The Slough of Despond

Just a quick summary...

2008-07-24T15:52:33Z

It gets difficult when you go a long time between updates...

Basically, I've had a fairly busy summer. Still haven't settled in from the move totally - but thankfully I now have a basement to store the leftover boxes in.

The summers up in PA are truly delightful; the hottest it gets still is way shy of the Texas heat. It's fun to hear people bitch about the weather even as I bask in it ;-)

My nights have been spent rp'ing or at least -playing- rpg games, mainly. So much so that I haven't even set up my main computer upstairs (though it doesn't help that Microsoft invalidated my copy of XP).

This weekend means back to New Haven for ANOTHER family gathering... then a week off (maybe?)... then my first time at Otakon in early August. After that, Manhattan for a weekend to see a friend's show.

My brain is still a bit too tired to go into details ... but that's me for now.

Fucking telemarketers

2008-07-10T18:40:16Z

The current trick seems to be to call your number, ask for someone who isn't there, then after being told they have the wrong number, they start their speil anyway "while you're on the line".

I've been getting a few of these a day, now, and all to my CELL phone. When I told the last lady that they weren't supposed to be calling mobile phones to solicit, she tried to tell me that there "weren't any rules against that."

WTF? I thought we were supposed to be protected from getting such calls on private paid lines.

Taueret

2008-07-08T21:49:13Z

(For the record: I am aware of the "reaction" toward magic in most parts of Hyborea, and am being purposefully vague with names and geography in many places)

=====================================

"Mommy - where are you goin'?"

A small girl stood in the doorway, rubbing sleepily at her eyes. She had heard the shuffling of feet in the hall, and recognized the hem of her mother's dress as it passed by her view. The tone was in no way accusational; Mommy came and went all the time, but she always returned.

The woman turned, her eyes flaring with a flash of alarm; she scanned the room before her eyes settled down on her daughter. With a sigh of relief, she knelt to beckon the child into her arms, setting an overstuffed satchel down beside her.

"Shhhh... don't wake Daddy. You're not supposed to be up this time of night... what was it dear, more bad dreams?"

The girl nodded, not because she really -had- a recent nightmare, but because her mother showered her with just a -bit- more attention on those nights. The mother forced a weak smile as she kissed the girl's cheek. "You should tell Daddy to stop reading you those ghost stories so close to bedtime."

Her daughter fixed her with one of those "you still haven't answered my question" stares. It was easy enough to lie to the all-trusting child, but it still -hurt-. She hadn't intended to be caught; but then, she hadn't intended -any- of this. The corners of her mouth turned down and her eyes stole towards the door as she spoke in low tones. "Tomorrow... probably by breakfast time. You can show me some more of your drawings, and we'll have berries and cream."

Lulled into complacency by the sound of her mother's voice, the girl was already curling up under her chin. The woman gently carried her daughter back to bed, piled high with thick wool blankets, as she fought off a growing wave of remorse. Fingernails dug into her palms, and with a steely renewed resolution, she was gone.

...........................................................................

Farisee - for that was the nickname she liked to call herself, and she enjoyed the pun - found herself with an abundance of free reign while her father was away at work. She was supposed to be "getting a city education", as he put it, but the walk to school was long and tedious, and the subjects no less tiring. The classrooms themselves were so overcrowded she usually could sneak off and find her own entertainment - or better yet, thread her way into the forest where the witch-woman kept her house.

She'd read enough books to know that three was the required number of times to humble yourself to a mystic for instruction; and certainly, enough to know that this was dangerous business. But she was just a little girl; if worse came to worse, and her father found out where was, she could claim (like the stories) to have been kidnapped. The old lady was fattening her up for dinner, she was!

The witch was a prisoner of her own traditions, and it worked out well for Farisee. On the third request, she opened her door (and thus her mysteries) to the girl. They formed a hesitant friendship - a bond based on favors and revelations. She needed a helper as it was, and a small, lithe one who had access to the city? Even better.

