No Set Expectations

Strap in, kiddos, this one's gonna get heavy.

You may have heard me mention that I'm back in the world again. It's not by choice; every day for the past few months, I have gotten up at a much earlier time than I'm comfortable with and driven to a place that is not my home and performed for several hours before walking out the door, starting up the engine, and feeling my facial muscles go slack as I put distance between that place and myself, all the artifice of the day draining away.

There's this kid there, maybe 20 or so. Some small-ish percentage Hispanic, enough that you'd have to squint to see it, much like my native blood. Today, he asked me what my goals were. I looked at him funny for a moment, then he clarified by asking what path I wanted to take at this new job. I gave a small laugh, and said for a moment I thought he meant in life, and had wondered if he'd missed the grey on my face. 

Life, I have found, is about having your expectations stripped from you, if you are not fortunate enough to belong to a class that has the resources to buy the fulfillment of those expectations.

• I lost the expectation being able-bodied when I was in a magnificently acrobatic car accident at 17 which gave me a concussion, injured my back, and destroyed my right ankle. 
• I lost the expectation of a formal education when a sleep disorder robbed me of the ability to wake up early in the morning and be cognizant before noon or so.
• I lost the expectation a family when my ex-wife turned abusive and threatened, subtly, to use the child I raised as a weapon against me. 
• I lost the expectation of good health when, slowly, my digestive system began to tolerate fewer and fewer foods, to the point where I now sometimes eat something knowing I'll hate myself later just because I'm sick of bland breads and light meats. 
• I lost the expectation of comfort when the nerves in my spine began to compress due to the accident, causing pain anywhere from my thighs to my arms to my chest.

I may sound like a complete miseryguts right now, but I have a consolation. Several years ago, I began to say that I may not be okay, but I can see okay from where I'm standing. I think I'm only now starting to be okay with that.

I promise I'll be a bit more light-hearted next week. Maybe Erin will have caught up with The Orville and I can do a mid-season check-in on it. 

D&D Alignments Seen Through a Pseudo-Nolan Matrix

If you've ever played D&D or Pathfinder, you know that sometimes alignments are difficult to wrap one's head around. If you're a Game Master, you've likely had to explain them to a new player, which can be difficult as the explanations are rather longwinded.

Given today's political climate, I thought it would be interesting to define the alignments along David Nolan's political spectrum chart.

Morals
Evil: Selfish.
Good: Selfless.
Neutral: I do whatever I need to do.

Ethics
Chaotic: Individualist.
Lawful: Statist.
Neutral: Stop bothering me.

So put them together and this is what you get:

Lawful Good: The state is more important than any one person, including me. I'll give my life to defend it.
Lawful Neutral: The state IS. It needs no reason to exist other than its existence.
Lawful Evil: The state is more important than anyone except me. I'll use its power to get what I want.

Neutral Good: I'll use whatever means necessary to accomplish the most good.
Neutral: I do whatever I need to do. Stop bothering me.
Neutral Evil: I'll use whatever means necessary to accomplish whatever I want.

Chaotic Good: The individual is more important than the state. If necessary, the state should die to protect the rights of the individual.
Chaotic Neutral: Smash the state! Stasis kills, be dynamic!
Chaotic Evil: State or no state, I am more important than you. You should die to make me happy.

I know that this glosses over lots of fine points and fiddly bits that grognards love, but I really like this simplification for a "root level" of alignment. Everything else is just derived from this.

Thoughts?

Jessica Jones: Who We Are and Who We Want to Be

We're a little over a week from Netflix's next Marvel Cinematic Universe outing as of today, and I'm more than a little excited. After how well Daredevil was done, I'm really looking forward to this. The reasons, though, are more than superficial this time.

I love the MCU. It's very flashy and exciting and fun, and while Daredevil was a departure from that, it still retained the overall quality and love of the source material that previous adaptations simply lacked

Jessica Jones looks to take the grim-dark of Daredevil and completely redefine it.



