If you are an Internet gamer, you might want to check this out. It’s worth it, I swear.
At first I was terrified to share my stories–what if my writing was awful?–but after spending time with encouraging RP communities and reading what they wrote, I screwed up the courage to try my hand at storytelling. Five years later, I’ve churned out hundreds of pages’ worth of fiction, most of it story RP that I post to guild forums or personal blogs. I work alone on stories about my own characters, but when other people’s characters are involved, I prefer to write together 1) to make sure I’m not putting words in their mouths or making them act in ways they wouldn’t otherwise and 2) because collaborative writing is a bucket of fun.
If you’ve never tried it, you should. Most everyone has a Google account, and it’s easy from there to start a gdoc to share with one or more friends. It saves automatically every few seconds as you write so you’re not likely to lose anything in a computer emergency, and there’s a chat feature built into the window, so you can talk to everyone who has the document open. If you enjoy talking to the people you’re working with, you can fire up Ventrilo (or Skype or whatever else you use for VoIP) and do the talky-talk there.
When more than two or three writers are involved, it can be difficult or even impossible to schedule joint writing time. Gdocs are good for that. Everyone involved can work on the story when they have time, and leave notes for the others in color-coded text at the top or bottom of the document for the next person who comes along.
Alternatively you can start by deciding what events unfold in your story. Sometimes you’ll know exactly where you want the story to end, and you’ll spend most of the scene writing your characters from Point A to an agreed-upon Point B. It’s especially important if you’re telling a story that is part of an overarching plot. If you’re just writing simple interactions and vignettes for character development, you and your writing buddy can make it up as you go along and see where it takes you.
Of course, if nothing of interest happens in the story, you’ll wind up with a piece of writing only you and your friend will ever want to read. If it’s slow, insert a random interruption and see how your characters react. This is akin to throwing a stick of dynamite in a duck pond–you don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but you’re pretty sure it’s going to be a sight.
I was a shy writer when I first started collaborating. The innocent blank gdoc in front of me was intimidating when that blue bar in the upper right corner broadcast that CEILING WRITER WAS WATCHING ME WRITE, word by agonizing word, through every backspace and mass delete. If you’re self-conscious, ease into the process by agreeing to alternate lines or whole paragraphs with your partner. If taking turns while no one is looking doesn’t quite do it for you, try writing your parts in another document and paste them in when you finish.
What’s important about the story you want to tell? Don’t be shy, discuss it with your collaborator. Communication is key. Whatever you come up with, it’s sure to be a great writing exercise. Just don’t be bad like me and toss in lines like “Take me now, you big stud!” at inappropriate or super-serious places unless you’re pretty sure your writing buddy will pee her pants laughing.
Have you ever written a collaborative story? Tell me about it! If you haven’t, grab your bestie (good God did I just say that? I think I did) and give it a shot. It’s a hoot.
“This fusillade of reality was what I’d pursued.”
- Elisabeth Eaves, Wanderlust.
* * * * *
Well, the bottom dropped out today. While I was walking up the street from Miss Creole’s house.
You know, the lady from the last post with the assault charges pending against her. The one who initially wanted to fight me, and then the following week stepped in to defend me from a fight.
I’d walked to her house to say that, yes, I’d gone to our 400-lb bouncer neighbor’s to borrow a cuppa internet but, no, her boyfriend/my roommate does NOT have a release date posted online yet: the jail (where I took him to self-surrender on Friday) computer IS down, just like Mr. Boston (the roommate/boyfriend/inmate) in question had said, on his three-way call to the two of us women, this morning.
And, of course, I would have developed a crush on Boston, wouldn’t I. It’s just too tragic: the man with a wife and three children in Tampa, another child in Boston, and now a girlfriend down the street.
But, I can’t help it. He does pullups in my kitchen doorway with his wifebeater on and all his knife and bullet scars sweat-glistening, and I get all kerfluffled.
What was I saying?
Oh, yeah. The bottom.
No, not his.
The bottom of my self-delusions. Dropped. The hell on. Out.
And you know exactly what I’m talking about, Dear Reader. That Wile E. Coyote moment when he looks down, and discovers that there’s nothing but dead air under his feet where he’s been running…dead air, and a loooong drop.
That moment when your belly plunges, and your world kaleidoscopes, and you realize that you’ve been feeding yourself bullshit and fever dreams.
The moment where Real Life shows up, and grabs you by the scruff, and hauls you faceward to eyeball you with disapproving intent. As in: “You have made me chase you MUCH too long. And the consequent reckoning now that I’ve caught you is going to blister your ass.”
