Ophelea

It stood there, beckoning me. A hulking monster of plastic and steel with a kind façade containing familiar words like Snickers and Milky Way. If I stopped and listened I could hear its clockwork innards - a steady hum with an occasional sigh.

Someone had tethered it to an electrical socket – perhaps for the safety of those who dared to trade their hard earned coins for the treats which lay inside the exposed belly. Not I. Those fools that kick and scream and would dare insert an arm into the mouth of that monster; can they not read?

"Warning! Never rock or tilt. Machine can fall over and cause serious injury or death. Vending machine will not dispense free product."

The label a warning of danger but in truth a promise of imminent harm. And so I sit and watch. It waits. Its veneer finish so inviting to the unsuspecting. But, I know. I know.

Back bent. Elbows on knees. Head down. Hands shaking, they never let him forget the shaking. Weary is what he felt; old is what they called him. A relic. Quaint. Betrayed by a mind so sharp few would ever be privy to its brilliance. Only by viewing the flat, dull, lifeless sides that hid the keen edge had communication been possible these long years. He looked at this hands, stained with ink, a writers callous on the left hand, the right palm smoothed to a brilliant sheen.

"Never directly on it, please. It's much too sensitive. Firmly, around... circles. Be constant. Be consistent. I will move into you when you find my rhythm," she had directed him. And so, for decades he had practiced in the palm of his hand. At first it had been intentional; later an absent-minded pursuit. Others believed he was playing with modeling clay...

Looking through his solitary window, the city's mighty structures rose before him. He knew them by their creators - the Olympian gods who rent their skulls in two to release their monsters upon the world. Monsters of function, form and beauty. He was the greatest among them, still. Whispers of antiquity - refusals to embrace technology - these did not matter. When he lay his hands to the paper anvil and struck it with lead all became silent. A new Athena was to be born.

When he touched her he never shook, never felt weary. His hands on her face, cupping her breast... the trust and willingness she showed gave him the power to conquer the world. Last night he closed his hands and knew her by touch only. Once, twice, thrice.

Turning from the window he reached for the pencil with his quivering left hand. Not noticing the betrayal, he lay the edge on the paper and drew a long, firm line. The sound of graphite on parchment was thunderous. All turned to see him bent over the page. No longer a figure of mockery but of power, the silence became deafening for all but Olympian.

I never tire of your touch...

It was all he would ever hear or care to.

I'm not fond of memes on blogs but occasionally one catches my attention. Obviously, this one did.

A) Attached or Single - Both; but the single part is the one that counts
B) Best Friend - The person I tell everything to or the one I connect with most?
C) Cake or Pie - Got a fork?
D) Day - Perseverence. At least, that's what the Book of Birthdays says September 17 is.
E) Essential Item - A book; preferably one I haven't yet read.
F) Favorite Color - Green.
G) Gummie Bears or Worms - Fresh fruit.
H) Home Town - Where I live at the moment. Today it is Mesa. But I am Californian through and through.
I) Indulgence - Conversation.
J) January or July - September.
K) Kids - Alexandre Clemens and Samuel Phillip
L) Life is Incomplete without - Conversation, Good Books and pen and paper.
M) Marriage Date - We never dated.
N) Number of Siblings - That would depend upon who Mom was married to at the time and whether Dad was: Anywhere from 1 - 5 sisters.
O) Oranges or Apples - Oranges, but I hate to peel them.
P) Phobias or Fears - That I will continue to understand so much; also, that I will never understand much at all.
Q) Quote - I never remember quotes yet I remember conversations with near perfect recall. Odd.
R) Reason to Smile - Sam's laughter
S) Season - Fall
T) Tag - You're it?
U) Unknown Fact About Me - I believe in magic.
V) Vegetarian or Oppressor of Animal - Fruit and nuts; I should be a bird.
W) Worst Habit - Speaking out loud.
X) Rays or Ultrasounds - Huh. Do I have to have another?
Y) Your Favorite Food - Berries
Z) Zodiac sign - Virgo - And though I don't believe in Astrology, it still startles me.

Three droplets of crimson on a coverlet of perfect white: These were the only signs the old injury had reopened. No pain accompanied the torn flesh in the knuckle of her ring finger. No ring had ever lay comfortably upon the hand; acid leeched precious love from the metals as soon as that perfect shape was placed upon her finger.

“Shit.” The coverlet would have to be removed from the tub and washed separately, in cold water as to not brown the crimson blood. Her hands had become her ultimate betrayal in age.

Memories of the night before, the line of his jaw and my hand on his face feeling his strength in every whorl at the tips of my fingers... the spark in his eyes as he knew my passion for him through nothing but the touch of my hands against his back as I pulled him into me...

