It is a sobering experience to learn one's own limitations. Up until that point, one almost ignores them; in a few cases, we are aware of our limits in some places, but not in others. Ignorance, having said to be bliss, is our pass to possibility, allowing us to ponder upon our achieving more than we are, in reality, capable of.
It is at this point upon which I now knowingly stand, having done so unknowingly for a long time now. Believing myself a Superman, I have knowingly pushed my limits, to find myself little more than a masquerading Robin. As I fall from grace, I simply hope that the fall shall be swift and merciful, my meager efforts in concert with benevolent timing to be enough to maintain what is left of my dignity and efforts, allowing me some respite before the final embarkation.
Quite simply, I have looked into the eyes of the beast, and I have blinked. A daunting task lay before me, and I foolishly believed myself capable of each and everyone. On their own, they were mere trifles, nothing to fear, and yet, in collaboration, they were fearsome indeed, fearsome enough to bring down the fortresses of myself though unassailable, hobbies, family, responsibilities. Oh, for the halcyon days of yore! My mantra of old was "Why not?" It spoke of limitless possibilities, that there was no reason for anything to be barred from reach. Sadly, though, it was only until an answer chose to present itself: "Because you are a human. Because you are a man. Because you are limited; you cannot disobey them." Ignoring my limitations proved of no consequences, and I am now in my current state.
A year ago, nay, only a month ago, I would have charged on forward, intent in my goal, yet now, I cannot see the point. I realize what this could mean, but I can no longer bring myself to care. I wonder if I have been drained, and my usual self shall return to me upon a respite from this, a sabbatical, or at least a change in schedule. I curse myself for my stupidity (even more for my self-pity, when there are others who deserve it far more than I). I must find a way to strengthen my resolve for a final retaliation. Only then can there truly be victory.
"When life hands you lemons, go out and buy some damn apples." -A Nonnie Mouse
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Kafka, no? Yes? NoYes?
One morning, after waking up from another dreamless sleep, Brennan Jackson found himself transformed into a hammer. He was on his side, a sleek metal head with a wooden handle and a split wedge. Strangely, the hammer still possessed Brennan’s psyche, but no other sensations than thought and touch. “How curious,” Brennan mused, unable to adequately explain his transformation. He tried to move, but found that he could not. Resigned, he decided to attempt to sleep further, a rare commodity that he would be denied. He soon found, through his few senses that he was a hammer, leading him to incredulously consider that he may now be among the inanimate.
Having cats of a vengeful nature, Brennan did not lock his door, and so when his father came to see why he had not seen Brennan that morning, he was shocked to find upon his entrance that Brennan was not in bed, and in his place was a hammer. The alarm was blaring, not having been turned off by the incapacitated Brennan, and the hammer was tucked under the sheets, a rare occurrence for an object residing in his bed. Still, the father, knowing his son to be somewhat inconsistent with actions from time to time, took no notice, and so, upon discovering the hammer, took it from the bed and left to make his way towards the side patio, where there was work to be done.
“Honey!” he said to his wife, still groggy as she prepared herself for a day of work in the bathroom, “I found that hammer I was looking for yesterday!” After rinsing out her mouth from the mixture of saliva and toothpaste that was recently inside it, she inquired “Where was it?” His brief reply was, “Brennan’s bed.” Brennan’s mother, still in the bathroom but now attending to her face and hair, made no inquiry as to why a hammer would have been in Brennan’s bed, and simply finished her hairstyling in silence. As she left, she wondered whether this class would be a veritable menagerie of horrors, hoped that the school district would assign her something a little more manageable next time if they were, and continued to leave the house for the car, which would take her to work.
Brennan found this whole situation to be baffling. He learned that, though his remaining sense of touch, he could make use of a sense of hearing, making sense of the vibrations in his metal head. He could not, of course, communicate, for he was simply a tool to be used by those nearby. As his father walked to the house’s side, swinging the hammer back and forth, creating a whooshing breeze against the hammer, Brennan wondered what could have caused his transformation, and how he could return to his normal form.
