which can be draining and overwhelming in itself) but just the *idea* of working with him is amazing.
I must go to sleep now and dream of kick-butt characters all rendered in Radthorne style.
Hii-yahh! ;)
E.J.
So I ran into this... problem... with my top secret project. I’ve been trying to find this... component... and it has been eluding me. I was starting to feel a little bit hopeless, I must admit. It didn’t help when I sent an image (without the component) to my publisher and held the phone up to her daughter. Sweetie Faith said, “I like your picture very much. It’s quite good.” Thank you, I told her with a big smile. Then she added, “I especially like the hat!”
There was no hat.
A few days later (once I’d stopped crying), I called Cris (Remember her? My editor?) and begged for her help. She didn’t miss a beat: “Email Kevin Radthorne.”
Okay. If you are an epic-fantasy fan and you don’t know who I’m talking about then you need to sell your signed, first edition of “The Hobbit” to someone who deserves it. Kevin writes rich fantasy set in a world that has a decidedly Asian flavor. The books (there are two, divided into four thick parts) are so engaging you’d forget that it all isn’t real if it weren’t for the gorgeous magick. They are worthy reads, by far.
Oh, but that’s not all, no, that’s not all!
Kevin also did all four of his book covers. I know, I know. How do I know all this cool insidery stuff? Well, I’m just kick-butt that way. And Kevin says he does his covers on the Biography page of his website (www.kevinradthorne.com). Actually, I know about Kevin because, as an intern at Windstorm back in the day, I unpacked boxes of his books as one of my first duties. I feel in love with his artwork then and have been thrilled (and often breathless!) with his growing collection of artwork at his website.
I *could* have emailed Kevin ages ago, of course. I mean, I’m allowed to be a fangrrl because that only proves that I’m human (which you already know so well). But I never have because... I don’t know... I just never have. But now I not only had permission to write Kevin but a REASON!
Yeah, “Hey, you’re so cool, I love your books and artwork,” is a reason but he probably gets, like someone else I know, forty million fan messages and even though I *love* hearing from folks, I also sometimes feel overwhelmed. I want to answer everyone but, if I do, I will seriously run out of time to design anything new... let alone more MG3K expansions. I hate even saying that because I truly *do* love hearing from all the players. I haven’t heard a complaint in forever and there have been no more proposals of marriage (see what reprinting emails in my blog does?) and so I do feel a little thrill when my inbox fills up... but I also feel bad that folks have to wait so long to just get a little “Hey, thanks!” from pokey me.
Where was I?
Got it. So now I had a reason to write to Kevin and... I... did! Yay, me! Now here’s for the shocker: Kevin wrote back. Yes! I proposed a solution to my missing component problems and he graciously and gracefully told me, uh, that my solution sucked, basically. No, seriously, he actually just told me about this other way of getting what I needed—and tons of them in a handful of variants! It was so awesome.
Have you ever had a deal where you write to a stranger and they’re an ass? I mean, like they’re rude, brusk and heartless? Goodness knows, I’ve had this happen. Heck, I’ve had this happen with people I know! LOL! Writing Kevin was the exact OPPOSITE of that. He was helpful, patient, and articulate. But now for the kicker:
Kevin might (just might!) work with me on the new, top secret, super cool, totally amazing, international team project! OMG!
...
...
...
Wow. I just fainted. Hey, he might be too busy for a CCG (which can be draining and overwhelming in itself) but just the *idea* of working with him is amazing.
I must go to sleep now and dream of kick-butt characters all rendered in Radthorne style.
Hii-yahh! ;)
E.J.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Designing in My Sleep
I’ve been trying to regulate my work/sleep schedule to be more present for my mom and to be more available to my publisher when Mardi Gras 3000 is released for the retail market. But this new project—Project Pupae, my “time away from MG3K while everything reorganizes” game—is kicking my butt.
I’ve secured three of the eight researchers we need. All hard science experts. One is in the Czech Republic, one is in Cameroon, and the third is in Bangladesh. GMT is -8 for me. I set my tablet to pull messages 24/7 every ten minutes. You do *not* make scientists wait.
I get up with Mom and do breakfast and morning coffee chat. We’ve been using the Journal as a jumping off point, talking about articles and opinions. Then I work on the artwork for the game—I’m doing a lot of it this time—until lunch. We lunch together then I do my fifth of the research divided between the collaborators. Break for dinner and coffee then back to research until 9. Until midnight I playtest and trouble shoot with Mom or over the Internet with the virtual mock ups we set up.
