Cast Die

I think the greatest obstacle to my motivation and accomplishment is confidence. Perhaps overconfidence. It stems from a competitive inclination and quickly becomes an inhibition. I'm a great lover of competition, and yet I struggle mightily with correcting myself when I'm not actually "losing". In those situations where the conditions for victory remain obfuscated by circumstance or the object or opposition against which the game is played is enigmatic. And those situations where my opponent lies within myself - those I always lose. The problem is, once I've acquired some semblance of inertia, even I cannot easily gainsay my own inclination. It isn't impossible, but so much more difficult without outside motive.
When I must practice to better myself, yet without any relative comparison, I fail. I'm overconfident in my abilities and fail in the daily follow-through. One of my most difficult problems with my competitive spirit was that once I knew that I could win, I moved on. Once winning was technically within my grasp, everything else was academic. I knew I could do it; those that mattered understood I was the stronger competitor. That was my youth - never an opponent worth beating.
Except myself.
And now, forcing myself to maintain rigor, to daily accomplish various rituals of living and life, I struggle. What competitive urge forces me to eat a certain amount, exercise just so, or write a certain quantity? The competition rests in the long haul and the terms of ambiguous.
Another of my competitive angsts was in chance. I disliked games of chance and sometimes even games of dull strategem. I loved the knowledge games. Games that possessed not only a breadth of opportunity, but a depth of decision. But life contains its own fair share of frustrating chance, or seeming chance. Why does one child get cancer, and another fly free? Why does one get born into poverty and another wealth? Why does this curmudgeon survive into longevity and this kindly soul find an early grave?
The dice feels weighted against good sometimes, or most ostensibly so when those miseries occur. And the hard part for me is deciding to struggle against myself when I know that my future seems somewhat contrived and chancy rather than directed. There are too many variables.

I used to play a game with myself. I would ask myself impossible statistic questions like: "I wonder who is both the fastest, shortest, and most stylish person on this field?" The problem with questions like these is the weighting of the variables. Is "fastest" the most important? What if the fastest is also the tallest? Or the least stylish? How do you diagram that out? Even one of those seems so arbitrary and subjective. That's how life feels, except with more variables. Each person has a say in my destiny, and so does the spontaneity of factors too invisible for me to ascertain: genetics, environment, and so on.

With all this, how does one maintain motivation towards an uncertain end? It feels like that line in Annie Hall about why Alvie was not doing his homework. "Because the universe is expanding, and eventually everything is going to collapse" was the (inexact) response. That can be how it feels - a bit fatalistic. But then you can so easily get stuck in the rut of doing nothing at all, which is worse, sometimes, than mistakenly taking a wrong step. At least you can learn from a wrong step. And all this is really just a bit of rambling sophistry, but it's interesting to think about those tiny obstacles and factors that stagnate us like flies in honey. When we are our biggest enemy, who will lift us free? I think that's question answers so many others. You can tell a lot about a person by who will lend them a hand, and how many kindnesses come when the dice lands poorly.

Science Fiction Short

I'm not actually a science fiction writer, and it has actually been a month or two since I've written a story, but Matthew posted a link to a science fiction short-story (and I mean SHORT) competition, and I decided it would be fun to write something.

Guidelines: 500-600 words (no more or less)
Appropriate for radio reading (still working on this one)

I wrote this piece this afternoon and it has not been edited as yet, though I have shared it with a couple of people. The story has to be set in the future in the genre of "hard science" which apparently means that it has to be reasonable. (hopefully copying into this keeps the formatting, otherwise this is going to be a mess)

Comments appreciated, but be gentle. It's a rushed piece. I have 5 days to tweak it.

Augmented Holy War

The ungodly biotics, Isaak thought, and spat into the sink. Augmentation, that obscene convergence of man and machine, should never have reared its ugly head. Ever since the scientific breakthrough allowing easy integration of circuitry and flesh, everyone with affluence or influence crowded in line to upgrade their fragile humanity into something… superior.

                And humanity suffered. Poor children no longer dreamed the American dream; the advantages of the rich were too substantial. Rich children ran quicker, thought faster, and engaged with data at artificial, computerized speeds – how Isaak loathed the Augments.

                Isaak finished brushing his teeth and straightened his tie before his cracked mirror. Satisfied, he strolled towards his typewriter and collected his editorial with a self-satisfied grin. If all went well today, it was the dawn of a holy war, the beginning of the end of these self-wrought monsters. Humanity must prevail.

                Across the interwebs, a vast quantity of the populace had read his well-articulated complaints, and he’d amassed a large, devoted following. And Isaak wrote with venomous strength: what was the worth of a man, if it came from the quality of his implants? And: when did it become metal, and not mettle, which determined a person’s enduring merit?

And they swallowed every word.