Any attempt to think for himself, however, was immediately stifled upon his use. As his father began to hammer away at a nail in his attempt to build a frame for a room that could now not ever see its intended use, Brennan lost all possible ability to think, as a great pounding, clanging, ringing din filled even the absolute tiniest crevices of his mind. He could not comprehend what the noise was, or what was happening to him, or indeed much of anything; from his point of view, there never had been, and never would be, anything but this cacophony of discord, that it was all, and anything else was nothing. He felt nothing, he heard nothing, he thought nothing— pain, even, could not compete with the noise.
After what could have been milliseconds or millennia, Brennan began to feel a ringing, and a grip around his lower body. He soon came to realize that something had happened to him, for he was unable to determine, due to his limited sensory capacities, exactly what he had become. As the ringing changed to a squirming vibration, Brennan had a strange feeling of déjà vu concerning the whole situation, recalling the term Samson. As he noticed the release from his lower body of the grip, and the faintest of breezes against him, he braced himself for a ringing noise, and thought of the Bible, and by extension, God. He wondered why he was what he was, and if maybe God was the explanation to it, for he could think of no other reason why an organic life-form would become an inorganic, inanimate object overnight. He wondered if some unknown dream, so deep and buried that he had forgotten he’d forgotten what he forgot, held an answer that he knew he would never learn or find.
After a scant hour of contemplation, for Brennan’s father had better tasks in front of him now than those requiring a hammer, Brennan came to the conclusion that his fate was more than not, likely irreversible. He wondered what the upshot of his situation was, and if he could find any. His only possible conclusion was that, at the very least, he would not have to worry about any sort of schooling, high school or college, and that he would not have to worry about the oncoming economic downturn. He immediately became utterly miserable.
Almost as if in response to his misery, he was soon retrieved from the tool bin, and put back to work. Brennan’s father could have sworn that the hammer became heavier, almost as in protest to his attempts to use it, but Brennan’s father was a practical man, born of a life of hard work with his father and then to enter business, took things simply. Brennan, admiring his efficiency, tended to ask much as his father for a simple “yes or no answer”. Although he rarely received one, usually instead receiving a complex explanation of why it is not no, but rather yes, he still enjoyed the idea of things being answered quickly, efficiently, and correctly. “Perhaps,” he concluded, “that is why I am now a hammer, and not a poor wrench.”
His sister soon woke up. While languishing in her brother’s shadow throughout her school career, she still held a respect of her own among her immediate peers, and a grudging love for Brennan that only a sibling could have. She noticed that he was nowhere to be seen, and inquired out of concern as to whether or not Brennan had left already, despite it only being a scant few minutes past seven, a rare if not altogether unseen event. Her father continued to work, the ringing and throbbing and whirling in Brennan’s head once more, completely confuting cognizance completely, drowning out any sound of his sister.
As the world stretched toward infinity, Mr. Jackson’s mind absently followed it, finding his task monotonous and his conversational break far too short. He wondered what school budget he would next be assigned to oversee and sign, not noticing the angle that he was hammering at. Infinity soon seemed to close itself into a sphere around Brennan, a new, sharp feeling piercing the sphere’s skin as he felt something change, slowly, bit by bit. He felt strangely warm.
Brennan’s father hit the nail with the stick of wood in his hands, bending the nail. He realized that the hammer’s head had broken, fallen clean off. He would have to get another one.
Having cats of a vengeful nature, Brennan did not lock his door, and so when his father came to see why he had not seen Brennan that morning, he was shocked to find upon his entrance that Brennan was not in bed, and in his place was a hammer. The alarm was blaring, not having been turned off by the incapacitated Brennan, and the hammer was tucked under the sheets, a rare occurrence for an object residing in his bed. Still, the father, knowing his son to be somewhat inconsistent with actions from time to time, took no notice, and so, upon discovering the hammer, took it from the bed and left to make his way towards the side patio, where there was work to be done.