Midnight to 2, I answer email, blog online or on paper for upload later, post on my regular forums, and play a game of MG3K HSOL (the “old school system” that’s being replaced with Gille Hawkin’s system).
Then I make phone calls for about an hour because in the middle of the night (2 AM PST) is when everyone I need right now is wide awake. By 3, I usually notice that my publisher’s AIM account has signed off and I take them closing as a sign that I can too.
In bed, I read the March issue of “Fast Company,” a business magazine that’s so insanely precocious and self-reverential that they actually seem to believe the fluff they pass off as news-worthy. This is “business” for the “bizness” set. A magazine all about mind share... which is to say a magazine all about a whole lot of nothing. I am pleased to have one and only one issue of this magazine because it is mind-numbing prattle. Which is exactly why I read it.
After thirty minutes of reading about... nothing of importance in the real world... my mind is totally blank and I drop the drivel and pick up my tablet. I work on game mechanics for an hour and half, timed, and not a moment more. The pressure and focus is good for me. It won’t allow me to get bogged down in my own what ifs. I don’t open any other windows. Just me and my Microsoft Journal for sketches and hand writing recognition. I pose questions to myself across the screen and answer in a different color. I save frequently.
More than once I’ve woken up with my forehead on the screen, the tablet long since hibernating.
By morning, around 9, over coffee and gatah, I scroll through my notes. I rarely remember any of it but, so far, its all been good.
Feels right to be working. Reminds me why I fell in love with this.
E.J.
I’ve secured three of the eight researchers we need. All hard science experts. One is in the Czech Republic, one is in Cameroon, and the third is in Bangladesh. GMT is -8 for me. I set my tablet to pull messages 24/7 every ten minutes. You do *not* make scientists wait.
I get up with Mom and do breakfast and morning coffee chat. We’ve been using the Journal as a jumping off point, talking about articles and opinions. Then I work on the artwork for the game—I’m doing a lot of it this time—until lunch. We lunch together then I do my fifth of the research divided between the collaborators. Break for dinner and coffee then back to research until 9. Until midnight I playtest and trouble shoot with Mom or over the Internet with the virtual mock ups we set up.
Midnight to 2, I answer email, blog online or on paper for upload later, post on my regular forums, and play a game of MG3K HSOL (the “old school system” that’s being replaced with Gille Hawkin’s system).
Then I make phone calls for about an hour because in the middle of the night (2 AM PST) is when everyone I need right now is wide awake. By 3, I usually notice that my publisher’s AIM account has signed off and I take them closing as a sign that I can too.
In bed, I read the March issue of “Fast Company,” a business magazine that’s so insanely precocious and self-reverential that they actually seem to believe the fluff they pass off as news-worthy. This is “business” for the “bizness” set. A magazine all about mind share... which is to say a magazine all about a whole lot of nothing. I am pleased to have one and only one issue of this magazine because it is mind-numbing prattle. Which is exactly why I read it.
After thirty minutes of reading about... nothing of importance in the real world... my mind is totally blank and I drop the drivel and pick up my tablet. I work on game mechanics for an hour and half, timed, and not a moment more. The pressure and focus is good for me. It won’t allow me to get bogged down in my own what ifs. I don’t open any other windows. Just me and my Microsoft Journal for sketches and hand writing recognition. I pose questions to myself across the screen and answer in a different color. I save frequently.
More than once I’ve woken up with my forehead on the screen, the tablet long since hibernating.
By morning, around 9, over coffee and gatah, I scroll through my notes. I rarely remember any of it but, so far, its all been good.
Feels right to be working. Reminds me why I fell in love with this.
E.J.
Monday, April 16, 2007
When Minds Collide
Six things I love this week:
1. Full of Pigs.com
A clean, safe website where you can anonymously rant about *anything* that’s bothering you. Debate is forbidden and support is aplenty.
2. Staples brand, Xeno model, 1.0 ballpoint pens with neon metal casings and eighteen, quarter inch, oval, raised rubber grips. The blue one.
3. Paprika.
4. Java script.
5. Tech-head forums where everyone speaks in binary and you get smarter just by lurking and forwarding posts to your friends with subject heads like: “Did you know??” or “Wow! Check this out!!”