                The sun shone through his dingy windows with a brittle, glassy glaze, filtered through dust and grime. Long had he molded the populace of this state, turning the weak against the powerful. They seethed, inwardly, but lacked direction, a distinct target for their indignation.

As Isaak walked out his door onto the street, the manuscript tucked beneath his arm itched with purpose and fury, a righteous call to arms. He’d typed everything on his typewriter, leaving no chance an Augment hacking his systems might leak his prized works prematurely. Everything was calculated precisely, Isaak thought. Today, they’d have their target.

The streets were empty today, a national holiday, and everyone’s eyes were affixed on screens of all sorts, hungering for stimuli. The railcars that lined the streets sat like vacant coffins and hearses, devoid of life.

As Isaak stepped gingerly onto the street, he imagined how he’d celebrate with his lover tonight:  wines, cheeses, and perhaps a relaxing walk beneath stars. He’d earned that. A day of relaxation, for a change.

Lost in his reverie, he completely missed the midnight-black railcar that slid around the corner, accelerating in his direction, and because the streets were empty, no one was around to see the accident.

Isaak woke in a dark, dimly lit room, and he was not alone. His arms and legs were cuffed to his chair, and his mangled manuscript was piled on a rusty, iron table beside him. Across the table stood two dark figures, a male and female.

“What do you want from me?” Isaak asked.

The two figures glanced at each other, and the female responded while the male approached Isaak, pulling a scalpel from his cloak.

“We want you to see with eyes unclouded,” she replied.

Isaak squirmed in his chair. “You won’t gain anything by torturing me!” He saw the gleam in her eyes: augmented, the both of them.

“We will not torture you.”

                “Traitors! Augments!” Isaak screamed as the man began his surgery on Isaak’s arm.

                “It doesn’t hurt,” the female whispered.

                Isaak continued to scream, wrenching his body in his chair, until the man forced Isaak’s head down to look at his own arm. Isaak saw the incision, bloodless, and beneath the pallid flap of exposed skin, Isaak saw glittering lights, blinking circuitry.

                Isaak yelled again, in loud anguish, and he felt nothing.

Midnight Sophistry

It's a night for useless philosophizing, and I, the eternal sophist. When it comes to actual writing, important writing, or important aspects of my own existence, I'm a bit of a perfectionist. Perhaps this stems from my competitive nature. When I watch a movie like Ender's Game, I constantly find myself thinking: "I could beat him, let me play." What arrogance is this? Who am I? But even if I couldn't, my heart would try.
But I know my motivations, and my drive, and I know, too, that if that was my heart's desire, I may very well win it, against superior forces. Such is the power of conviction.  And now, sitting here contemplating pieces I've written and examining them, I find them pierced with errors like arrows, more wholly holey than a frayed web, and less useful.
What is perfect writing? I'm stuck in a platonic mindset where the mere existence of a story implies a perfect story.What is the perfect story? What is the perfect song? Are there an infinite number of perfect stories or perfect songs? Perfect paintings, perfect sculptures or vessels, the perfect art.
Then I think to myself, can there be more than one? Two sculptures, both perfectly done?  This is a mind-bending mental-yoga-preztal seen through a bent-mirror-prism-raindrop-stainglasswindow. Because, to my thinking, unless the sculptures are 100% equally perfect, how can they both be perfect? Is perfect like infinity? The numbers between 1-2 are infinite, mathematically. What about 1-3? Double infinite? No, just infinite. But it's double the infinite as between 1-2, right? Right? So can both paintings be perfect, but one be "double perfect"?
Even if that were true, what is the most perfect perfect? Can there be one? Or, like infinity, can you always add one more? You see? A sophists night.
But instead of getting wrapped up in all the cognitive gymnastics, I'm struck by this fierce competitive desire to acquire the most perfect perfect something, whatever it is. I'll never get there; that's beyond my ken. Yet, the intense craving stirs in my gut most mightily. How can I aim for less than perfection? It's like the quote by Les Brown, famous motivational speaker: "Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars."
Oh, let me hit the moon.

urbanity

A chaos of our own devices, devising, a congested scene. What senses left can assuage this assault? When kissing, often couples close their eyes. Is it a deeper delving into the euphoria of touch? Or a deflection of sensory overload? So too am I now. Closing my eyes and feeling: the earth pounding beneath my feet, stifled and asphyxiated; shapes passing within inches, closer, unemotionally scraping; a lost wind, whirling about the plaza in directionless anxiety; honking, screeching, pained impatient, boisterous, agitated, metallic bodies whir only paces beside with reckless speed. Voices, voices, the distant river sloshing into the sea, creaking of concrete and overhanging roadways - even the birds, the ravens, are strangulated, singing simpering songs and clashing pieces of trash in their beaks.  Rook to pawn, check, cities as sanity's chess game, internalized, slow, and deliberate.