“Honey!” he said to his wife, still groggy as she prepared herself for a day of work in the bathroom, “I found that hammer I was looking for yesterday!” After rinsing out her mouth from the mixture of saliva and toothpaste that was recently inside it, she inquired “Where was it?” His brief reply was, “Brennan’s bed.” Brennan’s mother, still in the bathroom but now attending to her face and hair, made no inquiry as to why a hammer would have been in Brennan’s bed, and simply finished her hairstyling in silence. As she left, she wondered whether this class would be a veritable menagerie of horrors, hoped that the school district would assign her something a little more manageable next time if they were, and continued to leave the house for the car, which would take her to work.
Brennan found this whole situation to be baffling. He learned that, though his remaining sense of touch, he could make use of a sense of hearing, making sense of the vibrations in his metal head. He could not, of course, communicate, for he was simply a tool to be used by those nearby. As his father walked to the house’s side, swinging the hammer back and forth, creating a whooshing breeze against the hammer, Brennan wondered what could have caused his transformation, and how he could return to his normal form.
Any attempt to think for himself, however, was immediately stifled upon his use. As his father began to hammer away at a nail in his attempt to build a frame for a room that could now not ever see its intended use, Brennan lost all possible ability to think, as a great pounding, clanging, ringing din filled even the absolute tiniest crevices of his mind. He could not comprehend what the noise was, or what was happening to him, or indeed much of anything; from his point of view, there never had been, and never would be, anything but this cacophony of discord, that it was all, and anything else was nothing. He felt nothing, he heard nothing, he thought nothing— pain, even, could not compete with the noise.
After what could have been milliseconds or millennia, Brennan began to feel a ringing, and a grip around his lower body. He soon came to realize that something had happened to him, for he was unable to determine, due to his limited sensory capacities, exactly what he had become. As the ringing changed to a squirming vibration, Brennan had a strange feeling of déjà vu concerning the whole situation, recalling the term Samson. As he noticed the release from his lower body of the grip, and the faintest of breezes against him, he braced himself for a ringing noise, and thought of the Bible, and by extension, God. He wondered why he was what he was, and if maybe God was the explanation to it, for he could think of no other reason why an organic life-form would become an inorganic, inanimate object overnight. He wondered if some unknown dream, so deep and buried that he had forgotten he’d forgotten what he forgot, held an answer that he knew he would never learn or find.
After a scant hour of contemplation, for Brennan’s father had better tasks in front of him now than those requiring a hammer, Brennan came to the conclusion that his fate was more than not, likely irreversible. He wondered what the upshot of his situation was, and if he could find any. His only possible conclusion was that, at the very least, he would not have to worry about any sort of schooling, high school or college, and that he would not have to worry about the oncoming economic downturn. He immediately became utterly miserable.
Almost as if in response to his misery, he was soon retrieved from the tool bin, and put back to work. Brennan’s father could have sworn that the hammer became heavier, almost as in protest to his attempts to use it, but Brennan’s father was a practical man, born of a life of hard work with his father and then to enter business, took things simply. Brennan, admiring his efficiency, tended to ask much as his father for a simple “yes or no answer”. Although he rarely received one, usually instead receiving a complex explanation of why it is not no, but rather yes, he still enjoyed the idea of things being answered quickly, efficiently, and correctly. “Perhaps,” he concluded, “that is why I am now a hammer, and not a poor wrench.”
His sister soon woke up. While languishing in her brother’s shadow throughout her school career, she still held a respect of her own among her immediate peers, and a grudging love for Brennan that only a sibling could have. She noticed that he was nowhere to be seen, and inquired out of concern as to whether or not Brennan had left already, despite it only being a scant few minutes past seven, a rare if not altogether unseen event. Her father continued to work, the ringing and throbbing and whirling in Brennan’s head once more, completely confuting cognizance completely, drowning out any sound of his sister.