The favors Farisee was asked for were simple enough; usually fruits and meats delivered from the markets, and parchment and vellum for writing. But sometimes she'd be asked to do more intriguing tasks: steal the hairs from a noblewoman's comb, or follow where people went when they left their place of business.

Though the witch didn't quite feel the same way in return, Farisee grew to see the older woman as a sort of substitute mother. She taught her all the things she'd have asked her -real- mother, but without the lectures. The witch-woman preached neither politics nor restraint - only secrecy and the law of Will. And so it went for several years; a little hedge magic dabbling and soothsaying learned here and there, mixed with enough studies in reading, writing and history to make Farisee's father believe the quality of his daughter's education far surpassed his expectations.

Farisee's enchantment with the artist's brush grew as well over these years; and the herbs she'd learned to gather supplied a far more brilliant pastel than the paints her father sometimes bought for her from the local merchants. They decorated her family home in a gallery of bright colors and shapes. She had tried numerous times to gift her mentor with one of her paintings, but the old woman said it wasn't wise to leave behind evidence of her presence.

When Farisee was 13, her father was promoted to a greater position of trust within the library he worked at for so many long hours. He was now a keeper of the scholarly archives; a huge body of books, logs, and documents that were kept carefully hidden, if not so well-guarded.

The witch reacted to this news with the glee of a cat falling into a batch of yarn. She was practically beside herself with anticipation. "You *have* to secure us some of those books!" Farisee had come to recognize that whenever the old woman used the pronoun "we" it meant she wanted the item stolen for primarily selfish reasons - but was willing to share her find in order to make the job more enticing.

"I'm not sure I should be stealing books under my father's nose", exclaimed Farisee.

"No one is going to expect an overworked schoolgirl of -wanting- more books to read! And I'm not asking for any more than one or two... not enough to arouse suspicion. Fortune favors us, you see, because the scholars care deeply about preserving knowledge, and the priests are so stupid and vain they wouldn't know how to read a language other than their own if Set himself was swallowing their children!"

Farisee was quite prepared to argue here way out of this one, no matter how tempting the idea of obtaining magical tomes.

"Remember your promise" - and here the witch involved Farisee's *true* name, the one of command. "You can't just -stop- now, not when the universe is just opening up to you..."

The young woman faltered, fear and fascination holding equal sway in her subconscious. "Then what do you want me to obtain, wise one?"

"Grimoires, girl! Get us anything that looks old and mysterious, and makes your spine tingle when you pick it up!"

...........................................................................

Unable to afford much time with his daughter due to his increasing workload, Farisee's father was all too pleased to entertain her occasional visits to his chambers in the library. It made it easy enough for her to peruse undisturbed through the private collections as well, once she assisted his proclivity for early-afternoon naps with a little "homemade" tea.

Navigating through the maze of old dusty volumes proved onerous; the archives section was no more catalogued than the acquisitions department, and most acquisitions ended up -in- the archives once they were determined to be of no use to the general citizenry. It took numerous visits before Farisee found anything resembling the wise woman's requirements.

The majority of the books Farisee procured were little more than texts of minor divinations and enchantments; nothing that really satisfied her teacher. They developed a plan to exchange the stolen volumes with similar-looking non-magical journals, in order to fool any clerk who might be inventorying the items. But the witch never asked Farisee to take more than one per season.

Several more years passed, before Farisee's home life took another turn. Her father's fortunes had improved considerably with his new status, but he had taken on additional duties as well, necessitating his absence until well into the night. Due to his heritage, he still was not allowed a home in the city, but he was able to employ several new servants. One of these he assigned as a guard for his daughter. Despite her earnest objections, he simply wouldn’t have his daughter walking unaccompanied to and from the city at her age, or left alone in the evenings.

None of this stopped Farisee from her visits to the witch, though they necessarily lessened. There were simply more obstacles to be surmounted, more people to fool.

“This year will be momentous for us”, promised the wise woman, as she drew a finger through the entrails of a gutted lizard. “You will see.”

