It begins with water on a shore. It is not a lake, it is not a river, it is not an ocean. The sea, perhaps; something like the uncomfortable middle child of bodies of water, unable to be fresh water but unable to call itself an ocean unless in its dreams. This sea is relatively calm, breakers hitting the shoreline again and again, making something for its own amusement. Rocks are worn away by the water and time; the footprints of the sea.
The shoreline more than anything else is what fascinates the man standing on the rocks. The sea is vast and blue, building into waves and being generally predictable, yes. And the rocks, they're predictable too: he can see the vast patterns that time and tides have left behind clearly before him. Yet while he can watch the sea move, it is not as surprising as the rocks, which do not seem like things that are supposed to move having clearly moved nonetheless. They have lost weight, they have rolled and tumbled in some spots, and in others they have never rolled but have been worn into new shapes, the exposed bones of the world being picked over by the vulture that is the rise and fall of the tides to wear down into pebbles and sand and things smaller than that. He too has some of these rocks with him, they have cut his leg when he slipped, leaving a bit of themselves in return for a blood sacrifice to some ancient creature long slumbering.
The man rubs his leg reflexively, succeeding only in spreading the blood around and in general making the whole thing look worse than it actually is. It itches where the skin has already started to knit itself back together, the bleeding having long since stopped. The tide has started to come back in, and it seems to him that if he does not wish to be stranded, he should turn around and head back. At the same time, he can see more of the rocks before him, beckoning him forward, telling him that he can stand at the very edge of the continent and stare across the sea to the land beyond, if only he will stop worrying about the tides and walk with care, with reverence—for the seashore has been around for a long time and it has grown to expect a certain amount of respect from those who would walk upon it and challenge the sea.
Doubt is etched on his face, the indecision as clear as day. It seems to him that it is a rare thing to stand where few have stood; to know that the world would show no sign of his passing but would remember, at least privately, that he had stood on a rock's surface that would be worn away and never stood on again. But he has his responsibilities, and he was supposed to be at dinner soon, and should the sea sneak up on him it is certain that people will miss him.
But the rock's call is strong, stronger than his worries, and as he takes yet another step toward the endless ocean, as he totters on what feels like the edge of the world, land and civilization behind him and the sea before him, he smiles. Time, for once, decides to be just a little more leisurely. The sea is not cowed by that smile, and its responsibilities are greater than any the man has, but just the same it comes in just a little more slowly than it should, to give him time to pick his way across the land (carefully, and with the slightest of limps), back to where the bones of the earth cease to jut and instead lay flat, as if to say that having crossed the jagged rock, he has earned the respect of the ground and shall be borne safely to his destination.
26 September 2009
17 September 2009
Zombies, in Theory
I have a big confession to make.
I don't really like zombie films all that much. The few zombie films I do like are either patently ridiculous (Army of Darkness, for example, which stretches the definition of what makes a zombie in the first place and what makes a reanimated skeletal army... at what point do you lose just enough flesh to be considered "skeleton warrior" instead of zombie anyway?) or contain zombies that are barely zombies at all (28 Days Later's zombies were not 'true' zombies because they didn't reanimate the dead, they just made you FUCKING CRAZY AND ANGRY). I would venture to say the only 'true' zombie film I've watched and enjoyed was Sean of the Dead, and I only watched that because of Simon Pegg's presence and the bit where they throw the Batman soundtrack at a zombie.
In short, I like zombies in theory but not so much in practice; or at least not in cinematic practice. I can read about zombies in books, or look at comics of them, and some of my favorite games involve the killing of zombies—but put a zombie on the silver screen and I'm likely to tune out completely. I appear to have a very low threshold of icky things, and dudes chewing on other dudes is apparently where I draw the line. Zombie movies are almost too real for me, or maybe I just get tired of watching people get bitten and torn apart by ravening hordes of undead. It doesn't help that most zombie movies are fucking boring, either.