As the world stretched toward infinity, Mr. Jackson’s mind absently followed it, finding his task monotonous and his conversational break far too short. He wondered what school budget he would next be assigned to oversee and sign, not noticing the angle that he was hammering at. Infinity soon seemed to close itself into a sphere around Brennan, a new, sharp feeling piercing the sphere’s skin as he felt something change, slowly, bit by bit. He felt strangely warm.
Brennan’s father hit the nail with the stick of wood in his hands, bending the nail. He realized that the hammer’s head had broken, fallen clean off. He would have to get another one.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Exception is the Rule
EXCEPTION IS THE RULE
By Brennan Jackson (1991-20XX)
We hold these truths to be self-evident;
Put “I” before “e,” except after “c,”
To live one more day, one should simply flee,
And for money to be made, it is first spent.
Yet if so clear, why so long to cement?
And where does one divine in “weigh” a “c”?
The penniless beggar has coin for bread.
We look at Chaos, and are order-bent,
While the Universe laughs, and finds us queer;
Yet, we can see, and those things far, we fear.
The water, contradiction in a tear,
Or man, so wild, though he seem austere?
We must find how to love duality
Or simply live out our lives miserably.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
NiGHTS
I have always loved video games. I have not always been fully supported in this. Due to circumstance, I've missed a couple games that I probably shouldn't have. One such game is NiGHTS into Dreams...
At the behest of a friend, I looked into the game. I almost immediately fell in love with it. While it takes some perspective to appreciate it now (as the game itself came out in 1996 at the advent of 3D graphics), its true merits stand out; the controls are fluid, the music is catchy and enjoyable, the gameplay is interesting and inventive, and I have never seen a story that speaks so little, yet says so much. It is an intriguing, lovable game, better than many I have seen.
It speaks of a world of dreams, where two children, in a rare act of lucid dreaming, happen to find themselves, and encounter a playful, androgynous, jester-like creature, with whom they are able to fuse. The creature (the titular NiGHTS, complete with wacky spelling) simply enjoys flying about, and is able to dash forward and create loops called Paraloops, which are able to suck the Nightmaren, creatures that corrode and alter dreams into nightmares, into another dimension entirely. The game is short, consisting of two stories, one for each child, with four levels each, making for a total of eight (although technically it is seven, as the final level is present in each). The play is simplistic enough: fly around three tracks as fast as you can and then beat a boss. I find it so much more simplistic than many modern games, and even games of its own generation, such as the modern Mario, or Halo. The controls are even more simplistic, essentially coming down to two input methods, movement (through the special analog stick on a packed-in controller, as it was among the first games to use the analog stick, or through the traditional d-pad) and dash. The music and backgrounds are enjoyable, making each level less of a race and more of a journey.
The bosses are much like the gameplay, simplistic yet complex, and immensely enjoyable. They are few, but they are great, wacky and challenging, yet still true to form and representative.
The story itself is even more interesting, speaking on the power inside all of us, the power of dreams, the human condition, and the importance of self. Everything in the game is seen as a reflection of characters, each world reflecting what is "in their heart." In this sense, this may be the most singularly character-devoted game in existence.
It was even ahead of its time, introducing new content through its Christmas NiGHTS disc released later, allowing for new tracks, secret characters, examination of data in the main game that would otherwise be inaccesible, and even time-based events, such as changes to the game's "skin" on Christmas day and New Year's, and even the ability to play as the rival Reala on April Fool's Day.
Yet, for all its merit, why is it not heard of? If you ask any gamer, nine times out of ten, they will probably have never heard of it. The game obviously has merit; reviews rarely placed it below an 8 out of 10, and many have only increased the score with age in retrospective interviews. For one thing, it was on the Sega Saturn, one of the biggest blunders that led to Sega's downfall in the console market, the mistake that the Dreamcast was unable to rectify. Even now, availability is rare, as its rumored release onto Gametap has yet to see fruit, and its only remake was a Japanese-only disc for the PS2.