And on the eve of the equinox, Farisee found what she had been seeking. There was to be a new transfer from the acquisitions department, and her father was tasked with its inventory.

...........................................................................

Using techniques the witch had taught her, Farisee blotted out all sight and sound from her senses, and concentrated only on the vibrations given off by the solid objects around her. She let her sense of touch guide her as the air itself took on a liquid form. Eventually, she chanced upon a box containing files from the estate of some long-deceased Zamoran scholar. Farisee was surprised she hadn't discovered it sooner; the emanations were a lighthouse beacon, pulling at her like a candle in the darkness.

The tome inside, hidden under a pile of what seemed to be personal journals, was considerably thinner than she'd imagined. It was obviously penned by some sort of warlock, based on the beastly depictions inside alone. Farisee couldn't make out the language, though some of the symbols tripped little switches in the back of her mind. The author had filled the pages to the margins with his notes, in the sort of sagely scrawl she'd become accustomed too, but the drawings... seemed in reverse somehow. She turned the book upside down, then sideways - yet the sketches of the creatures within never seemed to be visible at the correct angle.

As Farisee walked down the path to her mentor's home the next day - the grimoire tucked "safely" between two innocuous schoolbooks - there was the sense that the entire world had also begun to turn upside down. Where once had been sheltering trees, the forest seemed as if it was surrounding her and sizing her up with predatory hostility. She *felt* a thousand eyes watching her with each step, felt the vines yearning to cover over her tracks and make them part of the Wild again. Perhaps it had always been this way, though; and only the child in her had ever seen the woods as something beckoning.

And there sat the witch-woman, outfitted in an array of fine linens her student had pilfered for her – dressed like a bride awaiting her groom. It was, if anything, a much more welcoming sight than the columns of hungry trees that had swallowed up the space behind Farisee. After quickly devouring the pages of the sorcerous tome with greedy eyes, she made her apprentice a sumptuous meal – and then disappeared into the space beneath the house, where all of her “arts” and secrets were indulged in.

Farisee was not invited this time.

Unfortunately for the student, her teacher would no longer uphold her end of the bargain; and whether this was intentional or not, remained a mystery to Farisee. She found herself growing drowsy while waiting for the old woman to return top-side, falling asleep one of the wicker chairs as her dinner cooled beside her.

When she finally awoke, there was fresh light outside, and the witch was nowhere to be seen. The basement itself was silent. Farisee ran home in some desperate attempt to make it before her father would wake, hoping she had enough coin to bribe the servants… but he was waiting for her on the doorstep, grief and worry turning to paternal fury. He locked her in her room, demanding answers as to where she had been all night. His daughter tried to feign forgetfulness and fell back on her art; she’d fallen asleep in a field while sketching the moon. Anything but the actual -truth-. The numerous bloody oaths she'd sworn to secrecy chilled her soul at the very thought of breaking them.

After this, there were few times she had the opportunity to slip away. She was determined to be appropriately supplicant to her mentor, but this was to be an unnecessary gesture. Farisee repeatedly found herself locked out of the witches' basement, even as she pounded on the cellar door until her knuckles bled - and the few times the old woman was attainable, she appeared to be making up stories and empty promises to explain her absences. Both parties seemed to be finding excuses to cover their estrangement.

She began to take larger risks, determined to confront the witch somehow. One day she found herself greeted with the usual sight; an empty house, but with candles burning and food on the stove. There were sounds, however, coming from the cellar; the old woman, and someone else – a masculine voice she did not recognize. Farisee was convinced, now, that the witch must have found a new apprentice. There was laughter then, as though there was some great celebration she was not privy to; yet it was the witches’ hysterical escalade alone that rose up from below.

All the way home, she felt as if she was being watched, and the judgment was not in her favor.

...........................................................................

Her bodyguard had disappeared.