But there's a more personal slant to this, too. I've mentioned in the past how Barbara Gordon, aka Oracle and Batgirl, is a personal hero of mine: someone I look up to and semi-jokingly refer to as “waifu.”

Barbara Gordon is a character that refuses to stay down. She's intelligent, athletic, and driven. Seeing the Batman in action first-hand, she took that inspiration and made her own hero out of it, becoming a valuable member of the Bat-family. Life then proceeded to hit her, very very hard, when Joker shot her through the spine and paralyzed her, but she did not stay down. She refocused her skills from the physical to the mental, using her brains and wit and technical prowess to become Oracle, who ended up being an even bigger and more powerful asset of the DC Universe than Batgirl was. And when the DCU was rebooted years later and she was back on her feet as Batgirl, she refused to back down, even when terrified, when having to face off against the Joker again. In short, Barbara Gordon is everyone I wish I was.



Jessica Jones... is not. Jones was one of the first super-heroes of the modern age, but she was an unknown. A jobber. When you think of heroes, you think of Captain America, Ms Marvel, Iron Man, Scarlet Witch maybe, but not Jewel. And during one of her adventures, she faced a very evil man who could be very, very persuasive. He did horrible things to her and in front of her, and when she was finally free of him, she was very damaged. Life hit her, very very hard, and she did not get back up so readily. In fact, she stayed down for a very, very long time. 

I can't help but identify. Certainly not to the same extent -- I was never a superhero -- but that's how these stories work. They're exaggerations of real life, exaggerated people. I met a woman who was very persuasive and did horrible things to and around me. I was hit by life, very very hard, and I did not get up for a very long time. Even now I feel like I've maybe reached a sitting position, but am not entirely sure I'd trust my own two feet to stand on. Like Jones, my life revolved around what I could do to keep going long enough to reach my next drink. That part of my life is, more or less, behind me now, but I'm glad to see that a character that can't quite handle tragedy as well as the A-list of Marvel will be part of that world. It makes me feel a little more like I'm part of my own world still. In short, Jessica Jones is everything that I am, or at least was.

Much like Daredevil, I'll be providing my thoughts on Jessica Jones after I've seen all of the episodes. Until then, I recommend everyone at least give the show a chance. It's got a lot of positive hype behind it, but it's certainly not going to be quite as upbeat as an Iron Man film might be.  This will be a much more personal and painful story, and may provide a bit of catharsis to anyone who has been through something similar, if not on a smaller scale.

Odia Dentata

Have a new Salem.
Still not smiling.

It's 12:23 am on Tuesday evening as I write this. 12 hours from now, I'll be on my way to the dentist's office. It's a new dentist, mainly because I haven't set up with a new dentist since moving to New Mexico. Or since I lived in Texas. 

Dear readers, I must make a confession: While he may be pretty and witty and... outspoken, Salem has a badly jacked-up grill. Like, "I never smile" bad. Which is just as well; I go from looking mournful and vaguely menacing to goofy when I do. Yep, my teeth are all sorts of messed up, like those of a feral dog that smoked meth. 

When I was a child, I had one of those nightmarish horror stories you read about where a dentist completely ignores “That hurts!” coming from a child and continues on blissfully with what he was doing. From the moment I left his office I was stubbornly resolute that I would not go back to the dentist, and so I didn't. My parents, bless them, were otherwise occupied; my dad worked (a LOT. The man's retired three times now, after all) and my mother was busy with my disabled sister and didn't have the energy to force me to go back to the dentist. I brushed, but flossing was a lost cause; the crowding makes it nigh-impossible to get floss between the teeth.

Besides, bad teeth run in my family. I got them from my dad, who is snaggletoothed to boot.

On the top row, my front teeth angle inwards. My incisors are diagonally in front of them, overlapping ever so slightly. My canines are enormous. The molars are mostly normal. (Mostly.) On the bottom, my front teeth are longer than they need to be. The incisors are at 45 degree angle pointing inwards and are quite large. The molars are (again) fairly normal.