There’s the Disapproving Reckoning where the principal (say) catches you graffiti’ing, and you’re just In The Shit, and you know it, and you know you’ll get a wrist slap and get through.
Then there’s the Reckoning where you’re in jail in a foreign country (say) with nobody you know for thousands of miles around and you’re torn between pooping yourself in panic or dying from heartbreak and loneliness and shame when out of nowhere your very own father shows up and you know you can’t even begin to fathom what it took him to get there to save your sorry trembling ass but it makes you just want to drop to your knees in gratitude because even though in seeing him you know you are officially In The Shit with him deeper than you have EVER been, and I mean EVER been…
…at the selfsame time that’s your familiar father standing there with that familiar scowl on his familiar face and you suddenly feel a weight fly up off of your heart and your shoulders rise because, whatever disapproval he bestows upon you, it will be familiar disapproval. Of a whole different category and class than this foreign, confusing, scary-to-tears bullshit you have been mired in — alone, you thought — until seeing him warped you magically right out of hell and back to the relatively nostalgic.
I’m trying to say my Real Life came stomping up my street and grabbed my sorry ass as I was midway between Miss Creole’s house and my own.
And I’ve never been so relieved to see that pissed-off disciplinarian in my whole thirty-three years.
Because, OMG, I have a real life. One that cares about me enough to come and get me.
I have plans. And goals. Beyond this ghetto-ass little neighborhood, and the street-hustle-level dreams these boozy bastards have never aspired beyond.
Somewhere between the taking this neighbor(-slash-crush) to jail, and agreeing to house this one what just returned from jail, and confusingly developing crushes on local ladies, and finding myself accidentally in a church of all things, and rescuing a kitten that makes my cat suddenly start pissing and pooping all over my bed, and getting tonsilitis, and borrowing a grand from the neighbor because my business wasn’t off the ground by rent-paying time, and, and, and…
Somewhere in my adjustment to the neighborhood, “adjusting” became “running from again” and “neighborhood” became “life.”
So it was a relief to get picked up by the scruff today. Because, god damn, my feet are tired.
And, as always when I’ve tried every damned thing else, the answer to What To Do Next, when I finally slow down and let it catch up, is preschool-level simple.
But that’s not the point.
The point is: Is it crazy?
And, the answer is: Of course.
But, this past week, I think I finally found the missing piece.
A (young) lady who is as crazy as I am. And: in the same way I am.
That is: a 21-year-old student currently making lightning in a lab here in Atlanta, who wants to be a smokejumper when she grows up, and who (along with her brother) has just agreed to do the Tough Mudder: Tampa run with me in December, and to live with me back in Sarasota next year, y’know, once she’s done with Fire School, if I’d like to move back to Florida in 2012.
Suddenly, living off phone sex and traveling the world and writing my autobiography and doing a Marine Corp Obstacle Course seem — relatively! That’s the key! — normal.
And that’s the only thing I’ve wanted, all along.
Recently, a very good friend introduced me to the game of Qwirkle, and I’ve used it no less than three times when hanging out with family and friends to get us doing something OTHER than fidgeting at each other or (lawd help us) watching tv.
Qwirkle is like a cross between dominoes and scrabble. You choose six tiles per hand, and play the tiles for the largest score by matching either color or shape with the existing tiles on the board.
It’s fun, easy to learn, and luck-based enough that really skilled players only have a strong advantage if they want to play a super-defensive (see also, “Ugly”) game.
This is our new go-to game for hanging out.
Killer Bunnies is a card game that involves a lot of reading, so it’s less appropriate for casual gaming with all ages than Qwirkle is.
It’s worth the time spent reading the cards and interpreting the rules, though. The game itself is a series of strategic plays to keep your own bunnies alive while simultaneously killing the bunnies of your opponents using weaponry ranging from a whisk, green jello with evil pineapple chunks, and thermo-nuclear warheads. Somewhere in the chaos, players snatch up carrots as quickly as they can.
The winner isn’t the player with the most carrots, though. The winner is the player with the WINNING carrot, and there’s no way to know which carrot that is until after the game is over.
Quirky, fun, and hilarious, this game takes more time to set up and teach to friends, but it is hours and hours of gleeful, cackling mahem once it’s begun.
(We nix the food and water cards when we play as part of our House Rules. Everyone seems to enjoy the game better if we pretend they don’t exist)
The “If” Book
When we’re looking for more conversation than gaming, we turn to The If Book.
The book is nothing more than pages and pages of questions that all begin with the word “If … ?”