She sucked on the knuckle, attempting to stem the flow of her life into the water. Somewhere she had read that this same finger was called the nameless finger in cultures afraid of its powers.

Holding her hands to the light casts a shadow on the memory. These hands were once beautiful, even famous. Artist's sketchbooks were filled with the memory of the perfect lines of her now mottled, dried and knotted digits.

He so rarely spoke when they touched, as if afraid to break the spell of something neither would dare say existed. Yet last night he stopped kissing her, his exquisite passionate kisses. “If ever I were to doubt your passion for us, your touch would extinguish it like so many matches in a sandstorm. You touch me... Me. Forever I have known your desire...” His kisses and my hands on him. With him never do I notice the scars, misshapen breaks, passage of time.

Cold water and chemicals. Save the garment, destroy the hands. No matter. Tonight, though she knows there will be pain in her hands, she will bring power to the thumb from where it begins, from the nameless, from the pinkie which completes the clasp... to them all.

I promised myself should I ever buy a home it would have two things: steps leading up to a front porch where I could sit on a rocking chair and drink lemonade in the summer; and real wooden floors. I don’t mean those parquet tile floors or the slats that run five this way then five that way. Long wooden slats with knobby holes in them from the tree, layers of lacquer and varnish, uneven stain, and a sheen so bright it will blind you when the morning sun comes through the dormers from upstairs. Find me that house and I will sell my soul.

Be careful what you promise.

There it sits, looking at me; a forlorn smile of a roof. They say the woman who lived here before me was born here some seventy-two years ago and never left. Never left the house that is! When she took ill, the doctor came to her. When she grew hungry, they killed animals on the farm that used to be part of the land, grew vegetables in a garden and later, when the grocery opened they delivered to her. Seventy-two years and she never left.

Well, at least I got my porch. It goes all the way around the house. Got me a front and back door, two sets of stairs and more rocking chairs than a body could ever use on a summer’s day. I hear tell there are lots of neighbor children so maybe, if I can get the house in order by Fourth of July, we can have ourselves a picnic.

The lady realtor she says with a bit of work there be a wood floor just like I asked under all these books. Seventy-two years of books. She never threw a single primer away even though she filled the pages to brimming. On the landing of the staircase I found the books that learned her her letters. In the backstairs bedroom more tawdry stories of love than even a preacher could tell! I done called the local library and they said they gone come and take it all away after they get a truck from the U-Haul but they suspect it take more than a week.

Have you ever looked closely at seventy-two year old wallpaper? It be yellow with age but the flowers they be almost like real. You touch them and they prick you. They make you bleed with the tears of seventy-two years of loneliness. Stuck so hard to the wall it may never come off, even if it want to which it surely do not.

...

They took them books and I found my floor. Had me a grand old picnic with the neighbor kids last year... or was that year before? I washed that yellow wallpaper. Underneath it was white with red roses and if I am very careful and speak to it with love and kindness, the thorns they never grow back.

But some days, I remember a time before the porch and the floor and the roses when I would walk on the boulevard in the spring. ‘Tis no good remembering things one shan’t for the pricks will make you bleed and the floor will lose the shine.

I haven’t given up the war and I’m not in retreat, but I’ve lost today’s battle with the Universe. When you’re the general of your own army there are times when morale is difficult to maintain; and with no supply lines to speak of, today counts as a defeat in the ongoing campaign.

My son's psychiatrist is not the most verbose of men. He’s elderly and does little more than medical management. I’m very happy with the rest of his care but I haven’t been getting the quality of answers I require to make me feel comfortable with placing an 8-9 year old on the medications he takes. I asked for a second opinion.

If there is anything positive about Federal Aid it’s that they will take excellent care of your children to avoid keeping them out of the system when they become older. He received a full genetic assay, a battery of laboratory tests and several behavioral studies. The tight-lipped old man appears to not only be right but perhaps understating things a bit.

Genetics. I wish I didn’t understand them. My son. My loving, caring, romantic, kind, passionate, loud, tormented son is brilliant. He has creative genius abound. He also suffers (and I mean suffers) from ADHD, social anxiety and juvenile bi-polar disorder.

And apparently, we’re very lucky it didn’t present itself earlier because he would be likely not to make it to his 20th birthday. Now, now...

Nothing is set in stone. But I should prepare myself for the very real likelihood that he may never enter the adult world or that he may become a statistic.


I’m working so very hard not to be self-indulgent. Each time I had cancer my goal was only to survive so that I could see my children grow to their teens and know that they would be ok. It’s no longer enough.

How do I make a decision about this weak spot in my brain? It’s still there. No one knows. No one would care – I can say this with honesty and not bitterness because it was true of the last.