Farisee’s father thought the fellow must have found a better-paying job elsewhere; but Farisee, having no great desire to replace him, told her father that it was guilt instead that drove him away - the man had gotten drunk the night of his disappearance, and tried to accost her. It was a lie, but no worse in her mind than making assumptions about something you didn’t have answers to.

Rather hopelessly, but yearning for answers, she trepidatiously made her way back to the house in the forest. Rain had soaked her to the bone by the time she arrived. The witch was sitting alone as she pored over a set of divining cards. She looked up to greet Farisee with neither surprise nor warmth.

“YOU brought them here”, the old woman stated accusingly, coldly. “Whatever happens now – it’s your fault.”

Farisee had little idea who she meant. There were certainly no other guests; and she felt momentarily guilty that for assuming the existence of a competitor.

The witch uttered a curse in a language that felt like broken glass being dragged along skin, then spat on the ground.

“You should go now. Everything I did… I was trying to protect you, far-seer.”

The girl said nothing in return. There was truth in the old woman’s words, even though she didn’t understand them.

...........................................................................

For several days, Farisee was unable to sleep. There was a sense of palpable dread, even though her home life was serene and untroubled. Since she had last left the witches’ house, she was trying to find some sort of “normalcy” again; she did as she was told, went where she was expected. And in return for not hiring another personal guard, her father had delegated some of his responsibilities so he could spend more time at home with his daughter.

On the third day of insomnia, Farisee stumbled home in a daze, resisting the urge to lie back against a tree and try to sink into oblivion. Her father had sent her to a local farmer for fresh eggs, hoping the warm ovum might be a remedy for her restlessness. She didn’t look up to see the flames rising from her house until she was almost on it, and the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh assaulted her.

Jerked into a surreal stunned wakefulness, the young woman watched in silence as neighbors ran around the burning remnants of her home, attempting to douse the flames with meager buckets of well water. They tromped over broken pottery and debris, leaving muddy footprints on the charred paintings that once graced the walls of the interior. She stood alone and grey as the ashes that floated from the remains.

Farisee returned, then, to the only other place she had ever felt safe.

But there was no refuge there, either… only a pervasive stillness hanging in the air. A deadly aftermath. The interior had been mercilessly ravaged - all the bottles of potions and ingredients smashed and strewn to the ground, the books and scrolls torn up and burned, and the furniture overturned and splintered. The wooden floor was a riot of footprints from iron-soled feet.

It was then that she remembered – the cellar! Farisee lifted up the rug in the back corner of the house – still untouched except for stains and broken glass – and descended. But there was no one alive down there – only a strong scent of copper and brimstone. The violators had not found this sanctuary, at least.

She would find the body of the witch hanging outside from a tree, or what was left of it. It had been tied to a low-hanging branch so the animals could feast upon it, rather than just crows and flies.

There was a lizard standing there with a knife grasped in its hands. It was slicing down the front of the corpse, its soft smooth underbelly slick with crimson gore. Farisee could do little but watch in mute helplessness as the creature made a final tug with the blade, and the steaming contents of the witch fell out onto the ground. She felt as if she was mired in quicksand, trapped in a nightmare.

The reptile stopped and grinned at her - or at least her sleep-deprived mind told her this – before returning to its work. It sifted through the loops of entrails while chittering to itself. “… A momentous year…” she thought she heard it say.

Preternatural instinct unspared, and Farisee found herself fleeing for the confines of the hidden basement. Rocking back and forth in the dark, she tried to summon the strength of Will her teacher had once instructed her in. She’d quell the madness and prepare herself for whatever waited on the other side of the door. Sleep finally overtook her.

She stayed in the cellar for days, ignoring the hunger that gnawed at her insides. Several times, she heard the heavy gait of men coming from the room above, and lay in wait of her eventual discovery. But no one found her.

Farisee never expected to hear the voice beside her.

=====================================

Note: Whoo, lots of unwritten/edited stuff here. I ended on a lousy cliffhanger sentence, but I had to wrap things up at –some- point. Perhaps at some point I’ll add more, or at least explain Taueret’s “gimmick” and how she got it.