If you could have a one hour dinner with any person now dead, famous or otherwise, who would it be and what would you talk about?
If you could shapeshift into any animal, what animal would you choose?
If you were on death row and could have only one more meal before you died, what would it be?
We take turns passing the book around, opening it to a random page, dropping our finger, and reading aloud the question it lands upon. Everyone answers, and we learn a lot more about both ourselves and the other people we’re playing with.
This is a quieter, more contemplative kind of game, but it reaps its own rewards.
Your Favorite Games
What about you? What are your favorite, go-to games for spending time with friends and family?
What do you play that’s easy to learn? What do you play that’s worth the effort of learning the rules? What do you play when you just want to relax and be non-competitive?
I’d LOVE to hear from you!
A few tips on teaching college-level courses:
1) When signing up to teach a class that trains students for a particular exam, do make sure you’ve passed said exam long before the class starts. Do not register to take the test the day before the class begins. You will fail it, and then the college will have to scurry to find a replacement teacher. You will send out an apology email that your students receive while they are actually in the class you are not qualified to teach, and despite your vague “emergency” excuse, your students will know what happened. Your replacement will tell them.
2) When teaching a class as a replacement, do be awesome. Do have more experience than most of your students have years out of diapers. Do repeat phrases like “Plug and Play–we used to call it Plug and Pray,” that manage to make you not sound like a relic, but like someone who knows what the hell he’s talking about, and my god they were going to let someone who hadn’t even taken the test yet teach us, really?
3) When teaching an online course over 8 weeks in the summer, do be a slavedriver. Do encourage your students to work ahead, and show genuine disappointment when they fall behind. Do be able to comment on the quality of the book, as you helped edit it. In essence, do everything that will make your students who took an online course with some other schmuck who didn’t give a rat’s ass go “oh, so online courses can actually be worth something. Sweet.”
I’m three weeks into my summer online course, which is laid in stark contrast to my first online course. As noted above, the teacher is engaged and quick about grading and helped edit the textbook and is whipping us like sweet cream. It is genuinely hard work, which also lies in stark contrast to the classes I took during the spring semester. Part of the awesome replacement teacher’s awesomeness was that he looked at all the labs and stuff that our original teacher had planned and said “Screw that, just do the quizzes.” And you know what? We still learned all the stuff.
That doesn’t mean, however, that I don’t need to do some more studying before taking the certification exams for which those classes trained me. I have a practice test voucher which I need to start using before June ends, and a voucher for the certification exam proper to save me $200 per test that does, sadly, need to be consumed three days before my final exam for my current class is due. Please do the math. I have not done this much studying since actual college, during which time I worked approximately four hours a week for pay rather than the 40+ I work now.
But ah, whining about work is a post for another time.
The Codex is a 15 versus 15 player warfront, designed around holding resources. There are four control points placed at the north, east, south, and west. Guardians spawn in the south west corner of the map, and Defiants spawn in the south east. Your team accumulates points 30 seconds after tapping a control point (this can be disrupted with aoe), and the first team to 1000 points wins.
There are some tips and tricks that can help make or break this warfront for your team. Like the Black Garden, points are earned on a per tick basis and from killing members of the opposite team, but the Codex generates nearly twice the amount of points as any other control point. Can you win this game with only the Codex? No. Can you win this game with the Codex and one other control point? Absolutely. If your team manages to snag the Codex in the beginning, keeping it is of utmost importance. If your team doesn’t snag the Codex, you can win the game by maintaining control of the other three points. It’s rare, but it happens.
The Codex has two rock cliffs facing each other that ranged dps can use to harass the other team while staying out of the way of melee. It’s great for ranged rogues and offensive mages, but if you’re a healer it can be dangerous. Being a great spot for picking people off means if the other team figures out you’re a healer and you’re up there, it’s easy for ranged to pick you off too.
I like to hide underneath the other team’s rock cliffs. It means you can keep an easy eye on your entire team while staying out of the way of ranged dps. You can run into problems with getting attacked by melee standing in this spot – I’ve found the best thing to do is to run them out towards the melee on your team. If your team is smart, they’ll protect you and pick the offender off!
Aside from defending Codex, the most important thing in this warfront is the art of the Control Point Ninja. Oftentimes after people take a control point, they simply run off for sunnier pastures. Wait ten to fifteen seconds, then go scope out a control point that’s been recently taken by the other team. If you’re squishy, you may want to take a buddy in case of hiding rogues (they are tricky and sneaky). If you’re a rogue, watch people take a control point then run off, and snag it right back for your team. If the battle around the Codex is tough around, you can successfully ninja a control point and maintain it for quite awhile.