One of the biggest detriments may have been its sequel, NiGHTS: Journey of Dreams. While enjoyable, it is most definitely inferior to the original, offering less precise control (something for which the original game was loved for) and greater complexity, as well as unsatisfying loading times (though far superior to its Xbox 360 cousin Sonic the Hedgehog), an annoying inability to skip over cutscenes, an occasional tendency to send the player back to the beginning of the event, rather than the level, and the strange choice to place the game in Britain, altering the characters accordingly. For all its faults, though, it is worthy of the title of sequel (although maybe not successor) of the original NiGHTS. As I like to put it, it is to NiGHTS as what Sonic Adventure was to Sonic (fitting, as they were both developed by Sonic Team); more emphasis on story, an exploration of new gameplay styles, while still attempting to maintain the original feel and core of the series, although Journey admittedly fails in comparison to Adventure in this respect. Still, it is enjoyable, with good bosses, intruiging landscapes, an updating of the original soundtrack (including many of the same sound effects in better quality), and even some limited online interaction, including a two player battle that is a worthy successor to that of the original's and even the spiritual successor Sonic's now-defunct Chao Garden. Still, for all its merits, the flaws become quite apparent in comparison to the series previous installment, and I often find myself wishing that I was playing the '96 console, rather than the '06 one.
Still, I can't help but feel that the real barrier to this gem of a series is its content, what it is: if we look at history, we can see that a tendency to shy away from what is inherently "nice" is apparent; Sonic was winning out over Mario due to his rebel attitude, and Halo and Counterstrike are still among the most popular games ever. Brawl, though enjoyable, is essentially just mindless bashing of each other (although I do commend HAL Labs on the Subspace Emissary, as it was enjoyable, though not quite perfect). Essentially, it hasn't gained notoriety because it is not assertive, not dark enough, not loud enough, not violent enough. It gets written off as "kiddy" and "childish," yet I defy anyone who claims it as such to complete the game with A-ranks throughout on their first run through the game. Too many of these games are disregarded. Truly, it is a shame.
At the behest of a friend, I looked into the game. I almost immediately fell in love with it. While it takes some perspective to appreciate it now (as the game itself came out in 1996 at the advent of 3D graphics), its true merits stand out; the controls are fluid, the music is catchy and enjoyable, the gameplay is interesting and inventive, and I have never seen a story that speaks so little, yet says so much. It is an intriguing, lovable game, better than many I have seen.
It speaks of a world of dreams, where two children, in a rare act of lucid dreaming, happen to find themselves, and encounter a playful, androgynous, jester-like creature, with whom they are able to fuse. The creature (the titular NiGHTS, complete with wacky spelling) simply enjoys flying about, and is able to dash forward and create loops called Paraloops, which are able to suck the Nightmaren, creatures that corrode and alter dreams into nightmares, into another dimension entirely. The game is short, consisting of two stories, one for each child, with four levels each, making for a total of eight (although technically it is seven, as the final level is present in each). The play is simplistic enough: fly around three tracks as fast as you can and then beat a boss. I find it so much more simplistic than many modern games, and even games of its own generation, such as the modern Mario, or Halo. The controls are even more simplistic, essentially coming down to two input methods, movement (through the special analog stick on a packed-in controller, as it was among the first games to use the analog stick, or through the traditional d-pad) and dash. The music and backgrounds are enjoyable, making each level less of a race and more of a journey.
The bosses are much like the gameplay, simplistic yet complex, and immensely enjoyable. They are few, but they are great, wacky and challenging, yet still true to form and representative.
The story itself is even more interesting, speaking on the power inside all of us, the power of dreams, the human condition, and the importance of self. Everything in the game is seen as a reflection of characters, each world reflecting what is "in their heart." In this sense, this may be the most singularly character-devoted game in existence.