6. Clandestine meetings of the minds where apparent strangers come together around an innovative idea and, eight hours later, are committed to the core and perfectly synchronized.
Every time a door closes...
I chose four. Surface details: forty-four years in age difference; four different ethnicities; three different religions; three orientations; three professional careers; twenty-nine published novels or games; fourteen published research papers; two patents; sixteen emails to me that proved: undeniable intelligence, critical thinking skills, stability, drive, passion, focus, reliability (a big one), and creativity. In truth, I knew *one* of them well, but knew none of them like I know them now. Who are they? My collaborators.
“Take some time away from Mardi Gras 3000 while the production team is doing their thing. But don’t take time away from game design.”
AIM provided a perfect private chatroom with fast access to FTP to share zipped folders of documents, images, sketches, maps, and, at one point, a Latin root dictionary. I took an hour to describe the new game: object, method, size, shape, scope. “Project Pupae” became the codename and everyone LOL’ed.
Questions tumbled and answered rolled free form for everyone. We quickly realized that our united knowledge was the perfect group mind. We each brought something different to the virtual table. No query was answered twice—none of us knew what the others knew. The puzzle was complete. Yes, we were all gamers but what kind? CCG, console, rpg, board game, real world hardcore sports, etc. I’m not sure there was ever a group of boxers, geeks and footballers who ever got along so well. We played devil’s advocate with problems until we had Googled and Wikied ourselves to every solution.
But chat is cheap and after a second hour had passed we decided to jump right in. Meetings where nothing happens but talk are just so ’90s. The work—from conception to completion—was charted out and divided up. Clap those hands and scatter! To the far flung corners of the Internet we queried, back-doored and took down notations. We LimeWired legally. We cruised Gutenberg. We checked copyrights, ISBNs, and patents. Everyone held their own and kept the pace.
Every fifteen minutes or so a chime and twenty lines of text would flash in the chatroom. A discovery! Then cheers. A question? Then answers. A problem?! Solution.
Just one idea is all it takes.
Mix with trust.
Add desire.
Repeat.
Begin.
E.J.
1. Full of Pigs.com
A clean, safe website where you can anonymously rant about *anything* that’s bothering you. Debate is forbidden and support is aplenty.
2. Staples brand, Xeno model, 1.0 ballpoint pens with neon metal casings and eighteen, quarter inch, oval, raised rubber grips. The blue one.
3. Paprika.
4. Java script.
5. Tech-head forums where everyone speaks in binary and you get smarter just by lurking and forwarding posts to your friends with subject heads like: “Did you know??” or “Wow! Check this out!!”
6. Clandestine meetings of the minds where apparent strangers come together around an innovative idea and, eight hours later, are committed to the core and perfectly synchronized.
Every time a door closes...
I chose four. Surface details: forty-four years in age difference; four different ethnicities; three different religions; three orientations; three professional careers; twenty-nine published novels or games; fourteen published research papers; two patents; sixteen emails to me that proved: undeniable intelligence, critical thinking skills, stability, drive, passion, focus, reliability (a big one), and creativity. In truth, I knew *one* of them well, but knew none of them like I know them now. Who are they? My collaborators.
“Take some time away from Mardi Gras 3000 while the production team is doing their thing. But don’t take time away from game design.”
AIM provided a perfect private chatroom with fast access to FTP to share zipped folders of documents, images, sketches, maps, and, at one point, a Latin root dictionary. I took an hour to describe the new game: object, method, size, shape, scope. “Project Pupae” became the codename and everyone LOL’ed.
Questions tumbled and answered rolled free form for everyone. We quickly realized that our united knowledge was the perfect group mind. We each brought something different to the virtual table. No query was answered twice—none of us knew what the others knew. The puzzle was complete. Yes, we were all gamers but what kind? CCG, console, rpg, board game, real world hardcore sports, etc. I’m not sure there was ever a group of boxers, geeks and footballers who ever got along so well. We played devil’s advocate with problems until we had Googled and Wikied ourselves to every solution.
But chat is cheap and after a second hour had passed we decided to jump right in. Meetings where nothing happens but talk are just so ’90s. The work—from conception to completion—was charted out and divided up. Clap those hands and scatter! To the far flung corners of the Internet we queried, back-doored and took down notations. We LimeWired legally. We cruised Gutenberg. We checked copyrights, ISBNs, and patents. Everyone held their own and kept the pace.