Have fun and beat up those Guardians! I mean Defiants. But I really mean Guardians…damn switching factions.
I’m an old-school MMO gamer. I cut my teeth on Everquest 1 and spent several glorious years in the early days of WoW.
My husband and I play together, and we met a third like-minded gamer early on in our Warcraft adventures.
The three of us mowed down all but end-game raid content in vanilla WoW, and we OWNED Burning Crusade. By the end, our little group had grown past three, but we never forgot our roots. The three of us could do almost anything, and our strong history of under-manning instances and heroics led to a raiding guild that wasn’t afraid to try something with less than the game-prescribed number of people.
In warcraft, our holy trinity was obvious : Warrior, Rogue, Priest. With that group makeup, even gods shuddered at our approach.
Along came Rift. We re-forged our group in that new environment.
- Warrior tank, with the strongest tank spec.
- Cleric healer, with the strongest healing spec.
- Warrior dps, with the strongest dps spec (I know, I know, Rogue seems more obvious, but it was clear early on in Rift that Rogue dps wasn’t quite as good as the right warrior spec)
We failed, miserably. Sure, we could handle normal questing, but that stuff can be solo’d. Major rifts, invasion bosses, and instances were all beyond our capabilities. (In particular, the spider boss within the Darkening Deeps — aka Derpening Derps — was a hurdle for us, if you’re familiar with the layout).
The tank could survive and had to work to keep threat off the dps … but as soon as the healer ran out of mana, the fight was over. We were done. With only one dps, the cleric just couldn’t keep up. We even added a second dpser, and STILL ran into healing issues, both with throughput and with splash damage. We respecc’d the cleric, not once but TWICE (water/fire/light? fire/water/light? ARG!), and still couldn’t quite make it work.
Was it … us?
The New Group
We called a meeting of the braintrust. This group wasn’t going to work for us. We went all the way back to the drawing board and came up with an entirely different group makeup:
- Cleric tank, with the strongest tank spec.
- Mage healer, with the strongest healing spec (Chloromancer).
- Rogue dps, alternating between a ranged dps spec and a healing spec (Bard).
Hallelujah! We were BACK. Not only did the Chloromancer do steady damage, the healing was much much MUCH more regular. Emergency moments could be handled by the cleric tank’s panic buttons as well as the chloromancer’s limited direct heal arsenal. Tough fights (the first time we needed it was the spider boss, again), the rogue would swap to Bard and strum buffs, debuffs, and heals on her lute.
We started mowing through instances not only undermanned, but also underleveled. Orange-con bosses? Psssht. Give us a challenge!
Why It Worked
The previous group failed because the healer was unable to heal everyone steadily and because they ran out of mana too easily. The heal-specc’d cleric couldn’t contribute to dps because they’d have to cast spells which (you guessed it) cost more mana.
The new group succeeded because everyone could contribute healing, and chloromancers have infinite mana. Much like the Warcraft warlocks, they could “bite themselves” for mana. They heal by damaging mobs – everyone who attacks the mob gets more heals, as well. As long as they kept dpsing, they poured forth a neverending stream of low-level healing to everyone, with extra healing going to whoever receives their blessing (we called it the “immortality buff”)
The tank could contribute to healing as well, and had absolutely no problems holding aggro or staying alive.
The flexible dpser cranked out a lot of dps, both single target and AOE. The ability to swap to a bard spec allowed for fights where mechanics took the normal healer out of the equation (like a web-wrapped healer during the spider boss – did I mention we hate that spider boss? Because we hate that spider boss.).
EVERYONE had infinite mana/energy/ability to continue doing their job.
Also? Bard/Ranger and Chloromancer are hella fun to play. That helped, too.
Everything we saw online said that clerics were supposed to be the best healers. In our experience, that was not even remotely true. Perhaps in end-game raiding, spike damage is so high that the padding of a bard and chloromancer would not be enough to handle it, but when it came to every encounter we faced (including difficult invasion bosses) the Chloromancer far outshone its cleric counterpart.
To my mind, this means that the classes still need balancing. I imagine the chloro can be significantly nerfed before they stop being top dog healer.
Cleric mana management will need a full-on overhaul if Trion wants them to be the best healers – not to mention looking at the throughput of spike-damage on the main tank while splatter damage hits the group.
The chloromancer doesn’t need to choose who lives and who dies – everyone lives. The cleric had time to cast one spell, and a gentle aoe was going to get everyone facedown in a pool of their own heartsblood.