I mean let's face it: the vast majority of zombie movies fall into one of two categories: AHH THE DEAD ARE RISING WHAT DO WE DO OH NO THE HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER or WE ARE THE MILITARY AND WILL SOLVE THIS PROBLEM OH WAIT NO WE WERE NOT PREPARED THIS HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER. You can only see that so many times before it gets old (and very few people can really do it as well as Romero's Night of the Living Dead, which did the first one and did it well enough that it really doesn't bear re-doing over and over again). I still remember trying to watch... I think it was Day of the Living Dead or something. I don't remember clearly, just that this guy who I knew kept telling me it was a great zombie movie and I should see it.
So here I am, a dude who enjoys hunting zombies in Resident Evil even though it makes me wet myself in terror from time to time, and adores Left 4 Dead even though I no longer have the ability to play it, and who did a lot (and I mean a lot) of running around in Urban Dead before I forgot my login information (in fact, I will probably roll up a new Urban Dead account now that it's on my mind).
I am following the development of DoubleBear's ZRPG with the sort of rabid attention that normal people reserve for the development of their own children, and have already decided that if my computer cannot run it upon its release I will just have to get a new one, won't I? Because it's a zombie RPG that focuses on the actual survival part of the scenario and not just killing zombies (which is enjoyable but to take that extra survival element and add it to the proceedings is just... I mean come on, I'm a fucking English major specializing in postmodernism. Yes I do want you to put extra thought into the societal concerns of a zombie outbreak, please). I spend most of my free time fiddling around with my own zombie world, trying to think of the sort of things that Thomas Pynchon would put into his zombie books if he wrote them. But put me in front of a zombie movie and my immediate response will be either "fuck this movie" or "seriously I don't need to see that many livers and shit guys cut it out."
So I guess what I am trying to say is that when I see trailers for a movie like Zombieland, which is apparently all about killing zombies in creative/hilarious ways, I feel entirely too conflicted for my own good. On the one hand, it's about zombies! And killing them in creative/hilarious ways! On the other hand, I'm just not a zombie movie fan. I've tried.
But something deep down tells me that I'm going to wind up seeing that damned movie one way or another. Maybe it'll be pirated (I do not wish to spend time rotting in an English prison, however, so probably not), or maybe I'll rent it, or maybe I will actually drag my ass to a movie theatre and watch it on the screen. And more than likely, I'll be disappointed. But I'll go, because it's zombies, and I keep waiting for the zombie movie that actually holds my attention for more than like thirty minutes and doesn't do so because I have a man crush on Simon Pegg.
I don't really like zombie films all that much. The few zombie films I do like are either patently ridiculous (Army of Darkness, for example, which stretches the definition of what makes a zombie in the first place and what makes a reanimated skeletal army... at what point do you lose just enough flesh to be considered "skeleton warrior" instead of zombie anyway?) or contain zombies that are barely zombies at all (28 Days Later's zombies were not 'true' zombies because they didn't reanimate the dead, they just made you FUCKING CRAZY AND ANGRY). I would venture to say the only 'true' zombie film I've watched and enjoyed was Sean of the Dead, and I only watched that because of Simon Pegg's presence and the bit where they throw the Batman soundtrack at a zombie.
In short, I like zombies in theory but not so much in practice; or at least not in cinematic practice. I can read about zombies in books, or look at comics of them, and some of my favorite games involve the killing of zombies—but put a zombie on the silver screen and I'm likely to tune out completely. I appear to have a very low threshold of icky things, and dudes chewing on other dudes is apparently where I draw the line. Zombie movies are almost too real for me, or maybe I just get tired of watching people get bitten and torn apart by ravening hordes of undead. It doesn't help that most zombie movies are fucking boring, either.
I mean let's face it: the vast majority of zombie movies fall into one of two categories: AHH THE DEAD ARE RISING WHAT DO WE DO OH NO THE HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER or WE ARE THE MILITARY AND WILL SOLVE THIS PROBLEM OH WAIT NO WE WERE NOT PREPARED THIS HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER. You can only see that so many times before it gets old (and very few people can really do it as well as Romero's Night of the Living Dead, which did the first one and did it well enough that it really doesn't bear re-doing over and over again). I still remember trying to watch... I think it was Day of the Living Dead or something. I don't remember clearly, just that this guy who I knew kept telling me it was a great zombie movie and I should see it.