Every fifteen minutes or so a chime and twenty lines of text would flash in the chatroom. A discovery! Then cheers. A question? Then answers. A problem?! Solution.
Just one idea is all it takes.
Mix with trust.
Add desire.
Repeat.
Begin.
E.J.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Five, Five, Five Blogs in One!
I wrote this blog four times today. I knew for certain what I wanted to write and then I knew for certain that something else was more important / interesting / blog-worthy. Then I started filing blogs – save those for another day when I *should* blog but have nothing useful to say. How wrong is that? Like, how “worthy” are the blogs you read regularly? How “useful” are they? Aren’t blogs just supposed to be random, stream of conscious joy rides with a person you find mildly intriguing and/or bizarre?
So, instead of squirreling away my musings, here are four blogs summarized and condensed into fifty words or less and then a fifth blog, full length and blotted, about Marcia (hi, M!) my college roommate. Can’t wait to see what’s up with the M-Girl? Oh, baby, have I got a chip for you ;)
Holy Moly, Batgrrl! We’ve Got Prepped Decks
My publisher emailed. She wheeled and dealed. She threatened and charmed. She landed us a printer that will prep the decks. Watch out MTG. Here comes Mardi Gras!
Why Doesn’t “Gay Gamer” Mean Happy?
Why is it that when I post on a glbt forum I get pornographic PMs when all the glbt people I know are so freaking NOT like that? Why can’t one of my straight-laced, level-headed glbt friends run a glbt forum?
Flowers from Julie and Diane
“I don’t know how you feel, E.J., because I only have my mom and she’s never died. But I guess you’re feeling really bad and flowers won’t help. But my mom says we should send them anyway. I’m sorry your dad died.” Thank you, Julie.
Coffee with You
You drove twenty miles and pretended to need creamer. What I needed was your arms around me. To stand in silence. Rest my cheek against your hair. Thank you for always being exactly what you seem.
And now for the main attraction….
When Your College Roommate Comes Calling
Word is getting out. Friends of friends of friends are calling to offer their condolences. This is wearing on my mom. She says, “This is a never ending cycle. I am walking in to find him, still, again and again, over and over.” She cries silently, tears on her face unacknowledged, and unplugs the phone. She walks out of the kitchen and I know where she is going.
My father’s voice in my ear, “Take care of her.”
God, I love my mom.
She is so fierce. She is so lost. Her whole life was imagined in her mind before she was a teen ager. And then it went in a completely different direction. Sometimes, in the very early morning, I see her and she is still that girl. Not even quite a teen. Wondering. Wondering what happened.
My father said once to me, “I was your mother’s consolation prize.” I never knew what he meant really and I never asked. He loved her with every ounce of who he was. He never spoke a word against her. “She tries so hard,” he told me more than once when she and I butted heads.
I plugged the phone back in. I decided to take all the calls.
And they came.
And I said the same things, and told the same story, and it became me who walked in that morning with my father’s coffee. It was me who knew just by looking. It was me who set down the mug. Sat on the bed. And cried silently, endlessly. An hour going by. The silence thick in the room even as the house woke up with the sounds of breakfast and guests and family.
The mug sits on the dresser. The coffee is cold. I can’t take it away.
“I know what you’re feeling, E. I really do. Wow. I mean, my parents are still alive. Both of them. My dad is the one who called and told me. But I totally know what you must be going through right now.”
No, you don’t. You’re not even trying.
“So, are you still acting?”
Only right now. On the phone with you.
“It’s been so long. I can’t remember the last time we spoke.”
The day I found out you were ******* our drama professor.
“I always felt like you were so controlled. Like you had a secret. I wondered if maybe… you know?”
I don’t have any secrets, Marcia, because I’d be afraid some college roommate would blab them all over her pink MySpace blog.
“I’ve been following your blog when you write it. ‘Girl Geek.’ It’s really punky. You must have fun just going on like that.”
No comment. No, wait, I have one: When we were on the phone, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to tell you you’re an idiot.
“You must feel so betrayed. That’s what it’s like. But just because your dad died, he didn’t betray you, E.”
I know betrayal and I know Psychology 101. I took the same classes, Marcia. I wrote your damn paper on the stages of grief, which you seem to have forgotten. I know betrayal—intimately, socially, recently—and my father has nothing to do with it.