Live In The Moment
For now, though, if you’ve got a small group of friends playing Rift and you want to be able to do anything, go with the current Holy Trinity:
- Cleric Tank
- Mage Healer
- Rogue dps/offheal
When the peacocks leapt screaming from the roof I started running. When I reached the llamas by the landfill I stopped. The dead bat I found on the return trip and carried back home in my sunglass lens spent two days on the patio table, where I kept meaning to examine him, but couldn’t until I finished tracing Santa.
Which is to say: it’s been a weird, weird, and wonderful week.
Notably, it wasn’t supposed to even BE a week. But getting my host’s wife pulled over within a mile of this house changed that, and I’ve been languishing here in Florida ever since.
The space shuttle never lifted off, by the way (at least, not within my stay here).
But there have been plenty of other pyrotechnics.
Dios Mio. How not? I’ve been living ten days with my first ex-boyfriend and his three-months’-new wife (well, their MARRIAGE is new; the lady is not. I am, in fact, twelve years newer than the lady). So, it’s been “interesting” in the extreme, being this househusband’s ex-lover and current phone sex worker in need of enough money, suddenly, to buy a new license plate.
See, before that, out of courtesy, I’d been not working.
But suddenly I needed a $500 new license plate because the fake one — the local one we, er, altered with a Sharpie — got busted and then seized. Y’know. When I tried to bond with the lady of the house by letting her take the maiden drive around the block in my fixed up Firebird.
And she immediately raced right past a speed trap.
Man, I’d been planning on trying to make it all the way up to Atlanta on that “updated” plate. Then buy a plate up there. Where the cost is — are you ready? — twenty bucks.
No matter. If the expired Florida tag we tried to use was going to be caught and impounded, better to have it seized — rather than in some no-name redneck town with a crowded jail — within a quarter-mile of the house, where my ex The Veteran could bring my car title and meet his wife and I and the lady cop by the side of a peaceful neighborhood road and sweet-talk the officer into letting us all off with only a stern warning.
Which event, in the six days since, paradoxically has turned, between the three of us, into exactly the bonding experience I had hoped.
Which, you know, I’ve really needed. Since, apparently, the rest of the time, I’ve been unwittingly making the wife cry. Behind closed doors. Just via the fact of my existence. Well, specifically, my presence.
Which has made my unexpectedly extended stay weird.
And it was already weird, tottering around this newly-moved-into glorious house exactly of the type that The Veteran and I talked so often about getting together. His never-seen-by-me yet comfortably familiar new home. Which is filled, unexpectedly, with possessions that The Veteran and I picked out together. Or which I made for him.
It’s been odd.
Also, because the house contains this man’s son too, of course. Whom I had a hand in raising for a few years, starting right when he was fresh from foster care and didn’t know which end was up.
So there’s been comfort in the in-jokes and in watching movies with this 19-year-old’s head on my lap again, as I scritch his hair just like when he was 13 and learning that not all physical contact from an adult had to be painful.
I’ve been needing that comfort of late as much as, evidently, he has.
Because the boy has been somewhat directionless, these last two years. He’s failed out of community college twice in that time. He’s moved and his dad has gotten remarried.
Then, suddenly, in the time I’ve been here, the son has decided to attend a $70,000 two-year school. That starts in six weeks. He wants to quit his job and just enroll. He expects his father and his new wife to produce the money somehow.
So my ex has been on the phone daily with ANOTHER ex of mine — the ex who fixes credit. Trying desperately to get his credit score up in time to produce tuition cash for the son.
The son who, evidently, does not want to face the fact that his grades lost him the scholarship that would have PAID for this new school.
So what a motley crew it’s been around the back patio table each evening (the patio table that my (ex?) friend The Poet abandoned on one of the moves The Veteran and I helped her with, and which has been in his possession since). The new wife, my old boyfriend, a passel of beers, the dead bat, the wild local peacocks, and I — three of which crew at any point fervently discussing what to do with the child I am no longer the parent to, and whom the Official Stepmom is just getting to know.
And today we’re all going to the beach. (Well, the humans from that crew are.) To bond further, and burn. Because this IS a vacation.
And, unlikely as that seems, Dear Reader — especially once I tell you about the hairy lecture I had with the son yesterday — it really has become a vacation.
Because, after all of this, after all our (four) years apart, nobody understands The Veteran and I like we do each other.