The dead started popping out of graves, and ate some young punk rockers who were fucking in the graveyard, and grabbed some poor bastard in an ambulance. By the end of that scene (which was probably like a half hour into the film) I turned the thing off. It wasn't that I was particularly disturbed; this was late 70s/early 80s film, after all, and the only thing disturbing were the haircuts. But the film was boring, and in such a visceral way that I almost would have rather been subjected to another viewing of Goodfellas (okay, let's not be too over the top. Half of Goodfellas, maybe) than endure another second of the film. Whenever I sit down to watch a zombie movie, it always winds up causing the same sort of visceral ennui, which is a paradoxical feeling I didn't know one could be capable of feeling.
So here I am, a dude who enjoys hunting zombies in Resident Evil even though it makes me wet myself in terror from time to time, and adores Left 4 Dead even though I no longer have the ability to play it, and who did a lot (and I mean a lot) of running around in Urban Dead before I forgot my login information (in fact, I will probably roll up a new Urban Dead account now that it's on my mind).
I am following the development of DoubleBear's ZRPG with the sort of rabid attention that normal people reserve for the development of their own children, and have already decided that if my computer cannot run it upon its release I will just have to get a new one, won't I? Because it's a zombie RPG that focuses on the actual survival part of the scenario and not just killing zombies (which is enjoyable but to take that extra survival element and add it to the proceedings is just... I mean come on, I'm a fucking English major specializing in postmodernism. Yes I do want you to put extra thought into the societal concerns of a zombie outbreak, please). I spend most of my free time fiddling around with my own zombie world, trying to think of the sort of things that Thomas Pynchon would put into his zombie books if he wrote them. But put me in front of a zombie movie and my immediate response will be either "fuck this movie" or "seriously I don't need to see that many livers and shit guys cut it out."
So I guess what I am trying to say is that when I see trailers for a movie like Zombieland, which is apparently all about killing zombies in creative/hilarious ways, I feel entirely too conflicted for my own good. On the one hand, it's about zombies! And killing them in creative/hilarious ways! On the other hand, I'm just not a zombie movie fan. I've tried.
But something deep down tells me that I'm going to wind up seeing that damned movie one way or another. Maybe it'll be pirated (I do not wish to spend time rotting in an English prison, however, so probably not), or maybe I'll rent it, or maybe I will actually drag my ass to a movie theatre and watch it on the screen. And more than likely, I'll be disappointed. But I'll go, because it's zombies, and I keep waiting for the zombie movie that actually holds my attention for more than like thirty minutes and doesn't do so because I have a man crush on Simon Pegg.
15 September 2009
The Sea
One of the things that he'd always hated about the house was how out of place it looked sitting there in the middle of a subdivision that had sprung up naturally over the course of several years. He liked the fact that the subdivision hadn't been a planned thing; no developer had carefully charted out its winding streets into nice, neat grids and dead ends. But the house itself was so severely out of place that he wondered whether or not it had been built by accident.
The problem with the house was this: it quite simply looked like it belonged on the sea shore, and not in the middle of a subdivision. He was never quite able to pick out exactly what made him think that the house belonged on the shore—something about the way the balcony was almost an entire porch, perhaps. He hated it for reminding him of the sea, because every time he thought of the sea his heart ached and he had to quickly take a drink or turn on the television or have a cigarette or anything that would distract from the memory of those grey waters under an equally grey sky, or of the scent of the air, or the sound of the waves rolling upon the shore.
Sooner or later, he always wound up wondering if he'd made the right decision, leaving the shore like that. Too much left unsaid, too little closure achieved by such an abrupt departure made in the heat of the moment. He could smell the wood smoke from the bonfire they'd had the night he'd decided to leave for good and never return, when the inevitable estrangement from her had finally reached its anticlimax and he'd told her that he was glad to be her friend even as he mentally made plans to never speak to her again.
Some things are foolish to run from. Some things aren't. He was certain, or had been at least, that his decision was the best option. That there had been more chance of stopping the tide than of remaining friends. But the more he thought about it, the less certain he became.
And the house only made it worse.