But, more than all else is the total and complete helplessness. I can do nothing for Sam. He knows he’s not normal; he completely understands this.

Alexandre (my older son) and I were joking with him just yesterday and he became very upset. I said to him, “Sam, we were only playing, didn’t you know that?” He said to me with true earnestness, “No, Mom. I can’t tell when people are joking, I don’t know when people are playing.”

It broke my heart.

He becomes so frustrated feeling everything all at once that he literally cannot communicate. He stutters and shakes his hands and sometimes cries in frustration. He simply overloads and I can do nothing for him. When he allows me I can hold him and that is all.


Just, for a little while, I wish there were a lieutenant in this battle. A shoulder. The thing about being strong and independent is you are never allowed not to be, not even for an hour.

Tomorrow, in public at least, I’ll put on my uniform, give orders to the army that is myself and march forward, ever onward to... somewhere.

Perhaps it’s just battle fatigue.

Not thinking or feeling like well, anyone I know can have its advantages. Mostly, it doesn’t. I have a very good friend, Stephen who is English. He asked me perhaps two years ago why the US had reacted as it had to the Twin Towers. It’s rather like when Chris Bateman asked how such a “religious nation” good be so godless. Although I understand, I’m not sure how I much could explain to either.

The Twin Towers is easier in terms of timeline – Oklahoma, Ruby Ridge, Anthrax, Ted Kaczynski, Waco, Atlanta Olympics – our entire sense of safety in the world was simply gone. And yes, I know that some of that came after but it all has to go to why we’ve been so... irrational. I think in some ways we’ve been completely rational for humans.

Stephen is good for me – he talks with me, really talks with me. The different cultures, the willingness to argue and explore... even he thinks I’m strange. So, this discussion we’ve had off and on for a couple of years because Britain, England in particular, has never gotten over the London Bombings of World War II. It is so much a part of their culture they don’t see it. Perhaps in another 20 years the last remnants will be gone.

Living in a state of civil war for... ever... it changes everything. I was such a foreigner when I asked for a trashcan on the tube only to find that they’d been removed because they were a bomb hazard. I’ve never lived in that world and yet he has never not. How do you explain to the rest of the world that the only fear your entire culture has ever known is the false fear created by the media? No clue.



Words cannot convey the outrage I felt at Sierra’s Gamer Day. It wasn’t just the hubris of creating the story but their nonchalance when brushing off my questions. The number of people who said, “It’s a game it won’t matter” and those who did think it was important simply left it to me to say something and then poof! No one ever mentioned it again. I don’t think we – as a people - know what we have done.

My recent trip to New York was to see a friend and visit vendors. When commenting about the volume of medication I’d be taking and how it would startle my NY friend another commented how he didn’t know me and I said, “No, he really doesn’t?” Well, he no longer texts me and there aren’t 10-15 one-line email conversations. Ah, well. He couldn’t go on believing that a part of me was all of me forever.

But, when I was there, he kept offering to take me to the “typical New York tourist” sites: Madison Square Garden, Times Square and Ground Zero. I really wanted to get to know the city and its people not the places I saw on TV. But he was rather insistent on Ground Zero. The thing was, I had no idea what Ground Zero was. None. With some thought I might have figured it out but because it was a “NYC tourist” thing I never tried.

He traveled with me to all of my appointments. I was invited to some PR offices to view a new Wii title. There, finally I was greeted by someone I’d never met in person but who “found me funny” (why do people find me funny in print?) was demo-ing and asked me what I thought of the title. I told him honestly which didn’t go over particularly well. Then again, I have this new found tendency to anger publishers/PR.

Changing the subject he asked me about the Sierra event and my friend began to chuckle. I talked about how wonderful Bourne Conspiracy is and the new XBLA titles I was looking forward to; how Prototype is the Hulk with pus and Ghostbusters could be fun, maybe; and then we got to 50 Cent. Apparently, the PR rep is not only a native New Yorker but he used to work for Rockstar. He is opposed to censorship in any form. (Why do people not understand that the freedom to speak includes the freedom to know when not to?)

I explain my tagline about there being no stories about the Twin Towers for a reason and that this story should not be made for the same reason. He says, “How can you think what has happened in Iraq could be worse than the Twin Towers?” I was so stunned I didn’t need discipline not to speak.

Of all my memories of that trip, this will forever remain the most clear.



I bought a book just before Seattle: A Disorder Peculiar to the Country. It’s a National Book Award finalist. It is far from the best writing or characters I have ever experienced in a book. Similar to the movie Titanic, the characters/relationship are nothing more than a vehicle to tell the story that occurs around them.