So, in between my scaring the wife by existing and going on long cleansing runs each morning (the two miles to the Llama farm and back) and pissing off the son by making him face facts, there have been long, frequent and long, talks between The Veteran and I. Frequent, lifesaving, long talks. Of all the friends I’ve visited this year, and having lost too many, finding a friend still himself, still familiar, has been a comforting touchstone, an anchor, that I’ve been pinwheeling helplessly too long without.
And yet. Even the frequency and intensity of conversation between he and I apparently also have been freaking out both wife and son.
But, man, how much harder can I try? I can only mow so many lawns and wash so much strangers’ laundry and cook so many dinners and race to the RV in the backyard in the heat of the day so as to not disturb the household with my work calls so many times before I draw the line.
And the line is: I GET to talk with my friend The Veteran.
I’ve had to. These past three years have left me infected with so much self-doubt, that the positive regard — hell, the presence — of a person who knows me, and knows me well, and likes what he knows! Good Lord in Heaven. It’s been aloe on a sunburn. A cool cloth on a fever.
It’s been laughter and old stories and favorite meals fixed unthinking, because that’s just the pattern we fall into. It’s been falling into worn-in patterns. It’s been his pride and happiness seeing me resume possession of the car he convinced me to keep — the car I bought on the day of our first date, which had been the five hours of us driving up to inspect it. It’s been me letting his wife and son drive it (one getting us into trouble; one, oddly, not).
It’s been ego-bolstering in both directions. To hear and be heard by this man with whom I’ve been through the fire.
And it’s been useful. And not only for me. In the course of all this talking, solutions have been found for the son’s headlong flight into school, which was really his flight away from his “failure,” which he faced up to under duress yesterday (or I refused to drive him home in Pyro from the restaurant I took him to), and realized wasn’t that big a deal. (And now he’s got no qualms waiting a few months and earning money before he enrolls; the terrible pressure is gone.)
Solutions have been found also regarding how to fight the illegally threatened reduction of The Veteran’s disability payments.
Solutions have even been found to some of the wife’s predicaments. Though she may not believe I had a hand in — or even a concern over — her conundrums.
So, yes. There has been drama. Every day. Near-arrests and (apparently) tears in the bathroom and stern lectures to a sullen kid who still proves he’s sharper than a serpent’s tooth with backtalk like, “And where has your college degree gotten you?”
And there have been dead bats and live peacocks and wooly llamas and a scrubbed shuttle launch.
But, at the core of it. There’s been this man, so long under the thumb of his own problems, so very close to so many “edges” throughout his life. Who only ever has wanted stability. A family to love, a house to provide them, steady income, animals to tend (he grew up in farm country).
And here it all is. Everything he’s so long hoped for. His happiness has a shiny-new quality to it; a heartbreaking fragility, like he’s only just now coming to trust that all this is for keeps.
Seeing that budding joy; seeing such joy is possible; being included in that joy as a long-lost friend: unstintingly, unfearingly.
That, more than anything — more than the car, more than the tropical sun and the soft beach and the Florida flora and fauna I love so hard and so achingly miss. That — oh, what’s the term? — unconditional love. Solid friendship, despite everything. Still here, still alive.
THAT is what has made this dramatic ten days a vacation, despite the upsets.
THAT is what has restored me, re-centered me, refueled me.
THAT is why I’m ready to drive back to Georgia tomorrow, in the car my still-family has fixed.
And begin my year of writing and healing and travel. Begin my year of forging myself anew.
Because: knowing I’m not completely alone: it changes me. Knowing that the family I gave everything to, still welcomes me. It changes everything. It makes every other change possible.
What “change,” though? What’s needed?
More a return, than a change.
A return to peacocks and fast beat-up cars; a return to reflection and connection and away from passivity and fear and social camouflage.
A return to whom I love and whom I love to be, with my 28 plant pots and my expensive needy designer cat waiting for me. In the midst, of course, of selfish and weak fairweather-friend Southerners, and a culture I will never be vanilla and neglect-tolerant enough to truly join.
And what do I care? LET that whole backwards state believe I’m evil and “lust-inciting” and an uppity, outspoken, uncontrollable…feminist, or something.
As long as I’ve got someone to call who remembers that, really, I’m loyalty and late-night bull sessions; peacock-chasing and fresh-picked-mulberry pie.
After ten days absorbing just that, let me share the best news of my year:
I know that I — hell, we! ALL of us!
We’re all going to be all right.
haemonic’s post yesterday about Flunk Day has me thinking about my own alma mater (the first one). Has me a little bit nostalgic.
