All posts in Life

Set My Mind in Motion

The main board disc is essentially complete. Since I had graphics for all of the board spaces, it was a no brainer to put together the Spice Deck. The original version has the region completely isolated. I decided to highlight the space where the spice blow occurs and desaturating the spaces around it, so you could see where it was contextually.

I still need to come up with a good sandworm image. I’m looking for a good 3D model, but I might end up trying to draw one. Maybe I can have Nick draw one.

My mind has just been a flood of ideas lately, all potential projects. I’m trying to give everything the nurturing it requires at its current state while still focusing on things in active development, like the Dune board.

Speaking of nurturing, I finally got around to buying some potting soil to fill up the planter I built from an old cabinet and some bricks. I went to the local nursery, ready to pick out tomato and pepper plants only to find out there had been a rush on tomatoes as it had become hot much earlier this year. Now it was no use trying to plant tomatoes or green peppers until the fall. I did come away with a basil plant and a chocolate mint plant (yes, that is a real thing).

I also set up a timed sprinkler in the front yard to begin resuscitating the lawn. It feels really good to go outside and putter about, surveying the land, making plans.

42 Again

I had always considered Richard Dawkins to be kind of an adversary, someone who came along to take all the fun out of everything. But I was watching a documentary a few weeks ago and Dawkins appeared and said something that changed my mind. It wasn’t what he said or that it was Richard Dawkins. It was a catalyst that made me go “Oh, wait” and then everything snapped into place.

There’s a scene in one of the Hitchhiker’s books where a young woman suddenly has an idea for world peace that just might work, but the Vogons destroy Earth before she can tell anyone. That’s how I felt. In this case, the Vogons were represented by the realization that I had my answer, not The Answer. Again, language is the problem. Whatever I try to explain will just become your interpretation and not my answer. It only means something to me. It is useless to anyone else.

I realized that the questions I had been asking weren’t the wrong questions. But the real question was “Why am I asking this?” And that’s not really the most accurate way to put it. Perhaps I should say “What mechanism must exist to make it possible that I can formulate this idea?” My questions were already biased because they were American questions, human questions. What if I asked inhuman questions? What if I tried to peer through a crack at the edge of my vision? What I saw was so simple that it sounds ridiculous to even say. But it was also horrific to my sensibilities, leading to statements that I know I cannot utter in this society.

These insights haven’t made anything “better” for me. I feel a weird peace about certain things, but I don’t feel settled. I don’t think I am meant to.

Voldemort Does Not Have These Problems

I bet having an almost nonexistent snake nose has its advantages. Probably not as many sinus issues.

I finally went in to an allergist the other day to say if I might have a food or environment allergy. After describing my symptoms, he said that although the $750 allergy test might reveal some sensitivities, he didn’t think my problem was allergy related. He described an affliction called non-allergic rhinitis and it fit pretty much with what I was experiencing. It is a mysterious ailment with allergy-like symptoms but unknown causes. Unfortunately, there is no cure. There is a treatment, however.

He prescribed some inexpensive nasal sprays to try for a few months. I already feel the difference, though they have some side effects like a bad taste in my mouth and dryness. One of the sprays smells like flowers. The doctor said I would probably need to use the sprays forever. I’ve also started using a neti pot, which helps.

In attempting to ease my suffering, some other issues have come to light. Now that my nasal passages are more clear, I’ve realized that the feeling of congestion is caused by my deviated septum. At some point I will probably get septoplasty and have that corrected so I can breathe through both nostrils more easily.

I’ve also been getting tonsil stones which are these bits of white calcified junk stuck to the back of my throat. The drainage in my throat was probably contributing to the tonsil stones, but so has caffeine, dairy products and bread. Hopefully the combination of the nasal sprays, neti pot and making some dietary adjustments will make the stones go away. It is either that or have my tonsils removed.

Absolute Terror Field

I know this post should contain an update on creative projects, and there is a tenuous connection, but mostly I will be discussing fear. Also, I will be spoiling part of Neon Genesis Evangelion. But, you know, statute of limitations, folks. You’ve had 15 years.

While Eva is not my favorite anime, I believe it is the most important one. Its messages are manifold and continue to resonate. The series presents the concept of the Absolute Terror Field, or AT Field, as a protective barrier generated by the soul. It is one’s personal space to the umpteenth level. In an effort to protect itself, the soul has created individuality and even a physical shell to avoid contamination from otherness. As the name implies, it is generated by fear. On some level, the person, the individual, is always afraid of things that are not itself and must constantly assert itself from atoms to attitude. Continue reading →

On Secrets

I was hoping I would be able to share something about a recent project, but it is still under wraps. Stay tuned!

I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. You ask me not to tell, I essentially partition that information away in a special vault in my memory. Eventually even I will be surprised by the news.

It’s tricky when I am working on something cool, but I’m forbidden to show anyone. I recently had to sign an NDA at work. Now I belong to a secret society who know about *It*.

In other news, I have secured three video testimonials about The Stork. I want to get one more and then cut together a promo video so I can launch the Kickstarter project. I’d like to get that going by the end of the month.