I used to grind my teeth a lot as a child, so the grooves in my teeth are quite deep and the edges are quite sharp. Were I to bite you, you would know you had been bitten. After moving out on my own, I went through a few years of pretty much abject poverty, as I worked several jobs, both on- and off-the-books, without insurance. The following few years I had a job that provided insurance, but was in an abusive relationship where I caught holy hell for daring even thinking of something for myself. The following years after that were racked with alcohol first, then depression. I continued to brush for most of that time, except for a period of time during the marriage where I was genuinely afraid to ask if she'd seen my toothbrush.

I suspect I may have two cavities at this point. My right back molar tingles a little, and the top of it isn't the right colour. One of my left molars has a hole in the side. I've lost enamel from my top front teeth and incisors in about a millimeter-sized strip. I figure the best-case scenario is that I need two fillings and four crowns. Worse case, some of them may need extracting and a partial denture.

I'm not looking forward to this. There is a very large, very loud part of my mind that still considers dentistry to be a savage and barbaric practice of torture. But I'm sucking it up and I'm getting this taken care of. It will be painful. I will endure that pain. It will be expensive. I will go into debt. But it must be done.

But... to quote...

I don't want to go.

Update 4 PM Mountain time, Wednesday 16 September: My mouth hurts. So much blood.  

With a heavy heart I must announce

This week marks the two-year anniversary of my first article here on Lurking Rhythmically (and I still can't spell Rhythmically without a spell-checker). It's been a wild ride, but all good things, seasons turn, time to reap, time to sow, etc, etc. I'll be taking my leave, as I've signed on with a position with Gawker Media, contributing regularly to both Kotaku and Jezebel.

Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm not going anywhere. I would like to, though, while I have your attention get a few things off my chest. A number of years ago, under unrelated duress, I left the great city of Mobile, AL and moved to Texas. I took up residence, and eventually married, a long-time online friend. After a few years, we divorced, and I moved away. I've since been dealing with some emotional issues. When Erin and I first met, I was drinking myself to sleep every night, crawling off the couch and going to work, then doing it all over again.

Since then I quit drinking and moved to the wasteland (as I affectionately refer to my current desert home) have taken advantage of my job's health program and been to a bit of therapy. Due to events transpired during my time married, it would appear that I am currently in recovery of a case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, having experienced-

-god it's hard to type these words-

-having experienced what my therapist clearly referred to as domestic abuse. Between societal stigma of a man claiming an experience of domestic abuse, my ex-wife's best efforts to paint everything that happened as my fault, and the last words of someone I once felt was important to me doubting that it ever happened, it's hard to reconcile the thoughts in my own head. I'm still not up to telling the whole story. I'm not sure I ever will be. But I'm beginning to accept a few things and finally move past them.

I'm.. I'm not ok. I'm not sure I'll ever really be ok again, but I can say that I am, at least, within a mile of home.  

An odd thought for an idle Monday

Isn't it weird/awesome that we, and in fact most of the world, use:

• months named by Romans (Julian calendar) and then adjusted by another Roman (Pope Gregory XIII),
• filled with days of the week named after Norse gods (but using the Germanic spelling); 
• and then we count down those days filled with hours, minutes and seconds using a Base 60 numbering system for time that originated with the ancient Sumerians 
• and which is written with Hindu-Arabic numerals.

Maybe you shrug your shoulders and say "So what?" but I think it's nifty that this deeply rooted stuff which we take for granted has come from all over the place.  Realizing that the way we measure time is an amalgamation of four seven different and ancient cultures and that it's all so invisible to us is like... well, the best approximation I can come up with would be if I discovered that my skin was made in Brazil, my brain came from Taiwan, and my organs were made by the Inuit, but they were all still me and still American.

When I posted this on Facebook  (and if you aren't following me there, why aren't you?  I'm delightfully weird and random there), I received a wonderfully fascinating reply by a gentleman by the name of Logan Darklighter:

What's the connection between the Space Shuttle and Roman Chariots?

The width of two horses' asses.

Wagons were more or less standardized on the width of tackle it took to harness two (and multiples of two) horses in front of a chariot.

