A favored turn of phrase after Bloggers in Sin City is that "there are no words."
I beg to differ. We are bloggers, after all. So it is in words we trust -- and use our words, we must. But what to do when the task is daunting?
Return to form. Write what you know. From over here, I know that I write to learn things about the world and myself. Words are my Tetris pieces that sort out the lines and smooth over the gaps, and I never know what I'll have until the pieces are set at the bottom of the screen. This write-to-find process usually works, but I don't think I learned anything from #BiSC or the BiSCuits. I've written this post five times in five different ways, and this may be because I'm out of blogging practice, but I can't nail down any new lessons. Bloggers are still bloggers, BiSCuits are still BiSCuits, people are still people.
I keep thinking that it's because I already knew that the BiSCuits would be remarkable human beings, people who allowed themselves to bring their respective thunder by granting access to their restricted areas. Glorious individuals. They always are. So, that wasn't a surprise. And why should it be? But at the same time, how could I know that everyone would be wonderful, without fail? Continue reading
I think I've forgotten how to do this.
Blogging, for a time, came naturally. It was something I deployed to digest the things that go on around me in the hopes that I'd learn something from what I've seen and done. But I haven't seen or done anything for quite a while now that didn't involve the hamster wheel of being an independent contractor.
I have, every once in a while, a chit chat over drinks, but I haven't learned any new lessons. I don't date, so there aren't any fun stories there. I love (and ostensibly live for) my clients, but I'm not going to blog about them -- that's unprofessional. My creative endeavors, visual and musical, have always been floating around in the background of my life, but nobody really cares about those and I'm dangerously close to feeling the same.
This isn't a rut. This isn't writer's block. This is being uninspired. Continue reading
Every time I move, which seems to happen every 2-3 year interval since the age of 18, I have to reevaluate my possessions and compartmentalize the containers for the things I absolutely must keep with me. A lot of people know how that goes -- and I can only assume that a lot of those people experience the same kind of autobiographical reductionism.
Throughout all of these relocations, all shuffling around the vast labyrinth that is Los Angeles, I have kept with me a small wooden box that contains cathected items from various periods of my life.
There is a photograph of me, in overalls, as a baby, under a Christmas tree.
There are microcassette tapes of me babbling and screwing around as a child that span 6 years.
There is a drum key from my very first drum kit, a 1980's Pearl Export.
There is a photo I took in Trafalgar Square.
There is a setlist from my band's tour through the American southwest.
There is an invitation to the funeral of my old boss, mentor, and friend at the bar in Little Tokyo.
And among others, there are also some things relating to bloggers. Yeah, you guys.
Because, you know, it's good to hang on to things that change your life.
So what are some of the things in your boxes?
If you don't play video games, (PLEASE DON'T LEAVE I AM SO LONELY) I at least expect the average 16-40 year old to have at least a cursory pop culture understanding on what the new SimCity is based. And even if you aren't into simulated urban planning, the game is massive fun and receives good marks in the "thank ye gods, a non-first-person-shooter" kind of way.
On to the meat of the post, I have been playing this game with Joey and was wondering along the way if this game has artistic merit, as I am wont to do when I can't get to sleep. Sure, it looks great, the sound design is incredible, and it's definitely satisfying to just lay down curved roads. And EA Origin server problems aside, I have finally spent enough time in the Sims' world that I think I've got something.
The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things,
but their inward significance.
When I was younger, ninjas (and their related turtle manifestation) were heralded as the epitome of cool. In looser terms, to be considered a ninja is to be regarded as deftly talented and, where applicable, so damn good at what you do that other people don't notice.
As I grew older, ninjas were less revered and more relegated to myth and even cartoony caricatures. That's fine, after all, how realistically applicable are ninja principals? Who uses martial arts or cryptic Eastern fortune-cookie-esque philosophy in their day-to-day lives?