I spent my entire life up til age twenty-two living in Upstate New York. The ‘burbs around Rochester, to be specific. And while I have grown to love northern California for it’s particular charms, there are a few things that I miss from New York.
1. Proper Seasons
Seasons. You know: winter, spring, summer, fall? Here in the central valley I joke that we have two seasons: wet and dry. Fall seems to just melt into cold rain and then suddenly spring flowers are blooming in February. My first year out here I saw a daffodil blooming on Valentine’s Day and stopped in my tracks. Daffodils are for April! And while I honestly don’t miss dealing with snow (shoveling it, wearing a parka and a scarf and gloves, brushing off the car) I do miss seeing snow. In my head snow= winter. Christmas needs snow! The handful of years I’ve stayed in California for Christmas it throws off my whole seasonal clock: “It can’t be March, we haven’t had Christmas yet.” I also miss proper fall colors. The leaves do change out here, but later, around November. And then they typically all fall off in a big whoosh in one day after a cold snap. Here the fall colors are in November, instead of September when it is proper!
The trade off is that I’m regularly out and about in the sunshine on weekends in March when my family is still socked-in with snow. So you know, not entirely a bad thing, different climate.
2. Proper Deli
This one was baffling to me when I first moved out here. On the east coast, especially the Northeast with NYC and Philly, people are serious about their delis. Our neighborhood grocery store had a deli counter that is easily three times the size of any I’ve seen here in a grocery. (You see that photo up there? That is a proper deli counter. It extends beyond the woman in green.) The discrepancy was even more obvious to me because I spent time in college working behind one of those counters. We had eight kinds of ham, nine kinds of turkey, three varieties of roast beef. We had olive loaf and head cheese and liverwurst. Five varieties of Swiss cheese. If someone new came up and said simply “give me a half pound of ham” we’d have to ask them three or four questions and probably give samples to determine what they liked. Out here, there are typically two varieties of ham, four kinds of turkey including the “fancy” flavored ones, and two types of Swiss. Plus, everything costs more because it’s California. Disappointing!
3. Proper Bagels
Bagels are a big deal in the Northeast. Families will buy a dozen every week. Everyone I knew had bagels on the weekend, had bagels in the breadbox or the freezer. Toast pales in comparison to a bagel. A real bagel that is. Here’s the deal with proper bagels: you have to boil them first. Boil, then bake. That’s what gives them that characteristic “snap” on the outside surface. It is also what makes them harder to chew. Classic bagel flavors are all savory: garlic, onion, pumpernickel, sesame etc. I have no problem with the sweet ones like blueberry, cranberry and whatnot, provided that they are actually bagels.
Somewhere along the line, it was discovered that many Americans have no clue what a bagel is supposed to be like. And so they cut out the boiling step and just bake the darn things. I like to call these abominations “round bread”. Panera is definitely guilty of this. I think most of the pre-packaged bagels like Thomas’ are the same way. Now don’t get me wrong, the things that Panera sells as “bagels” are delicious. But they are not really bagels.
I think that Noah’s Bagels makes them properly out here but I haven’t had any in a while. Now that I’m doing the low-carb lifestyle thing it’s mostly a moot point, but it would be nice to have the real thing for a treat once in a while.
This may seem like an odd thing to add, but there is something magical about a thunderstorm to me. Watching the lightning streak down in perfect bolts, counting for the thunder. There have been exactly two thunderstorms in the seven years I’ve lived here. I know that it is exactly two because I immediately dropped what I was doing and went and watched both of them at the window. The first one also made me cry because it made me homesick. We had thunderstorms every summer back home. Usually on a hot August evening. It rains year round back home, you see, unlike here where May arrives and it stops raining until November. I miss thunderstorms. I remember being a kid with all of us sitting around the window, holding our breath, waiting for the next spectacular bolt to arc and split the sky. We’d shut off all the lights, the fans would be running to air out the muggy summer air (no central air in those days), all four kids quiet for once. Free entertainment. Mother Nature puts on a good show.
Now, don’t get me wrong, we have songbirds out here. They just aren’t the same ones I grew up with. The most obvious absence is the Northern Cardinal with his brilliant red feathers and distinctive chirp. We’d often see matched pairs at my parents’ feeders, the brilliant male and the dun-colored female. Even the female has red accents though, and they make a handsome pair in the trees. I also miss Blue Jays even though they are actually quite obnoxious at the feeder. I love the little crests on their heads and how they’ll crack whole peanuts with glee. Blue Jays have an obnoxious squawk instead of a chirp, but it was a sound I was familiar with.