“And you’re angry. Of course. I mean, you’re hiding it, but you have anger in there.”
You’re right. I am angry. How’s this for showing it?
Do me a favor? Lose my number.
Grrr.
E.J.
So, instead of squirreling away my musings, here are four blogs summarized and condensed into fifty words or less and then a fifth blog, full length and blotted, about Marcia (hi, M!) my college roommate. Can’t wait to see what’s up with the M-Girl? Oh, baby, have I got a chip for you ;)
Holy Moly, Batgrrl! We’ve Got Prepped Decks
My publisher emailed. She wheeled and dealed. She threatened and charmed. She landed us a printer that will prep the decks. Watch out MTG. Here comes Mardi Gras!
Why Doesn’t “Gay Gamer” Mean Happy?
Why is it that when I post on a glbt forum I get pornographic PMs when all the glbt people I know are so freaking NOT like that? Why can’t one of my straight-laced, level-headed glbt friends run a glbt forum?
Flowers from Julie and Diane
“I don’t know how you feel, E.J., because I only have my mom and she’s never died. But I guess you’re feeling really bad and flowers won’t help. But my mom says we should send them anyway. I’m sorry your dad died.” Thank you, Julie.
Coffee with You
You drove twenty miles and pretended to need creamer. What I needed was your arms around me. To stand in silence. Rest my cheek against your hair. Thank you for always being exactly what you seem.
And now for the main attraction….
When Your College Roommate Comes Calling
Word is getting out. Friends of friends of friends are calling to offer their condolences. This is wearing on my mom. She says, “This is a never ending cycle. I am walking in to find him, still, again and again, over and over.” She cries silently, tears on her face unacknowledged, and unplugs the phone. She walks out of the kitchen and I know where she is going.
My father’s voice in my ear, “Take care of her.”
God, I love my mom.
She is so fierce. She is so lost. Her whole life was imagined in her mind before she was a teen ager. And then it went in a completely different direction. Sometimes, in the very early morning, I see her and she is still that girl. Not even quite a teen. Wondering. Wondering what happened.
My father said once to me, “I was your mother’s consolation prize.” I never knew what he meant really and I never asked. He loved her with every ounce of who he was. He never spoke a word against her. “She tries so hard,” he told me more than once when she and I butted heads.
I plugged the phone back in. I decided to take all the calls.
And they came.
And I said the same things, and told the same story, and it became me who walked in that morning with my father’s coffee. It was me who knew just by looking. It was me who set down the mug. Sat on the bed. And cried silently, endlessly. An hour going by. The silence thick in the room even as the house woke up with the sounds of breakfast and guests and family.
The mug sits on the dresser. The coffee is cold. I can’t take it away.
“I know what you’re feeling, E. I really do. Wow. I mean, my parents are still alive. Both of them. My dad is the one who called and told me. But I totally know what you must be going through right now.”
No, you don’t. You’re not even trying.
“So, are you still acting?”
Only right now. On the phone with you.
“It’s been so long. I can’t remember the last time we spoke.”
The day I found out you were ******* our drama professor.
“I always felt like you were so controlled. Like you had a secret. I wondered if maybe… you know?”
I don’t have any secrets, Marcia, because I’d be afraid some college roommate would blab them all over her pink MySpace blog.
“I’ve been following your blog when you write it. ‘Girl Geek.’ It’s really punky. You must have fun just going on like that.”
No comment. No, wait, I have one: When we were on the phone, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to tell you you’re an idiot.
“You must feel so betrayed. That’s what it’s like. But just because your dad died, he didn’t betray you, E.”
I know betrayal and I know Psychology 101. I took the same classes, Marcia. I wrote your damn paper on the stages of grief, which you seem to have forgotten. I know betrayal—intimately, socially, recently—and my father has nothing to do with it.
“And you’re angry. Of course. I mean, you’re hiding it, but you have anger in there.”
You’re right. I am angry. How’s this for showing it?
Do me a favor? Lose my number.
Grrr.
E.J.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Gaming for a Living
Posted on the Mardi Gras 3000 Forum athttp://www.mardigras3000.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=311#311
by my publisher Jennifer DiMarcoon
Thu Apr 12, 2007 12:31 am
>>Mardi Gras 3000 Employment
As Mardi Gras 3000 prepares for its national retail launch, we are organizing the project (and, by extension, E.J.’s career) and assigning managers. Managers will be hired from within our existing staff and from within the MG3K community. I’ve chosen to open this opportunity to the community here because it is of utmost importance to me that all managers be personally passionate about this first of E.J.’s games. I will not hire individuals driven by profit. We are an Equal Opportunity employer and I am blind to age and location as well. None of the positions need to be full-time and all of them can be handled remotely (you do not need to move to Washington State).