Roads and the ruts worn into those roads more or less demanded carriages be built to the same scale.

Later when trains were invented, in many cases they followed old roads and kept the same standards.

Thus a standard gauge engine and rail cars are based on that width between the rails. Tunnels cut for those trains to go through mountains and hills are cut so that a standard sized railcar will go through.

Morton Thiokol had to design their SRB boosters so that they'd clear through those tunnels when they are being transported by rail to Cape Canaveral. They couldn't be any wider.

Wow! That just gets me. I'm not especially disposed to the whole "We are one" interconnectedness thing, but the concept that these ancient concepts have such an important and measurable, yet invisible, affect upon my life makes me wonder about all the other bits of awesomeness around me that I just can't see.

Inevitably, that leads me to thinking about how all the iron in my blood all comes from exploded stars and then I get really mellow and zen and usually end up looking at the night sky for a while.



Don't worry, this is about as hippie as I get. I'm not going to sit in a circle and hold hands and sing Kumbaya.

Unless, of course, there are ponies involved, in which case, I am totally going to make you sing.

Sometimes

Sometimes I look at all the stuff I've written about ponies, and roleplaying games, and everything that isn't political, and I think Why am I doing this? In ten years this won't matter. What matters is making a difference today, and I can only do that by trying to make the world a better place. 

Then I spend a few hours reading political blogs, and I become burdened with a soul-crushing weariness about the world in general.  And that's just from becoming informed about what's happening in our world. It makes me wonder What kind of miserable thing would I become if I had to deal with all this crap on a daily, professional basis?

That's when I positively RUN back to ponies and games.  It isn't that I don't pay attention to what happens in the world; it's that if I had to write about that constantly, I'd find no joy in life whatsoever.  And this blog, aside from the occasional spleen-venting, is about me trying to find joy in what interests me and sharing that with others.

Maybe what I write here will have no lasting difference on the world. So be it; I'd rather be non-notable and happy than influential and miserable.

Confession Time

This came up  last night on #GunBloggerConspiracy, so I might as well make it official and talk about on my blog:  I have body dysmorphic disorder.

I'm not going to get into the specifics of this, because it's taken me five years just to get to the point where I feel safe enough to mention this online, however vague it may be.

This is the real reason I hide my face and legal name. Yes, I get the added benefits of pen name, such as the ability to talk crap about my family without it blowing back on me, and the fact that those of you inclined to develop crushes on my can imagine me as your perfect fantasy without harsh photographic reality getting in the way.

But the brutal truth of the matter is that I think I am hideous, and am scared beyond reasonable measure that people will look at me and vomit. Or point and laugh. Or become enraged and want to hurt me.

This doesn't so much hurt me in daily life, because I couldn't give a shit what random people think -- mostly because I have a low opinion of people to begin with. But it's terrible when it comes to forming relationships, because it's the opinions of people who I like and respect that matter. It's like fear of rejection, only ramped up to a million.

In other words, I like persons but hate people. Conversely, the opinions of people don't bother me, but the opinions of persons do.

So normally this is something I can deal with on a regular basis, because I am effectively a shut-in hermit without any real-life friends. But then I read about the awesome hijinks that occurred at this year's Blogorado, and I ache. A deep, throbbing pain in the heart and the gut, like I'd been sucker-punched and dumped at the same time.

I desperately want to meet people who think I awesome, but at the same time the though of it is pants-shittingly terrifying. I am trapped between a need to protect myself and the need for human contact.

Before you ask: No, I'm not in therapy. I have no health insurance. We can't afford it, but neither is my family poor enough to be on assistance that I can get it for free. And frankly, given my family's attitudes about psychology and perceived weakness, I would quite honestly rather die than open myself up to the verbal abuse that would result if I admitted to them that I have this condition.

So I'm stuck. And that's why I am a writer:  I can create worlds where I am welcomed and not judged. I live inside my head because living inside my body is too painful. I want to be loved, but I am afraid of rejection, so I put on this mask to hide my face in the hopes that you come to love my anonymous heart and mind and soul.