It was even ahead of its time, introducing new content through its Christmas NiGHTS disc released later, allowing for new tracks, secret characters, examination of data in the main game that would otherwise be inaccesible, and even time-based events, such as changes to the game's "skin" on Christmas day and New Year's, and even the ability to play as the rival Reala on April Fool's Day.
Yet, for all its merit, why is it not heard of? If you ask any gamer, nine times out of ten, they will probably have never heard of it. The game obviously has merit; reviews rarely placed it below an 8 out of 10, and many have only increased the score with age in retrospective interviews. For one thing, it was on the Sega Saturn, one of the biggest blunders that led to Sega's downfall in the console market, the mistake that the Dreamcast was unable to rectify. Even now, availability is rare, as its rumored release onto Gametap has yet to see fruit, and its only remake was a Japanese-only disc for the PS2.
One of the biggest detriments may have been its sequel, NiGHTS: Journey of Dreams. While enjoyable, it is most definitely inferior to the original, offering less precise control (something for which the original game was loved for) and greater complexity, as well as unsatisfying loading times (though far superior to its Xbox 360 cousin Sonic the Hedgehog), an annoying inability to skip over cutscenes, an occasional tendency to send the player back to the beginning of the event, rather than the level, and the strange choice to place the game in Britain, altering the characters accordingly. For all its faults, though, it is worthy of the title of sequel (although maybe not successor) of the original NiGHTS. As I like to put it, it is to NiGHTS as what Sonic Adventure was to Sonic (fitting, as they were both developed by Sonic Team); more emphasis on story, an exploration of new gameplay styles, while still attempting to maintain the original feel and core of the series, although Journey admittedly fails in comparison to Adventure in this respect. Still, it is enjoyable, with good bosses, intruiging landscapes, an updating of the original soundtrack (including many of the same sound effects in better quality), and even some limited online interaction, including a two player battle that is a worthy successor to that of the original's and even the spiritual successor Sonic's now-defunct Chao Garden. Still, for all its merits, the flaws become quite apparent in comparison to the series previous installment, and I often find myself wishing that I was playing the '96 console, rather than the '06 one.
Still, I can't help but feel that the real barrier to this gem of a series is its content, what it is: if we look at history, we can see that a tendency to shy away from what is inherently "nice" is apparent; Sonic was winning out over Mario due to his rebel attitude, and Halo and Counterstrike are still among the most popular games ever. Brawl, though enjoyable, is essentially just mindless bashing of each other (although I do commend HAL Labs on the Subspace Emissary, as it was enjoyable, though not quite perfect). Essentially, it hasn't gained notoriety because it is not assertive, not dark enough, not loud enough, not violent enough. It gets written off as "kiddy" and "childish," yet I defy anyone who claims it as such to complete the game with A-ranks throughout on their first run through the game. Too many of these games are disregarded. Truly, it is a shame.
Monday, September 8, 2008
What is this?
This is a blog about games.
This is a blog about work.
This is a blog about thought.
This is a blog about stupidity.
This is a blog about Star Wars.
This is a blog about Star Trek.
This is a blog about ninjas.
This is a blog about pirates.
This is a blog about McCain.
This is a blog about Obama.
This is a blog about where Pokémon went right.
This is a blog about where Digimon went wrong.
This is a blog about school.
This is a blog about home.
This is a blog about not Hannah Montana.
This is a blog.
This is a blog about work.
This is a blog about thought.
This is a blog about stupidity.
This is a blog about Star Wars.
This is a blog about Star Trek.
This is a blog about ninjas.
This is a blog about pirates.
This is a blog about McCain.
This is a blog about Obama.
This is a blog about where Pokémon went right.
This is a blog about where Digimon went wrong.
This is a blog about school.
This is a blog about home.
This is a blog about not Hannah Montana.
This is a blog.
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