Out here we have the Scrub Jay instead. While they are quite pretty as well, and they also squawk, the squawking is totally obnoxious to me. It is like nails on a chalkboard. Before I knew what they were called, I derisively referred to them as “Squawky Birds”. And they were everywhere, making a racket.
All of it combines to make being outdoors a different experience. We do have chickadees and sparrows, but the difference is more obvious now when I do return home and hear all those bird songs again.
What are your “home things” that you miss?
What about you? Have you moved away from “home”? What do you miss most? Is it a place? A food? The weather? Have you moved a lot and gathered little favorites from several places? Share your story in the comments!
I realize I’m about two months behind the rest of the video game world, but I have finally finished my first playthrough of Dragon Age 2. Which means, of course, that I need to talk to the internet about it.
Let me get this out of the way first: I enjoyed the story. I got my teeth kicked in a few times and liked it. I really dig that sometimes you have to make the best of a few bad choices and live with the consequences, that even if you’re always trying to be the good guy, sometimes you fuck up in someone else’s eyes, or have to make a call that leaves a bad taste in your mouth no matter what you do.
I admit, too, that I’ve only played through once so far. My default party consisted of Anders, Varric and Aveline, and I only swapped one of them out if I was running around doing things for another companion. Fenris, Merrill and Isabela languished in their homes (or, in Isabella’s case, at the bar), and we don’t yet have the DLC that brings Sebastian Vael into the game. Thus, I write this post knowing that my game experience is incomplete. I reserve the right, a few months down the road, to revisit this opinion.
As much as I dug the overarching plot, I felt like there was something missing.
To go forward, we must first go back. I loved the hell out of Dragon Age: Origins. The story was epic, the world rich and expansive, and the characters were amazingly well-rounded. I spent hours running around in camp just talking to my companions, and if I thought they might have an opinion on whatever quest we’d just completed, I could turn around and ask them and generally have new dialogue options. My little mageling probably spent more time chatting up Alistair than she did killing Darkspawn, and I was okay with that.
Speaking of Alistair, yep, I went for the romance with him. (I started a second game later on and decided my elf and Alistair were going to be the best buddy-cop-Grey-Wardens in Ferelden while I seduced Zevran and Morrigan and Leliana awww yeah.) But that first time around, it was the mage and Alistair, 2day + 2morrow = 4eva.
I’m not only talking about the conversations leading up to the kiss and the nooky. but also all of the other bits of dialogue — his fears, Wynne’s warnings, the decision of whether or not he should take the crown and what the repercussions would be if he did.
I chatted with Sten about swords (well, I chatted; he grunted and disapproved.) Leliana told me all about being an Orlesian bard, then I broke her heart. Morrigan didn’t totally hate me. You get the idea.
With Dragon Age 2, that element wasn’t as well done. Sure, you still got to talk to –and initiate a romance with — your companions, but it felt rushed.
No, worse. It felt scripted.
Now, you might be saying, “Of course it felt scripted, dumbass. Someone wrote the characters’ lines, and the voice actors — gasp! — read them off of a script! Quelle horreur!” But that’s not what I’m driving at.
I played a mage (again), and after one brief flirtation with Fenris, added Anders to my party. The character that was a bit of comic relief in Dragon Age: Awakenings is now dark and broody and has the spirit of Justice sharing his headspace. Move over Fenris; I’m a sucker for the doomed. We ran around for awhile, did a companion quest or two, and I think I called him hot at one point. Not a whole ton of build-up. Certainly not enough for me to expect the depth of emotion in this scene:
He’d been resisting? Really? The first attempt at flirting yielded an “I’m bad news for you.” I don’t remember any subsequent conversation of substance between that conversation and the kiss. Three or more years pass between acts in the game, so it seems we’re being asked to assume a lot of their relationship has happened off-camera. I want to buy into it. I really do. And when you come across a line like “For three years, I’ve lain awake every night aching for you,” I get the sense there was more there in the writer’s version than made it into the game.
A lot of things got streamlined between Origins and Dragon Age 2. I’m curious whether the decision to only allow plot-progression with your companions during their quests or at specific points in the story is a result of that. However, I also notice, while poking about the Dragon Age Wikia pages, that different characters had different writers. Anders was written by Jennifer Hepler. David Gaider (who earned my undying love for telling a “straight male gamer” complaining about the gay romance options to get over it) wrote Alistair for Origins and Fenris for DA2. Looks like I’m going to have to give Fenris another chance.
Did you play DA2? What did you think about the interactions with your companions — platonic or romantic? Share your thoughts in the comments!