A couple, who began their journey into hatred long before the beginning of this book, begin this story with the fall of the Twin Towers – each believing the other is dead. To their disappointment, they both survive. The wife survives a bogus anthrax scare in her office; friends are killed in hate crimes but for some reason there is little anger; though they study the heightening threat of war more than any group I know and are aware of just how foolish the call to arms will be, they support it in the face of all evidence.

Their children, ages 3 and 5, are drawing images of the Twin Towers on fire with the family leaping from the top. No one notices. The daughter sprains her arm “playing 9/11” yet the sprain is the only concern.

I feel so disconnected from these people as if they are not members of the same culture or country.


Strangely, I tell Stephen while reading this the story of not knowing what “Ground Zero” was until I began this book. He says to me, “Well, we know you don’t drink from the media Kool-Aid at all.”

Towards the end, the couple finally let go of the hatred as it has destroyed them both and nearly their children and simply move on. But the loss of those buildings has defined not just them but the entire city in ways I simply cannot conceive.

The final three pages are of the day it was reported Bin Laden had been captured. I remember the day, the reports were wrong. But, for a few hours it seemed as if there would be no war. I did not know until I read this book and then researched some reports, that the entire City of New York left their offices and homes and entered the streets in celebration. Music played – every patriotic song, and we have many – impromptu parades broke out, confetti was thrown from windows. The husband finds his wife and two children on the street. The two children are wearing their “Death to Terrorists” shirts. I cannot wrap my head around this.

They are so joyous about the capture of Bin Laden that years of acrimony and hatred are set aside. The final line:


I re-read the final pages three times. The last sentence has been with me and may never leave. Iraq has been leveled. Entire cities have no plumbing, no healthcare, live under the threat of sniper fire – I cannot conceive of how anyone could ever compare what has been done to these people to what happened in New York and consider New York the larger crime.



I have read and researched and looked for answers in the ridiculous reaction of the US after Pearl Harbor. I try and learn from the very appropriate reaction of the British and rather foreign reaction of the French.

I get why how we can be so religious and yet so godless. I could never explain it. It is a dichotomy that is part of the definition of being American.

I think, or hope perhaps... no, I think I better understand New York. But I can’t explain North Dakota or Utah or Oregon or...

I don’t understand. I simply do not understand.

No, there will be no explanations as to why I haven't written in a gazillion years. Live with it.

I'm hungry but I've reached that point where I have so few groceries in the house I couldn't make a PB&J sandwich, a bowl of cereal, or a really bad homemade soup from cans of vegetables. I may have bags of mouldy lettuce and eggs.

Manic. I feel manic. No, I feel anxious. I want to TALK WITH SOMEBODY!

Due to the burglary I'm limited in my entertainment choices - consoles aren't working, TV doesn't get reception, satellite receiver up and died for no particular reason yesterday...

Read? Yeah, I can't sit still.

Two weeks ago I had no friends in town and the loneliness was bearable because there was nothing that could be done.

Today, a friend lives across town and lives in a state of "I'm not good enough" so he never stops - anything. He's always trying to reach that unattainable next level because he can't see what's directly in front of his nose.

Now, the loneliness is HUGE because, technically, I am no longer alone.

Yet, I feel more alone than ever.

*sigh* People are so broken. I wonder if that paste I ate in kindergarten would help?

Today, I came home.

To those of you who know I have been traveling this past week, it is not the returning to my place of residence to which I refer. I came home to my place in the world.

Twice have I ever known this feeling. Both experiences were fleeting, only moments, flickers of candlelight. Home shines so brightly within me I feel I may burn all that I touch!

I did not know I was on this path. I never chose this fork, turned left instead of right. Yet as I look behind I see the road so clearly. My journey ended this week as I knew, without doubt or hesitation, that I am the quality of friend I have always aspired to be. And I do not fear it.

No longer do I attempt to fit my square body into this round world; I like my right angles!

In reconnecting with the family I so assiduously avoided, I realize that my instincts were ever correct. Though I am of their blood, I am not of their family. And that is ok. I am a better person for it.

No is acceptable. I use it with care, but I use it often.

Having thrown away the shame of being more intelligent, more intuitive and smarter than most, I am free to enjoy the abilities of my mind. But more importantly, I can appreciate the abilities of others.

I feel. I cry. I laugh out loud.

I have learned to play.

I am home.

I am what many call a "safe bet". You could have what you want; hell you could take what you need then simply walk away. Bet? That implies  odds. I am a given. No threat to your world creation truths lies. Tomorrow tonight 30 seconds after you are spent you could simply walk away. I would never complain never be hurt.

The replacement for no one a substitute for nothing. Stand-in? Relief. I am relief from a weary world an overwhelming existence demands that will never be met standards set too high fun that is missed.

In return I ask little. Simply that I be allowed to be me. For that, I give you anything everything all that you need without reservation shame timidity question.