The problem with the house was this: it quite simply looked like it belonged on the sea shore, and not in the middle of a subdivision. He was never quite able to pick out exactly what made him think that the house belonged on the shore—something about the way the balcony was almost an entire porch, perhaps. He hated it for reminding him of the sea, because every time he thought of the sea his heart ached and he had to quickly take a drink or turn on the television or have a cigarette or anything that would distract from the memory of those grey waters under an equally grey sky, or of the scent of the air, or the sound of the waves rolling upon the shore.
Sooner or later, he always wound up wondering if he'd made the right decision, leaving the shore like that. Too much left unsaid, too little closure achieved by such an abrupt departure made in the heat of the moment. He could smell the wood smoke from the bonfire they'd had the night he'd decided to leave for good and never return, when the inevitable estrangement from her had finally reached its anticlimax and he'd told her that he was glad to be her friend even as he mentally made plans to never speak to her again.
Some things are foolish to run from. Some things aren't. He was certain, or had been at least, that his decision was the best option. That there had been more chance of stopping the tide than of remaining friends. But the more he thought about it, the less certain he became.
And the house only made it worse.
07 September 2009
Problematic
It seemed like such a simple process, at first glance. Buy the ticket, take the flight, find a train, and arrive in one piece. I should have known that it would wind up being far more complicated than just a quick trip.
I plan for failure, most of the time. It's just one of those things that keeps me from being too surprised by the various things that happen to me from day to day. So when I bought the ticket, I immediately assumed that I wouldn't get clearance. And when I got clearance, I immediately assumed that I would have forgotten some important paperwork that would cause me to get kicked out before I even got there. That also failed to happen, or at the least it hasn't happened yet. It could still be waiting in the wings for me, breathing heavily and holding an unpleasantly large stick.
That I might have to find a place to stay for the first five nights, well. I didn't expect that. But that's the sort of thing that makes this whole process enjoyable, in a weird way. Will I arrive in the city and find myself wandering the streets aimlessly? Maybe I'll get directions to a hostel, or maybe someone will take pity on me and let me sleep on their couch or in their pub. Or will I get mugged and lose everything I'll be taking with me? What if I take up residence squatting in the ruins of a castle? There are ruins there, I've been to them and I've seen them and I've found places where you could, in theory, hole up for a night if you were desperate.
Maybe people already do; I shall wind up fighting a vicious turf war with the local vagrants until one of us gets arrested or killed or one followed by the other. Maybe. It's all possibilities, right now, and that's terrifying and exciting all at once. I'm terrible at making plans, yet I find that it always is slightly more relaxing to at least have an idea of what's coming next. I could make a plan right now; look up a hostel, send pleading emails to the administration begging to be let in early, actively hunt down acquaintances and ask to stay on their couches...
But would that be any fun? As terrifying as it is to contemplate arriving in a city turned suddenly unfriendly by the whims of fate, lost and wandering until the police pick me up and throw me out of the country, I can't help thinking that it would make for a hell of a story. And stories are kind of my thing. We'll see. After the other problems I've had to deal with in preparation for this trip, finding a place to sleep seems like a pretty easy one.
I plan for failure, most of the time. It's just one of those things that keeps me from being too surprised by the various things that happen to me from day to day. So when I bought the ticket, I immediately assumed that I wouldn't get clearance. And when I got clearance, I immediately assumed that I would have forgotten some important paperwork that would cause me to get kicked out before I even got there. That also failed to happen, or at the least it hasn't happened yet. It could still be waiting in the wings for me, breathing heavily and holding an unpleasantly large stick.
That I might have to find a place to stay for the first five nights, well. I didn't expect that. But that's the sort of thing that makes this whole process enjoyable, in a weird way. Will I arrive in the city and find myself wandering the streets aimlessly? Maybe I'll get directions to a hostel, or maybe someone will take pity on me and let me sleep on their couch or in their pub. Or will I get mugged and lose everything I'll be taking with me? What if I take up residence squatting in the ruins of a castle? There are ruins there, I've been to them and I've seen them and I've found places where you could, in theory, hole up for a night if you were desperate.