Keku

2008-07-07T16:49:50Z

(my initial character bio for Keku)

KEKU was born into a line of traveling merchants who traded along the riverbanks of his Stygian homeland - though any memory of his last name or ancestry is a only distant shadow now. As a child, he was kidnapped by reavers when straying too far from his parents' boat, and forced into labor before being sold off to those who would traffic in "malleable" young flesh.

However, he proved to be a poor servant. Keku was stubbornly unresponsive to beatings, starvation, or even the rare offers of sweets. He would slip into a catatonic state - sometimes for days; or simply beam a calm smile at his masters during their attempts to subjugate him. As a result, he was passed around to numerous owners in his youth, more than a few which grew unnerved by his eerily placid demeanor.

There were moments of lucidity, though. These happened during the few times someone bequeathed upon him a notion of kindness; usually fellow servants who took some pity on him in his state, and were desperate for companionship even from this scarred child. He'd speak eloquently in a language they didn't understand... his tone would grow more desperate the more they -tried- to understand... and then the delirium would surface, and Keku would scream horrifically at his benefactor as if the very hounds of hell were ripping out his entrails.

Perhaps he only survived because child slaves are a valuable commodity; it was more profitable to gag him and lie about his demeanor (that he was mentally stunted, but a hard worker, and very submissive) than bury him and write off one's losses. At any rate - perhaps some subconsciously aware part of the boy warned him of his coming fate on adulthood. A "slow" child who is content to sleep with the dogs isn't always shackled securely, and one evening Keku simply slipped away into the warm embrace of mother night.

Some years later - no one knows quite how many, and certainly not Keku - a trio of missionaries from the Temple of Mitra descended into some ancient ruins at the far reaches of their native land. Their investigation revealed little threat to the kingdom. The taint of the place was everpresent, but there were no malign spirits left to purge, and no altars to cleanse. Instead, they happened only upon a bewilderingly ecstatic dark-skinned man dancing naked amidst the stones. Despite being illiterate and wilder than the most isolated hill person, it was soon revealed that he was multilingual and quite pleasant.

At least, that was how things went until the missionaries insisted on bringing him back to civilization. He quickly became homicidal in intent, insisting they were all 'demons', and had to be rendered unconscious. The head of the expedition considered Keku a curiosity though - he knew unbidden details about his captors, yet didn't stink of sorcery - and bound him up for safe transport back to Tarantia.

The priestess in the group was adamant about not wanting to give the appearance that the Temple was trafficking in slaves or prisoners. While camped hillside on the last night before returning, she attempted to talk rationally with Keku again. In return for compliance, she'd loosen the ropes that bound him. In return for a bath and wearing some robes, a copper ring and a song. And Keku spoke to her, while the others slept; and he let her wash his hair and sing to him while she bathed away the years of dirt and decay. But by the morning, he was still bound, and ever-silent again. The priestess had vanished.

There were to be no answers forthcoming from Keku, but that was to be expected. Nor was there any blood or sign of struggle. The remaining two heads nodded and agreed - the priestess was too young and too inexperienced to have gone on such a dangerous venture, what with the wolves growing so bold this season and her faith still in its infancy.

On arrival to the city, the prefactor of the Temple lambasted the missionary leader for his failures - especially the coin he'd have to send to the missing woman's family - and let Keku go free to join the other beggars in the back alleys.

And so Keku entered the lands of the pious and productive Aquilonians, with nothing to his name except a shiny copper ring and a song.

======================================

Note - Keku is probably too bugfuck nuts to really be the sort who'd get recruited into an organization. But I love him anyway ;-) Definitely my most creepy character.

Keku just isn't sociable -at all- except perhaps with other Heralds; so despite using him as a crazy test subject (he wouldn't object, and thinks creatures from beyond time and space are his best buddies), I can't see him being part of a secretive organization. His 'gimmick' is seeing everything around him in some sort of reverse polarity... and people who get close to him are subject to the same sort of horrible visages. It would take an -equally- hideous character to get a handle on the guy.