Your burden guilt shame I will carry if you ask.

What are you waiting for?

Once, in the midst of all this recklessness I felt an unexpected feeling: kindness. For days upon weeks upon years upon lifetimes we each had hurt one another, that is the love that a family gives to its most cherished. Brutal, critical love that says, “I love you just as you are but you'd be so much better if only...”

Words that are tossed to and fro like a softball in a backyard game. No one really plays to win, or so they say. “You married who? Oh, my.” “She took a job doing what? Is she qualified? But who will stay home and watch over that child of hers?” “He married another young thing?” No harm meant, honey.

Family makes everything o.k. As if the periods that come after the o and the k make it a finality. Proof that the reckless disregard for the deeper wounds should go unnoticed because of course, we will all return for the next picnic, the next Easter supper, the next funeral...the next verbal beating.

I hope the stranger who entered our little tribe just removed from the caves some 3,000 years ago will forgive us our trespasses and see fit to return. Not even the world's greatest actor could produce an air of affect in the wake of our aunts withering stares. And yet he called them ladies and asked their opinions on the layout of the garden, and showed genuine interest! The children, forever neglected as nothing more than small nuisances, found themselves lifted to grand heights as personages of small stature.

When he bid us all adieu, the night lost some of its goodness. A gentility of spirit not experienced between extended family.

If only someone had thought to ask him his name or who had invited him?!

Here I sit, on a plane 35,000 feet in the air above the clouds, returning from San Francisco. It was a good trip. I saw a few new games which is nice. Met some new people in the industry – a mixed blessing as always. I like new people; I grow frustrated at how little they know about the industry they work in or even care but I have to stop expecting people to be like me. They're not and never will be.

For the first time well...ever, I spent "friend" time with Brian and Kat that wasn't at a convention and wasn't me running to/from a convention. It was really nice. They're good people both as individuals and as a couple. Everyone should like their significant other that much after 13 years – hell after 2 years.

I miss California. I miss the climate (though I felt sick from the cold within 24 hours); I miss the variety and quality of the food; I miss cultural diversity; I especially miss not worrying about what I would say in public because it might offend the values of the person next to me not because I am too conservative but because I might be too liberal. And I am not particularly liberal. At least, not progressively so. Just to be able to talk about differences in people/places/things and not hear people speak LOUDLY about church was nice.

Mesa has its benefits. But it's so homogeneous. Until I experience the surrounding areas I will forever feel cloistered. And I simply don't know when/if I'll have the opportunity.

Anyway, back to San Francisco in two weeks for GDC. Gone for a week then for the craziness. I'll get to see Chris and Chris and Jay and Mario and David and all the other "guys". Do I know any girls? ROFL

It was a normal day like any other with one small difference: I could sleep later. On April 19, 1995, instead of driving 67 miles to work I need only amble less than a mile east to the Topanga Plaza. The B.Dalton Bookstore at the Plaza was due to be remodeled and rather than head to my office before traipsing off to a store in need, I could simply go right to the source.

My morning ritual was altered. I ate a healthy breakfast, read a book, and took my time. I walked to work, enjoying the sun and told myself I would catch up on the morning news later in the day. I arrived just before noon. Entering the distribution area, I hung up my sweater, turned and said good morning and walked back out onto the floor to determine what work I would be assigning for the day. Not one other person was working; all of them – more than 30 – were in the back room. Had I missed a call for a meeting?

I sauntered back, taking mental notes of which task to assign to whom. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was to hear from my coworkers when I entered the room. Weeping. I heard weeping; sorrowful crying attended by tears. The feeling of bewilderment must have become obvious for they parted as the waters of a canal, allowing me to view the images on the television. The federal building in Oklahoma City was a twisted, mangled mess of metal, paper and bloodied corpses. Tears began to stream from my eyes.

The first time I wore blue I hit my baby sister. Ok, it may not have been the first time but it is the first time I remember wearing the color. I was perhaps 3-years old and she hadn’t done anything more than be a baby and I an older sister. I didn’t yet know that my favorite color is green. (The divorce lawyer said to me the next year, “Kelly? I thought all Kellys were green?” and for some reason it stuck. But I do, honestly like the color.)

I hit her many years before the Levi’s 501 craze was to take hold and well, jeans were to become the mainstay of American fashion. My mother made a goodly portion of our clothing much to our dismay; she picked the material and patterns. Gawds, that awful maroon shirt with the traffic signs.

Oh yes, blue.

The car I have the fondest memories of (how does one have 13 cars by the age of 36?) had dark blue paint - AWFUL, oxidized, peeling dark blue paint. I bought another with metallic light blue – not for the color but because it was a VW. I loathed that vehicle but perhaps it was because my ex-husband was trying to get down the pants of the woman who sold it to me? Could be. Maybe not. It was an awful car.