I need help, but I can't bear to be looked at.

Lie to Me

(spoken)

Hey.
You there.
Tell me I'm the one who sets your world on fire.
Say that I'm the only one that you desire.
Lie to me.

(singing in a minor key)

Hey.
You on the street.
Say that I'm the kind of girl you'd like to meet.
Tell me I make you tingle from your head down to your feet.
Lie to me.

(up tempo)

Tell me that you love me.
Tell me that you care.
Tell me that you need me
Like you need the air.

I know that it's a lie
But it's what I need to hear
To make it through the night
When the Wolf is at my ear.

Hey.
You there.
Lie to me.

(instrumental bridge; key change upward; faster tempo )

Feel like I've been lied to all my whole life
Don't see why that should change even now
Never gonna get to be someone's wife
So lie and say I make your heart go "wow!"

(spoken)
Because even cows get milked once in a while...

(back to original key)

Hey.
You at the bar.
Wanna take me home in your fancy car?
You can even hit me -- it won't leave a scar.
Just lie to me.

Hey.
You on the phone.
Won't you please throw a dog a fucking bone?
All I know is I don't wanna be alone.
Lie, lie to me.

Tell me that you love me.
Tell me that you care.
Tell me that you need me
Like you need the air.

I know that it's a lie
But it's what I need to hear
To make it through the night
When the Wolf is at my ear.

Hey.
You there.
Lie to me.

(fade out)

(spoken; no music; original tempo)

Hey.
You there.
Lie to me.

Unseelie

I have a recurring dream/fantasy/what-have-you where I am a DJ for a small, low-budget radio station -- perhaps it's college radio, perhaps it's fiercely indie -- but it's of the "painted cinderblock walls and reel-to-reel tape machines" aesthetic.

In this dream, I host a program from 3 to 5 am called Hour of the Wolf. Adopting a soft German accent, I spin selections of goth, techno, trance, EBM, and synthpop music for an audience of about a dozen listeners. As the music plays, I dance alone in the studio, convulsing to the music as the moisture from my breath clings to the walls.

There's something strangely hypnotic about the deep of night, a dark room, a disembodied voice, and that kind of music. When I would dance at my goth club in Washington DC, I recall experiencing a form of ecstatic disassociation where my mind would feel like it was on the sidelines, watching my body from a distance of several feet away as it thrashed about.

In that moment, I understood what it is to be fae: a darkling spirit, all thoughts banished and all impulses indulged, consequences be damned. It is the complete annihilation of the superego as the id comes out to play. It is complete, ritualistic abandon. It is the zen no-mind paired with cathartic exertion. It is the cool, damp cloth of Not Giving a Shit laid across the fevered brow of I Am Me And I Am In This Moment.

It is the utter abandon of pure infancy.

The darkness is your mother's womb, the rhythm her heartbeat, the voice HER voice. These are the sounds of your universe for the first nine months of your life; no wonder they trigger such a primal reaction in us. That I am consistently thinking about being the DJ in this analogy means I am in all likelihood trying to reconcile an increasingly strong urge for motherhood with the equally strong belief that I would be a horrid mother.

What makes faeries horrifying is that they combine magical power with all the impulse control of a five-year-old. As long as they like you, all well and good; but the moment you irritate them (or worse, they decide it would be amusing to torture you) -- I'm thinking that an eternity of middle school gym would pale in comparison.

Babies are like that, and their magical power is that you must care for them. Because the whole world loves babies, right? And if you don't, you're some kind of monster, never mind that children may essentially be nothing more than a massive stroke of ego: "What this world needs is MORE of me!"

Apparently my reproductive organs and I are having a disagreement. How else to explain the mutually exclusive desires of wanting to have children, yet not wanting to go through the trouble of actually raising them? The implication that I am, psychologically speaking, a cuckoo is profoundly disturbing to me.

If children are unseelie fae, then I must be the freaking Queen of Air and Darkness.

----------------
Now playing: Christopher - You're So Sexual
via FoxyTunes