I’ll be accepting resumes and letters of intent through April 20, 2007. My decisions will be announced on April 23, 2007. Your resume should be tailored to why you are qualified for the position you desire. Your email should tell me specifically why you want the position, why you’ll be good at it, and how you will achieve the position’s goals. Some of the positions pay a set monthly stipend (marked #). Other positions pay a royalty based on sales (marked *).
The positions are:
*General Manager
All Angel games. Creation and implementation of marketing campaigns. Growth of the MG3K brand as well as introduction of supporting Angel brands.
#Production Manager
MG3K only. Design and layout of editions, packaging, displays, and all other support materials. Creation of materials required by other managers.
*CCG Manager
MG3K only. Creation and/organization of rules systems for Basic, Advanced and tournament play both online and offline. Creation and/organization of rules systems for boosters and other forthcoming products. Organization of tournament circuit. Officiating of rules and play variants. Creation of Player’s Handbook. Growth of player base.
*Online Manager
MG3K only. Design and implementation of an online versions of the game both Basic and Advanced. Design and implementation of mardigras3000.com and its subpages including but not limited to the On Tab Instant Store, Dance Floor, Gossip Booth, Expert’s Corner, Player Pages, and Rumble Room. Managing alliances with SecondLife and Kaneva. Funneling online orders to the correct channels. Management of subscriber database. Growth of subscriber base.
#Votary Manager
MG3K only. Admin to the forum and upkeep. Manage moderators. Design and implement campaigns to increase awareness of brand among teen and adult authors online and offline. Design and implement campaigns that specifically produce MG3K fiction. Manage authors of in-character blogs on Blogger and MySpace. Growth of forum membership and active author pool.
Any manager can envision and request materials from the Production Manager. The PM will clear all projects through me. I will supervise all managers. Managers will work directly with each other and E.J., as needed. Positions will be granted for a two month probation period and then reviewed. If progress has been successful, an annual employment contract will be issued.
Some of these positions are currently held by staff members. But these appointments are not official appointments. Staff should apply officially now. I will not roll positions over automatically. Open market hiring gives everyone the opportunity to really think about what they have to offer and what they want. As Gille Hawkins once send to me: “Security breeds complicacy.” I want only the best for MG3K and this is where it begins.
Thank you all for your time, your dedication and your interest.
Jennifer<<
Thank *you,* Jennifer, for being completely unwilling to give up. You march into the unknown with incredible courage and inspiration and I value that.
E.J.
by my publisher Jennifer DiMarcoon
Thu Apr 12, 2007 12:31 am
>>Mardi Gras 3000 Employment
As Mardi Gras 3000 prepares for its national retail launch, we are organizing the project (and, by extension, E.J.’s career) and assigning managers. Managers will be hired from within our existing staff and from within the MG3K community. I’ve chosen to open this opportunity to the community here because it is of utmost importance to me that all managers be personally passionate about this first of E.J.’s games. I will not hire individuals driven by profit. We are an Equal Opportunity employer and I am blind to age and location as well. None of the positions need to be full-time and all of them can be handled remotely (you do not need to move to Washington State).
I’ll be accepting resumes and letters of intent through April 20, 2007. My decisions will be announced on April 23, 2007. Your resume should be tailored to why you are qualified for the position you desire. Your email should tell me specifically why you want the position, why you’ll be good at it, and how you will achieve the position’s goals. Some of the positions pay a set monthly stipend (marked #). Other positions pay a royalty based on sales (marked *).
The positions are:
*General Manager
All Angel games. Creation and implementation of marketing campaigns. Growth of the MG3K brand as well as introduction of supporting Angel brands.
#Production Manager
MG3K only. Design and layout of editions, packaging, displays, and all other support materials. Creation of materials required by other managers.
*CCG Manager
MG3K only. Creation and/organization of rules systems for Basic, Advanced and tournament play both online and offline. Creation and/organization of rules systems for boosters and other forthcoming products. Organization of tournament circuit. Officiating of rules and play variants. Creation of Player’s Handbook. Growth of player base.