A few vehicles later I had the mother of all clunkers – a Hyundai Excel. White exterior with blue interior. I LOVE TO DRIVE. Have I said this before? I LOVE TO DRIVE! Every day I would come home angry. Go ahead, try and tell me it was because of the traffic – I’ll bite your head off now for even suggesting it. It was the blue interior.

And the blue carpeting in the house.

And the blue comforter on the bed.

The blue paint on the commercial buildings across the street; the Blue Dog (who I liked except for his color) in every painting; the blue of one my grandmother’s homes; the blue of the sky. This color…

WHY does it make me react so?

Obviously, or perhaps not so obviously, I don’t hit my baby sister any longer. Though, sometimes I think she needs it. No longer a child but never an adult (what does adult mean?) I’ll never fully understand my reactions but I have some idea why blue bothers me. But, in general, it is just a color now. One I prefer to avoid.

Because, if I am not in a good mood, give me purple, or yellow, or an orange. Just don’t give me blue.

I move in 3 days. As in, to a new home. Well, of sorts. For nearly 2 years my sons and I have shared a 1-bedroom apartment. Friday, we move across the courtyard into a 2-bedroom apartment. I don't know who is more excited about having their own room, me or them!

Somehow, in the middle of playing/writing for the site, writing/researching for school, preparing for GDC, resting for my health and paying attention to my kids I need to pack this apartment. Hah! It is a good thing I don't own much and am so willing to toss the things I don't use.

And I have a trip to San Francisco on the 6^th! Going out to visit the folks at Sandbox Strategies. It will be good to meet them, play some games. TALK TO ADULTS. I love San Francisco. If I ever become well or they find a way to help me regulate my body temperature, it will become my new home. I love the way people from so many classes of society, race, economic backgrounds, religion, business...you name it...live together.

A friend once told me that everyone there was angry (in the business district). I sat on a bench and walked people walking down the street. They were laughing and talking; some were holding hands; panhandlers were singing; but, there were no children. Children don't belong downtown.

The one thing the city lacks is space – green. I suppose that is what occurs when you build on a peninsula – or build a peninsula for that matter. I so love the stories of sinking the ships to extend the land.

I really should get back to work. The site is hurting badly for product reviews. We simply can't survive on casual games and it's all we have right now. I wish I had the stamina to do more...

Someday.

It was dark blue, both back fenders were dented, the horn didn't work...but it was mine. Ok, it was my sister's first but she wanted Mom's car. I just wanted one that ran. During cold periods, you'd turn on the heater and asphyxiate from the fumes. You see, the interior was heated by running a pipe through the engine block - seriously! All of the old VWs had this design.

But it could turn on a dime. And I could pop the clutch to start it - forward or reverse! I often had to. The shielding was gone from the backseat. Yes, the battery was under the backseat and once the shielding was gone the springs from the backseat would ground the battery and zip! Dead overnight. Heh. Good thing our driveway was an incline.

I rebuilt the carburetor when I was 16; the fuel pump a few months later. That's how I learned about gaskets. I thought they were just protective paper for the metal - AHAHAH! I threw it away and the fuel pump didn't seal correctly.

It got 35 miles to the gallon when gas was $.63/gallon. And I loved my car. The football players would pick it up to move it if it were in the way, but I didn't care. I broke the clutch cable on it - twice! That's how I learned about torque. It took three of us standing on a pipe attached to a wrench attached to the bolts on the wheel.

I LOVED that car. I still do.

Sick has come back in a BIG way. Everybody wave hello! *waves half-heartedly* It seems I either go days without sleeping or sleep for 14 hours a day - every freaking day. Setting some standard of productivity - heck, just eating daily - has become an effort in futility.

I'd cross my fingers that this bout of ickiness won't last long but that would make typing impossible.

Never been one for making New Years Resolutions but I have been kicking myself in my rather large posterior for some years for a) having a large posterior and b) not keeping up with all of the writing that means something to me. I convince myself it is because I do a good deal of "other" writing - reviews, consultancies, email until my fingers bleed - but, the truth is I lack discipline. Most of all, I lack the discipline to say no to additional projects. Eight years (9?) I've had this illness and I still don't seem to understand my own limitations. Death should correct that!

I am determined to keep a personal blog because I weary of the conversation in my head. I am more determined to keep one on the site because, arrogantly, I believe what I have to say to be important.

It has taken me time to be comfortable with the knowledge, but I know I write well so I must review games myself for the site. It is good for views, the games, the devs and for me! I get to be creative.