Sleepless in Seattle

So one of my creative projects is my ongoing quest to find a girlfriend. I will go into more detail in a future post. This week is just the preamble, the tease. The real posts start next week.

Anyhow, one of my friends from my board game group suddenly got engaged. I’m not best buds with the guy or anything, not privy to the machinations of his private life. But still. Seems like I would have noticed someone he was about to marry. Turns out it was someone he had known for a while, but she lives in Seattle. And they decided to get married this coming July and he’s going to move out there. Just like that.

So another friend asks me if I found the love of my life but she lived somewhere else, wouldn’t I move there? Like what if she was from Ohio. Would I go back there? And I’m like “Fuck, I hope not. I hope it doesn’t come down to that.” I love Austin. I love my friends here. I don’t want to leave. She’d have to move here.

I mean, one of the main reasons I came here was to hopefully meet someone in Austin, the cool town with the Alamo Drafthouse. I don’t want to find out that, no, she’s actually kicking it in some Louisiana bayou or New York borough. I don’t think it is wrong to balance the fantastic with the pragmatic, the deep soul desire with the practicality of the everyday.

Unless, of course, some mirror cracks open or an alien shuttle craft lands and she’s like, “Hey, let’s bail on this whole planet Earth situation and go back to my place.” I’d be down with that.

Guilt

I get this guilt from not having the Next Big Thing queued up. The Project is what I use to validate my existence. But I’m waiting for someone, guys. None of this makes a lot of sense without her. I feel like I got to do most of the things I wanted to do on my own.

Now I just want to do things with you and with her.

But sometimes you’re busy and she… She’s taking her time.

And I Never Wanted to be Either of Those

Tonight at w00tstock I ran into my friend Steven and he asked the perfectly normal question, “What’s new with you?” He just wants to say hi and see what has been going on in my life. I hate that question. It’s like asking a chronic stutterer to read Fox in Socks in front of a crowd. I hate that question not because nothing of note has happened to me but because I don’t remember. My brain does not parse events like yours does. If I don’t make an effort to mentally tag something as anecdote fodder so I can participate in small talk, I won’t think to mention it. I can maybe keep track of a few days, but beyond that is a compressed field of time where everything that has ever happened exists. Some time ago, when I knew I was going to meet a new person, I would look over a document which detailed facts like how long I had lived in my current city, how long I had been married, how long I worked at my current job. Part of this blog still does the job of that list. Without it, time becomes “a while now” inching ever closer to “always”. So don’t ask me time questions.

“How are you doing?” is the other pleasantry that annoys me. I think I’ve made my peace with it. It isn’t a real question; it is a greeting like “hello”. What gets to me is that these two questions remind me of the disconnect I feel from the world where everyone is confident with the answers to those questions. Even now I’m getting frustrated at having to attempt to express this. I don’t want to talk about what’s new with me or how I’m doing because I am so disinclined to participate in your world that there is hardly any overlap with mine. There is nothing to talk to you about except the lowest common denominator: television shows, the job, the weather. There is nothing new to report and no day is distinguished from another because I do not have the energy to be here with you unless it is going to matter. Unless it is going to be real.

Sometimes my life feels like my job: I’m exhausted by doing hardly anything. I’m burning out. Even on autopilot the fuel has to come from somewhere. Why should I do anything about it? What compelling reason is there? Man delights not me.

Bootstrap

What is the flint and steel for creativity? How do you re-ignite it? I’m not talking about writer’s block. I’m talking about a dried up well, a sputtering font.

This year I’ve lost the drive to create anything at all. It isn’t that I can’t. I just don’t want to. I see no point.

I’m burned out and used up in every area of my life. There isn’t much of me to give any more. There is just a little bit left. I feel faded.

I have no idea what batteries I once ran on, but they need to be replaced. Or the power system needs to be upgraded.

Don’t Know Whether I’m the Boxer or the Bag

I scarcely know how to hold a pen, so long has it been
since I pressed one to parchment. My desk and all its contents were
claimed by the waves, repurposed as a piscine mansion. Ink is dear,
gleaned from a painstaking process involving the crushed seeds of a
peculiar mango-shaped fruit we discovered. And I wonder if the
letters will last. Work on the ship continues apace. The command
center and galley receive most of our attention and it is generally
agreed that the day these rooms become a place of respite rather
than labor will be sweet indeed. My constitution continues its
decline, constantly embattled from all sides by the heavy vapors
enclosing us. The breathing apparatus and the seltzers have proven
ineffective. I spend most days on the other side of the thick
acrylic bubbles, overseeing the work, sparing an occasional glance
out at the oppressive topography. But I have begun to feel it even
in my cabin, lying on my bunk. Some spectre leeches my strength, so
that I waken not refreshed, but burdened. The daily job manifests
from the investors blur together. Each site survey has become an
iteration of the previous one, permutations of some ur-site
unfolding through time and space, like hundreds of incrementally
flawed daisies. I send the drones their orders, instruction sets I
know by heart. I fear for the day when I see a colleague insert the
control cards and my own legs lurch forward, watching helpless as
my hands reach for the drill.