Let us remember those who serve

Your mother was home when you left (your right)
Your daddy was home when you left (your right)
Your sister was home when you left (your right)
Your brother was home when you left (your right)
Your dog was home when you left (your right)
Your cat was home when you left (your right)
Your fish was home when you left (your right)

Your mommy, your daddy, your brother, your sister, the dog, the cat, the fish, was home when you left (your right)
And that's the reason you left (your right)

I left my home to join the army
The day I left my mama cried
She thought that I was gonna die
I left my wife crying standing at the door
She knew that I would die at war
I left my son playing in the yard
To see his daddy leave made him cry so hard
star wars!

ain't dead

Just working on an unofficial NaNoWriMo project. Will post scenes as they're completed.

Dean and a Horse is on hiatus because I need to figure out what I'm doing with the ending, and then backtrack and course-correct the fic from the beginning so we can actually get there in a reasonable fashion. The whole fic started as an exercise to get myself writing again, and then developed a plot somewhere along the way, and now needs a pretty thorough overhaul so it'll work as a proper fic instead of just an exercise. Which is why I usually preplan fics nowadays instead of discovery writing--less likely to run face-first in to writer's block.

it's so beautiful

Confession: recently I've been treating Empyrion: Galactic Survival like it's a walking simulator because the scenery is so pretty. It has a ton of actual gameplay, but I've just been wandering around taking snapshots like an dumb intergalactic tourist. And now I'm going to shove some more of them at you because ... well, I gotta do something with 'em.

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Why play video games? : rediscovering a sense of wonder

Originally written for a members-only blog that's having an ongoing discussion on the role of video games in modern culture.

view of field through spaceship window

Recently I spent a weekend driving through the fields and mountains and forests of east-central PA. Well, I was a passenger, which is the only reason we made it out and back safely, as I was transfixed by the natural beauty surrounding us. And sure, I usually stare out the window on long drives, but this was different. I noticed changes in texture and subtleties of color in a way that was completely new to me, like some part of my brain had been switched on that I hadn’t realized even existed. By the end of the trip I was nearly drunk on it, and not even the mundanities of returning to suburban life could fully obscure the experience.

Can’t say whether I’ll ever get to relive that intensity of awareness, but I know exactly why it happened in the first place: video games.

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Someone recently accused me of preferring “synthetic living over really living” because I play video games. This is my rebuttal: I was living a synthetic life without realizing it, and video games reminded me that there’s a big and beautiful world out there and I want to make an effort to see more of it. Chesterton has a quote somewhere–and I don’t remember where to find it, annoyingly, but maybe one of you will know–about traveling around the world so that you can then come home and actually see it again. Or possibly for the first time. I feel like that’s what happened to me, only the particular world I traveled around first just happened to be comprised of pixels.

Beautiful, beautiful pixels.


The coziest feeling in the world

Yes, we became very wakeful; so much so that our recumbent position began to grow wearisome, and by little and little we found ourselves sitting up; the clothes well tucked around us, leaning against the headboard with our four knees drawn up close together, and our two noses bending over them, as if our knee-pans were warming-pans. We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blankets between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.
- Herman Melville, Moby Dick, ch. 11, "Nightgown"

poems: October

- Hilaire Belloc

Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face
Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold
Invades our very noon: the year's grown old,
Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace.
The vines below have lost their purple grace,
And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled,
Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold,
And moaning gusts make desolate all the place.

Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry,
Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether;
Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free,
And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather;
Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we,
Singing old songs and drinking wine together.

One of the few non-melancholy (or downright depressing) autumn poems I could find. Which has always seemed odd to me--aside from the decreasing in sunlight, I find autumn to be rather invigorating, especially because you can finally do stuff outside without becoming drenched in sweat or developing heat exhaustion along the way. Even the chancing of the leaves and dying back of smaller plants has always felt more like preparation for renewal rather than a settled death. Spring is on its way, after all, just takes a little while to get here.

Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus
Steal away home; I ain't got long to stay here

My Lord, he calls me, he calls me by the thunder
The trumpet sounds within my soul; I ain't got long to stay here

Green trees are bending, the sinner stands a-trembling

I see the lighting, the thunder and the lightning, O Lord

Favorite Eleventh Episodes of SPN

Which is your favorite eleventh episode of SPN?

1.11 Scarecrow
2.11 Playthings
3.11 Mystery Spot
4.11 Family Remains
5.11 Sam, Interrupted
6.11 Appointment in Samarra
7.11 Adventures in Babysitting
8.11 LARP and the Real Girl
9.11 First Born
10.11 There's No Place Like Home
11.11 Into the Mystic
12.11 Regarding Dean
13.11 Breakdown
14.11 Damaged Goods

An embarrassment of riches, here--"Playthings", "Mystery Spot", "Family Remains", "Regarding Dean"... not to mention "LARP and the Real Girl" and "Breakdown". All solid stuff with details that reward multiple viewings. Think I'm going to have to go with "Mystery Spot", though, as it's such a perfect blend of humor and horror. There's a reason it remains an acknowledged classic of the show by just about everyone.

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