School is hard. Creative writing is bad in academia - but damn, I can turn a phrase! Yet, after 4 false starts I have finally found my calling. I AM going to see this through and make a difference. The style of writing required simply uses a different skillset. It is also foreign to my personality.

And I want to keep in touch with people. I have never done this. Ever. I am the worst friend on the planet. A simple note on occasion will fix this.

How to organize all of these words? Who knows.


And for those who read the previous post and went WTF? It was an assignment from a creative writing exercise. I wasn't happy with the assignment either. But hey, I'm not supposed to LIKE them, just do them.

Hello lover,

I imagine this letter takes you by surprise. Writing it startles me, I never imagined myself the type. What type you ask? One who would write a letter that begins with the words “hello lover.” Our time together, brief though it has been, has me feeling emotions I've previously only read in books. Not the bodice-ripping books, but the deep bond between friends books. But those relationships that one strives a lifetime just to see.

In two days you have become my best friend, my helpmate, my joy, my lover. Thinking of you now makes me smile. People ask what I am thinking of as I write this and I say, “My lover.” They guffaw and say “no, seriously?” Thank you for this…for bringing this out in me. It is a lightness of being. A freedom from worry, from the seriousness of the world.

I look out my window and see not the grime and grit of the city but people walking and laughing, something I never noticed before. Was it always there and I was simply unable to see it? Or are they feeling the same lightness I feel today? Have you brought with you to this place a much needed cleansing of the spirit? It does not matter for it is not answers I seek.

I only wish to say thank you for being who you are. Thank you for showing me who I am when I am with you. My friend, my confidante, my lover.

I live in a fairly homogeneous city: Mesa, Arizona. It is white, middle-class, and very very Christian. Specifically, it is Mormon. I cannot stress how Mormon. This city was originally named Lehi; it was the second Mormon settlement and was given its name by Brigham Young, Jr. While there is significant Hispanic demographic and a smattering of African-American, they live on the outskirts of the West end, closest to Tempe and Gilbert.

*I* grew up in varying locations throughout Southern California. Jr. High and High School was spent in Orange County when it was 40% Asian. This is all important for a reason...

My kids and I went to dinner at California Pizza Kitchen and my youngest son turns to me and whispers, "Mommy, there's a lady from China here." I look behind me to see an Asian woman, speaking English, wearing American fashion and eating a pizza.

Puzzled, I turn to my son and say, "Well, I don't know if she's from China or Singapore or Laos, but she has some Asian ancestry for sure. Why do you mention it?"

"No Mom, look at her. She's from China!"

Then it dawns on me. I look at both of my boys and ask, "Do either of you have any Asian friends?"

"No."

"Do you know any Asian kids at school?"

"No. There are a few kids from Mexico and one or two black kids but they're not like Nate. He was from Jamaica."

My kids don't know anyone of Asian decent. They don't have any Hispanic friends at home, though they have a few at school; ditto for African-American. And that's as far as it goes for "cultural diversity."

There lives are so "white" that my youngest considers an Asian woman in a restaurant to be a "lady from China." WTH? Where do I live? My best friend in Jr. High was from Korea. I remember nights of eating dim sum and never actually holding a conversation with her mother because she never learned much English; but I do remember that she was a truly kind woman. My black assistant manager in one of my bookstores helped me to understand the writings of Toni Morrison, Langston Hughes and Alice Walker. A client from my first business introduced me to the wonders of Persian food and how to order it, properly. I don't think I ever determined her actual ethnicity; she spoke Farsi, Hebrew, English and 4-5 other languages.

*sigh*

I never "noticed" any of this before. It wasn't that I'd taken it for granted, I just didn't notice. What else am I depriving my children of?

 

I wrote this some time ago, and don't want to lose it. I'm rather proud of it.

 

I have ideas. Some of them come to fruition, some don't. It's like that with most people, I'm sure. But, I do have goals with this site. Someday, they'll become obvious, I hope. I'm working on a completing a long overdue communications degree. But I have obstacles. Yesterday, I found out that I had until midnight last night to produce an essay indicating why I had need, qualifications and would make a difference if someone gave me money.

I considered posting this on my personal blog, but it's relevant to the gaming industry as well. Because, I'm working on this degree not just for personal enrichment, but for this site and for this industry.

October of this year marks the six year anniversary of the beginning of my disability. I didn’t know it at the time; I thought I got the flu. Three months later my first 30-day migraine appeared; I thought it would pass, it was only the first. Then, for the first time in my life, I forgot something. You see, before that time I never forgot anything. Ever.

I simply never forgot! Sure, I’d not recall something until reminded but it always came back. But, to lose a card in my card file? It simply never occurred. I lost my car while at a parade with my children. I’d forget names of people I knew for months, years. Multi-tasking became unbearable. Sound overwhelmed me and I used to manage a music store! Then, when returning from a conference, I lost my car again. Only this time, it was at the Los Angeles airport. Something was wrong. Very very wrong.