And you think you screwed up YOUR sleep schedule...

2008-07-07T13:18:30Z

Argh, long weekends. Lovely little things, but I tend to hibernate like a wild animal and lose all track of time. Yesterday had me getting up too early, then taking a needed nap in the afternoon - a nap that went on til 10pm. While half-asleep, I kept dreaming it was Saturday night - after all, it was dark out and I still needed to get up to play some more!

So now I've been up all damned night, and am sitting here at work tired as hell. I considered calling in sick, but that would've required getting up to write emails and call several people... by that time, I'm awake anyway and might as well come in and make some money.

On the plus side - the staff is light this week, boss is at the shore, and we're between build cycles. And I've gotten relaxed enough to feel somewhat creative again. It's a good time to write some character bios and finally get around to getting accepted into an RP guild, now that I know a lot more about the world setting.

Great way to spend the 4th...

2008-07-01T13:04:21Z

Hunter S. Thompson biopic

I had no idea this was even in-the-works until Kyle graciously sent me a link.

Fireworks? Since I'm no longer in Texas, and can't stand around in a field while in danger of getting hit by stray mortars, I'm kind of meh on them.

Now if I could just convince someone local to see this -and- the crazy Dylan flick, I'd be in heaven. Instead, I'm the only person in this burg who knows or cares about these people. Argh.

Short vacations - Useless!

2008-06-30T12:37:36Z

Spent most of the weekend in Connecticut - and as usual with these short trips, I'm exhausted.

Seems even 3-day vacations are sort of counter-productive to me: you spend the first and last days mainly travelling, and get only one solid day of repose in between. In comparison, I get TWO solid days to veg with a normal weekend. Plus I get paid an extra day :-)

And people wonder why I don't take many days off.

Alright, maybe the lesson here is to stay in-town if I am only taking a day off at a time.

Good god, more gaming quizzes

2008-06-25T16:01:18Z

Ok, this one is HILARIOUS and therefore mandatory:

Guild Personality Test

Risque-Intense

The two attributes of your guild personality test indicate which players and guilds you would be most comfortable with, as well as what type of players you would prefer to recruit to your own groups. The two attributes of your result are:

Risque indicates players and guilds who prefer a mostly uncensored environment.
Intense players and guilds are organized, and expect a high level of attention to what's happening in the game.

Gaming Surveys

2008-06-25T14:31:53Z

Old stuff, but I wanted it listed somewhere in my blog:

Ye olde "Bartle" Test (goes back to the MUD days, predating even my online gaming days). This is the first time I've seen anyone try to "modernize" it, but the basic ideas are the still the same - we just have graphics now.

Bartle Test

Of interest to me though, is how many people gravitate more toward "exploring" based on the beauty of the visuals alone - but who might not give near as much of a crap in a text-based or blocky pixellated world. I think I've always been a heavy "explorer", but far more so now. In the MUD days, it would've depended on the descriptive writing skill of the programmers alone.

Still - socialization has always ruled for me. There's no other reason to play MMO's over a single-player game, really - the single-player games offer a superior experience, imo, in all facets.

SEAK

SEAK players are usually very interested in the the 'total experience' of a virtual world--meeting other people and finding the unique places within it. They don't care much for PVP or levelling, but meeting up with online friends to see new parts of the world is usually fun and exciting.

Breakdown: Achiever 20.00%, Explorer 80.00%, Killer 13.33%, Socializer 86.67%

The other popular gamer quiz I could find was this one, off some website called gamerDNA:

Online Gamer Playstyle Survey

Creator-Strategist

This combination is also referred to as the Toymaker playstyle.

You are the go-to person for cool stuff. You enjoy understanding all of the nuances of the game, and want to leave their own imprint on it. They like to create things for games.both in and out of the environment. Inside games, they are crafters and city-builders; they might also make mods and skins for games.

Moving gripes, part... not sure

2008-06-18T13:14:32Z

Alright, so I went dark again for a few days...