Maybe people already do; I shall wind up fighting a vicious turf war with the local vagrants until one of us gets arrested or killed or one followed by the other. Maybe. It's all possibilities, right now, and that's terrifying and exciting all at once. I'm terrible at making plans, yet I find that it always is slightly more relaxing to at least have an idea of what's coming next. I could make a plan right now; look up a hostel, send pleading emails to the administration begging to be let in early, actively hunt down acquaintances and ask to stay on their couches...
But would that be any fun? As terrifying as it is to contemplate arriving in a city turned suddenly unfriendly by the whims of fate, lost and wandering until the police pick me up and throw me out of the country, I can't help thinking that it would make for a hell of a story. And stories are kind of my thing. We'll see. After the other problems I've had to deal with in preparation for this trip, finding a place to sleep seems like a pretty easy one.
03 September 2009
Hm. Dusty.
A year.
It's actually been over a year, I suppose, since I abandoned what seemed like a good idea at the time. Make a website, write on it a lot, and give the public at large a chance to read my work, because odds are high that I'll never quite make it as a published author of fictions. The deck is stacked, so to speak, and I'm not sure I have that special quality of being able to keep trying no matter what that writers seem to need in order to actually become published.
That's not an admission of defeat, mind you. I still plan to be a Famous Author, just like every other bright eyed kid who grows up thinking that books are awesome. But I need practice. Lots of it. And more than that, I need my practice to be public, because that's the only way to know if I'm on the right track or not. I certainly am not objective enough to know that kind of thing just by looking at it. I have written stories that I was convinced were fantastic, only to find out that nobody else seemed to think that. I have written stories that I was convinced were absolute shit, only to find people appreciating them more than I thought they ever would, or could.
And there has been in the back of my brain a constant pressure to get back on the horse, to create things again, because I haven't created things in such a long time. I'm sure it's been nearly a month, and nothing fictional I've created has been a matter of public record (or if it is, it's been hidden so that only I know I wrote it) for far longer than that. But now, with the advent of another great leap into the unknown drawing ever closer (17 days, and less by the time I go to bed tonight), I thought it was as good of a time as any to kickstart this thing.
So look at the old stuff, if you like. I'm actually proud of it, these days. Not because it's good; some of it is, but some of it isn't. No, I'm proud of it because when I actually updated this site, I experimented. I wrote poetry—poetry, for gods' sake!—and I showed it to people out of some almost mad desire to let the world see it, just in case someone would like it. It's time that I got back some of that mad bravado that even assumed people read this thing, enjoyed this thing. Starting with this, and working my way on from here.
It's actually been over a year, I suppose, since I abandoned what seemed like a good idea at the time. Make a website, write on it a lot, and give the public at large a chance to read my work, because odds are high that I'll never quite make it as a published author of fictions. The deck is stacked, so to speak, and I'm not sure I have that special quality of being able to keep trying no matter what that writers seem to need in order to actually become published.
That's not an admission of defeat, mind you. I still plan to be a Famous Author, just like every other bright eyed kid who grows up thinking that books are awesome. But I need practice. Lots of it. And more than that, I need my practice to be public, because that's the only way to know if I'm on the right track or not. I certainly am not objective enough to know that kind of thing just by looking at it. I have written stories that I was convinced were fantastic, only to find out that nobody else seemed to think that. I have written stories that I was convinced were absolute shit, only to find people appreciating them more than I thought they ever would, or could.
And there has been in the back of my brain a constant pressure to get back on the horse, to create things again, because I haven't created things in such a long time. I'm sure it's been nearly a month, and nothing fictional I've created has been a matter of public record (or if it is, it's been hidden so that only I know I wrote it) for far longer than that. But now, with the advent of another great leap into the unknown drawing ever closer (17 days, and less by the time I go to bed tonight), I thought it was as good of a time as any to kickstart this thing.
So look at the old stuff, if you like. I'm actually proud of it, these days. Not because it's good; some of it is, but some of it isn't. No, I'm proud of it because when I actually updated this site, I experimented. I wrote poetry—poetry, for gods' sake!—and I showed it to people out of some almost mad desire to let the world see it, just in case someone would like it. It's time that I got back some of that mad bravado that even assumed people read this thing, enjoyed this thing. Starting with this, and working my way on from here.
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