But, as luck would have it I was referred to a rather “unique” physician – and he knew within an hour what had been baffling all others for a year. I have Chronic Fatigue Immune Deficiency Syndrome. (The Wikipedia has the most recent, complete and accurate description anywhere. The Fukuda symptoms are used for diagnosis. You need 6 of the 8 for a diagnosis; I have all 8. ) My doctor was the second doctor in the United States to have reported it to the Centers for Disease Control in 1984.

Life is Strange.

It’s a cruel illness. For those of a strong will such as myself, it robs you of the one thing you can depend upon – the ability to get through anything by sheer force of will. This behavior guarantees I will fall ill. Extended activity of any kind and I will fall ill. Playing with my children ensures I will fall ill. Do nothing, and I may fall ill.

It took nearly four years to come to a truce with my illness and enjoy the life I lead now. It’s a life that is counter-intuitive to my very nature. Over time, I’ve let go of my business, my goals, my marriage; I’ve adjusted to a “smaller” life. I live on Federal Disability payments in a one-bedroom home with my two boys, ages 7 and 10. It’s not easy, but we manage and we’re happy.

Yet, I am who I am and I need to be active and I need to make a difference in something, anything.

Many years ago I began working as a volunteer on a website for an online video game. Over time I came to run the website and later the network that supported it. Since that time, I’ve started my own site with different goals in mind. I’m proud of the work I do. In a small, egotistical way, I like to believe we make a difference.

Video games are an interesting paradox in today’s society. For some, they are a part of life as much as television or books. For others they are as confusing and frightening as “going online”.

Not only did I grow up with them, but I’ve raised my children with them. They’re a learning tool, entertainment, social teacher and, at times, a negative influence. But, they’re something I can control. My children teach other children what games are appropriate and what are not. They learn history, math, ecology…the list goes on.

In the world I live in, those I know do not see the threat of games. We understand them. They are as much a part of our lives as the twelve book shelves that line the walls of my bedroom. But, the mass media is wholly lacking in experts (even amateurs) in the field. Even my own “peers” in the industry press do not analyze or offer insight into the games they view. Too often they simply report on what they see or parrot the information given by the public relations companies.

I grow increasingly frustrated by this.

I grow increasingly frustrated by my inability to provide a bedroom for my sons.

I am disheartened by the endless cycle that disability keeps me in. Although I receive cost of living increases, it will not be enough to ever do more than live.

I want to make a difference for my children; for the life they live at home but also in the world in which they live.

I’m good at analysis. I’ve worked with designers and producers. I’ve worked in marketing and public relations. I’ve studied anthropology, sociology, psychology, comparative religions, evolutionary biology…and I have kids!

Games are not just entertainment. We learn through play. I’ve never seen a nature program that doesn’t state “the bear cub is honing its hunting skills through play with its siblings”. Video games are no different.

My oldest son learns strategy, tactics – he’s learned to think before he acts. My younger son learns to interact with strangers, politely. He learns social skills. They both learn to type, to play co-operatively, to play competitively but without anger. They have better hand/eye coordination, they understand design principals (I am their mother!) and they never go near something that’s inappropriate. They have no desire.

The day my son came to me and asked, “Mommy, why did the Crusades continue against the Saracens when they had such a great society?”, I knew he’d been playing Age of Empires.

But video games are forever under attack. There is more misunderstanding regarding games now than at the introduction of any other form of media in history. Neither television nor radio has brought the outrage that games have. But neither was as interactive or as immediate.

The growth of gaming in parallel with the growth of the internet has spawned a cadre of “experts” which are anything but. At countless conferences, we in the games media speak about the lack of standards, training or even aspiration to mediocrity. There are no known analysts; perhaps two journalists and both report on the business, not on the games.

When Washington presents bills to curb not the sale of games but the development because the populace is afraid it is because their constituents are ignorant. There is no one speaking to them about what games are or what they can be. The only people speaking – and speaking loudly – are those who instill fear.

My goal is to earn a communications degree that, along with my experience, will allow me to gain journalistic credentials from a mass media outlet. I want to educate the masses about the nature of a medium that is not going away; I want to educate my peers as to the proper way to report; I want to be the calm voice of reason in a room full of thundering fear.

But, I’m restricted by the limitations of my disability payments. I earn enough to live, comfortably. I earn too much to qualify for a Pell Grant. I earn too little to qualify for a loan. Too little to save up and if I could, my children deserve their own room first.

As a journalist, I can work within the restrictions imposed by my illness. I can remove myself from my dependence on disability. And, I can make a difference.