Sunday was largely spent getting another chunk of the house in order; but only a fraction, still. I wish I could hire some people to work on it with me daily until it was done, but that would be a bit costly, especially since I organize rather thoroughly.

But it's been affecting my mental state, just like last year. I -can't- really relax until it's all done, or think about anything creative. And I worry that it'll be like before, where we still had a bunch of shit unpacked until the NEXT move.

I used to "like" moving - but these last 2 have been so stressful that I will need a -really- good reason to go through this again.

This current place, despite all my measurements and pre-planning, still isn't big enough to fit everything without playing tetris. Ah, the north and its tiny apartments. I measured SO MUCH but forgot the computer desk ... which doesn't fit by 3 inches into the spot I had allotted for it (that looked HUGE but now is dwarfed in reality by the enormousness of my desk ... something about the high ceilings in the old place causing an optical illusion!).

It's been a month now, and I still don't have my computer hooked up, and can't hear my music... that's also taking a toll, I think.

Enough ellipses and whining for now!

As seen on Amazon.com

2008-06-12T19:43:40Z

Definitely gotta get me one of these...

http://www.amazon.com/Bottom-Buddy-Toilet-Tissue-Holder/dp/B0006TSMLE/ref=sr_1_24?ie=UTF8&s=hpc&qid=1213299464&sr=1-24

Apparently there's an entire series of such "aids".

http://www.amazon.com/Bottom-Bather/dp/B000JKB1HC/ref=pd_bxgy_hpc_text_b
http://www.amazon.com/EasyWipe/dp/B000J5USQM/ref=pd_sbs_hpc_title_1
... et cetera.

Do people reeeeallly need a tool for this? Or is it meant to be kinky?

I dunno, maaaybe I am mocking something that is actually useful to the disabled. But the marketing for it is ridiculous.

Donations on Craigslist

2008-06-12T18:00:39Z

"They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing and expecting a different result."
-- The Hives

So with this current move, I've had to get rid of a number of bulky items I no longer have use for - either they won't fit, or the new place already has the functionality built in.

Rather than selling off stuff, I've usually opted to just give things away - this makes it MUCH easier for, say, old furniture that I'd otherwise have to figure out a way to get a truck to deliver it with. And movers to carry it to the buyer, etc. Not worth it when the items are already used and fairly cheap...

So Craigslist "FREE" section to the rescue. Within minutes of posting, I usually have a dozen responses... it really amazes me. There must be folks who do nothing but troll this section - but the ones I've met don't seem like resellers, they all claim to have some story (upon meeting them) such as being poor students or divorcees, or sometimes they work for a church thrift store.

Ergo, this is a bit of a depressing experience for me. I don't know exactly why, but I feel guilty ... I end up writing out politely apologetic emails explaining why I -won't- be giving them the free item, since I chose someone else already. With my old bed, for example - one guy offered me $100 to give it to him NOW, but I had already promised another lady earlier I would save it for her.

I suppose if money was an issue I would've been selling this stuff to begin with.

For my microwave, I think I'm going to just say $10 and avoid the guilt!

My thoughts on Twitter

2008-06-10T15:12:50Z

... can be pretty much summed up by this comic:

http://www.penny-arcade.com/comic/2008/4/23/

I still don't "get it", I guess. Maybe I am being an old fogey, but it all seems a bit too OCD and TMI for my tastes. I'll leave it to the huddled masses who actually have free time in their daily schedule. >_>

Hilariously though, I can foresee a near future where we all have these bidirectional GPS phones and tracking devices that post our coordinates at all times to our FaceBook/MySpace pages, along with relevant tweets passed through speech translators of our live conversations.

In a sense then, we are all voluntarily Big Brother-ing ourselves. And seemingly, having a hell of a time doing so.