*Online Manager
MG3K only. Design and implementation of an online versions of the game both Basic and Advanced. Design and implementation of mardigras3000.com and its subpages including but not limited to the On Tab Instant Store, Dance Floor, Gossip Booth, Expert’s Corner, Player Pages, and Rumble Room. Managing alliances with SecondLife and Kaneva. Funneling online orders to the correct channels. Management of subscriber database. Growth of subscriber base.
#Votary Manager
MG3K only. Admin to the forum and upkeep. Manage moderators. Design and implement campaigns to increase awareness of brand among teen and adult authors online and offline. Design and implement campaigns that specifically produce MG3K fiction. Manage authors of in-character blogs on Blogger and MySpace. Growth of forum membership and active author pool.
Any manager can envision and request materials from the Production Manager. The PM will clear all projects through me. I will supervise all managers. Managers will work directly with each other and E.J., as needed. Positions will be granted for a two month probation period and then reviewed. If progress has been successful, an annual employment contract will be issued.
Some of these positions are currently held by staff members. But these appointments are not official appointments. Staff should apply officially now. I will not roll positions over automatically. Open market hiring gives everyone the opportunity to really think about what they have to offer and what they want. As Gille Hawkins once send to me: “Security breeds complicacy.” I want only the best for MG3K and this is where it begins.
Thank you all for your time, your dedication and your interest.
Jennifer<<
Thank *you,* Jennifer, for being completely unwilling to give up. You march into the unknown with incredible courage and inspiration and I value that.
E.J.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Life and Death
My father, Poulon Angel, died on Easter morning. He was fifty-six.
There really aren't any words to describe how I feel so I suppose I still feel numb.
My father was my listening ear. He was the last and the gentlest to point out my mistakes. We would walk or drive for hours talking about religion, politics, love, fate. He was utterly unable to be judgmental of anyone. He never said a harsh, sarcastic or hurtful word. He was calm, especially when I was rattled. He never played the victim, never gave in to anger and never complained, even when being a dark-skinned, gentle man seemed to complicate his life. In his stillness, he never allowed my very intense, powerful mother to overpower him. They were equals and both of them knew it and celebrated it.
Without him, my mom and I sit now, sometimes for hours, and stare at each other. We don't know what to say. Sex? Boys? Girls? Dancing? Menstruation? Fear? I never talked to my mom about any of this. My father explained life to me with a certain careful matter of factness that never came with questions or platitudes. My mother was the one who threw my date out my bedroom window when I was sixteen.
I told my father once, "What if I never find a man as perfect as you are?" He laughed and said, "Then I suppose you'll have to find a woman." I always thought that was the most original response a father could give a daughter.
I will miss his dry sense of humor, his unwavering loyalty, his honesty and sincerity. I will miss our walks. I will miss our drives. I will miss that one person that never, no matter how wrong I was, found fault with me, or blamed me, or turned away from me.
I will miss him because he is my father but more so because he is my friend.
E.J.
There really aren't any words to describe how I feel so I suppose I still feel numb.
My father was my listening ear. He was the last and the gentlest to point out my mistakes. We would walk or drive for hours talking about religion, politics, love, fate. He was utterly unable to be judgmental of anyone. He never said a harsh, sarcastic or hurtful word. He was calm, especially when I was rattled. He never played the victim, never gave in to anger and never complained, even when being a dark-skinned, gentle man seemed to complicate his life. In his stillness, he never allowed my very intense, powerful mother to overpower him. They were equals and both of them knew it and celebrated it.
Without him, my mom and I sit now, sometimes for hours, and stare at each other. We don't know what to say. Sex? Boys? Girls? Dancing? Menstruation? Fear? I never talked to my mom about any of this. My father explained life to me with a certain careful matter of factness that never came with questions or platitudes. My mother was the one who threw my date out my bedroom window when I was sixteen.
I told my father once, "What if I never find a man as perfect as you are?" He laughed and said, "Then I suppose you'll have to find a woman." I always thought that was the most original response a father could give a daughter.
I will miss his dry sense of humor, his unwavering loyalty, his honesty and sincerity. I will miss our walks. I will miss our drives. I will miss that one person that never, no matter how wrong I was, found fault with me, or blamed me, or turned away from me.
I will miss him because he is my father but more so because he is my friend.
E.J.
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