I am reminded of the lady who was fired for slandering her company and fellow employees in her blog, and the paperwork we often sign on job acceptance that states we "represent the company" (or our University, for students) during our non-work public activities. Similarly, blog posts have been used as "evidence" of behavior in court cases (divorces and defamation). And more close-to-home, a coworker of mine turned down a potential roommate because she had too many trashy photos of herself on MySpace.

So when is the pendulum going to start swinging back the other way? We no longer talk to or know ANYTHING about our neighbors, but yet we post intimate minutiae of our daily lives on the internet for all to see.

Restaint has to set in SOMEWHERE, or this is all going to come crashing down on us.

Maybe I'll begin posting again...

2008-06-10T14:41:41Z

Perhaps now that I no longer live in mortal terror [tho I exaggerate] of unwholesome and maledictory strangers reading my personal details, I will begin posting more.

However, there is still little need to move beyond having a "friends only" site, unless I merely mean to discuss mundanities such as gustatory delights.

If you know me somehow, feel free to ask for an invite.

If you've found this site in error, please disregard the above and redirect your browser to: http://www.asofterworld.com/

Signs of the Apocalypse, part 2

2007-05-01T22:32:50Z

Dan Brown can still kiss my ass, but this is damned interesting, if true:

Decoded Churchly Melodies

I think a better way to end the world would be to reunite the surviving members of KISS and Parliament, and have a real throw-down atop the rebuilt Temple.

And yes, I am still following the bee saga. I don't trust the fuckers.

Bee Attack!

I am not buying much of the following report, as they fail to accurately define what is considered "psychotic symptoms". If it was as severe as the normal perception of psychosis, we'd be seeing a lot of scary potheads. Rather, I think they are including hallucinatory affects and spatial distortion - normally benign reactions to most people, especially in a temporary setting. The entire article is chock full of inflammatory language and "leads" the reader far more than an unbiased, scientific article should.

Marijuana Psychosis?

A focused study on the truly "negative" and dangerous symptoms would be more telling, as well as long-effects on the liver and lungs.

What's most interesting here, then, is that it helps explain WHY some people turn paranoid. But is it a personal mental reaction to the same disconnection experienced by all smokers, or do different people have different levels of disconnect? I tend to believe the loss of control causes a panic reaction in certain individuals, whereas it actually feels pleasurable to others. We certainly have a gamut of possible reactions to alcohol intoxication, even though it toxifies the bloodstream the same way for everyone.

Timelessness

2007-04-24T15:23:57Z

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

~ T.S. Eliot

I am not going to discuss or even concern myself with absences. Life goes on, at the same tick-tock rate, regardless; and I do not know when I will post again.

I will fill in the gaps as time goes on and time permits.

"As time permits" ... now, there is an interesting turn of phrase. We are faced with an irrefutable deadline, set in stone, written into the Book of Fate; only, we are not allowed to know when the little hand reaches zero. We are truly trapped in a sticky web, only allowed to roll along one axis. Watching the others running parallel to our own lives, also struggling against the bonds of this constrained dimension. But it is the only one we know.

Set free, what would we do? How would we react if the spider released us from our mortal bonds? Would we use the time wisely? Make amends and friends, build new bridges and towers, or obsess over traumatic moments? Or would we merely revisit only the more salient portions of our life - over and over, as if they were some pornography for the soul?

Is forgetfulness - that inability to see clearly too far along the tracks behind us - merely another manifestation of the filtering our minds do to prevent overstimulation from the senses? We lack the deific ability to process that much information at once - that much TRUTH. We have moments of clarity and lucidity, extreme pinpoints that burn as bright as a trillion suns and scorch onto our memory. But they must remain painfully brief, or we truly would descend into madness.

And this is why we worship three-fold goddesses, scribe histories, hire soldiers to defend our homelands, and try not to bleed. Even science itself, with its discrete particles and absolutes of space, mirrors the necessity of border and definition. Separation is life. Without skin - without walls - we would flood the earth.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I look back over what I have written, and realize that it could just as well have been penned by Meris. Perhaps it shall.

The rest of these entries will continue to be private. Don't look for me.