Faces, faces, here and there, passion, distance, creative flair, drowned in the dizzying, everywhere

Ravens wheedles through the sky

landing by

Pauper home, no fields his own

rook to pawn

Down the street clattering near 

churches here

horses

steaming breathe in dawn sunlight

bishop knight 

And night doth fall, shadows tall

Over sculpted monument,
an ancient lord whom men afford

little notice such aged things

long dead kings

the queen of time a deadly crime

check

blithe people milling 'round

lost or found

a mated death, check, king's last step

taken, then he falls 

NaNoWriMo

I love testing my mettle, or, indeed, my mental metal. I used to despise games without competitors, for where was the comparison? Where was the proof that my motivation and dedication might succede beyond that of my fellows? Truly, I say fellows, and not opposition, or opponents, or "the enemy players", for that is what I intend. Only recently have I discovered the greatest opponent I have is myself. How can I become a better follower of Christ? With Christ's help against myself. How will my writing improve? Practice against my apathy or busyness. How can I be, in my day-to-day, a better person? I must model and remodel myself in the likeness of Yeshua.

It is these battles which captivate me, for they are timed. And I either lose, or I must set rules that allow victory. Consider an instance. Let's say you are addicted to a drug - morphine or something. As part of the scenario, you must carry a quantity of the drug with you at all times, and it must be accessible at any juncture for immediate use. How long can you pit yourself against that, when everything within rages to utilize that resource? This is an extreme example, but the idea is simple enough: if the ability to fail is consistently tempting you, like cookies you are not supposed to eat, sitting on your desk all day, how long can you hold out? These are the trials of the self. Motivation to avoid lying, to avoid pride, to avoid anger, and bitterness and cynicism and perniciousness. These tools lay at your disposal all the time. Motivating the self to not only avoid them, but actively seek good things - reading scripture, growing in faith, praying, loving, honesty. It is a titanic battle waged within. 

Then there are external battles as well. Motivation regarding writing and journaling and maintaining a social life throughout all these things when November comes around. This is my current skirmish. I know I'm about to disappear from the social sphere. I won't have as much time for journaling, for blogging, for writing poetry, for reading everything, for friends, for anything except novel writing and the extra writing I've assigned myself. It's a bit intimidating. It's time.

I'm frightened, sitting in the middle of perfect possibility

~Jane Kenyon

My spirit battles storming waves

drifting long at sea

Aqua eyes the catalyst

On a night smelling of jasmine tea

and snowflakes

Warmth in blankets, lamps alight

Pens inked and prepped
I write

This next month is going to pick up steam. I'm fighting the balancing act of novel writing, poetry writing, reading, friends, and work. Let the games begin.

Trashy Tuesdays, Goodbyes, Veni Vici, Poem Ending

As a joke, I invented a day called `Trashy Tuesdays` wherein the roommates and I (at least a few) watch silly shows, eat lazy food, and stay up too late. Today was perhaps the last `Trashy Tuesday` as the roommate who cherishes Trashy Tuesdays the most will be getting married three weekends from now, and is moving into his new apartment tomorrow.
Despite his short term as roommate, he carved his place into the group as both a gentleman and scholar. I'm not good with goodbyes, so I hope it is not one.

In sophomore year, our spiritual motif was fourfold: men of devotion, men of healing, men of purity, men of conquest. For each of us, A picked a piece. Mine was "men of conquest". Odd, it seemed, at the time. While both D and I could claim to be introverts, J and A tended more towards the extroverted side of the spectrum (A claims he's an introvert - puh). Honestly, the rest of the group mattered little in A's choices; it only mattered that he got healing.
However, mine may have turned into a more accurate statement than he could have imagined at the time. I'm a fairly competitive person. It used to be much worse. Some of my parent's favorite stories are when, as a child, I wouldn't play games with the other children until I knew how to win, and then they wouldn't play games with me because I won so easily.
In high school, I always managed to be better than anyone else at whatever competitive game I chose to excel at. If I craved success at a game, I made sure I was the best at it before long. This extended beyond games into academics as well. A particularly prideful girl always got the top grades in our preppy high school, and flaunted her superiority. So I started studying. Before long, I had her beat in all the classes we shared. Conquest. In college, A invited me to play a new game with him. At the beginning of the semester, I was getting trounced. By the end, my skills were beyond his.
When my blood was raised, the bait was laid, I threw everything of me in until victory was assured. Not just winning, but clearly conquering. Once I won, I no longer recognized the need to win anymore - I knew I could do it, why continue proving myself? I maintained this sentiment until easily my junior year of college. Living with A certainly tempered my competition. He nurtured my love for community, for enjoying competing with those I loved dearly. (my normal conquest invited far less camaraderie, let me tell you. People hate losing over and over) A was always the wiser, the lover not the fighter.
There are different types of competitors. First, there is the angry type: those who, on losing, start throwing controllers, raging, hitting people, and taking vengeance in ways external to the game (likely after realizing their in game vengeance is not forthcoming). There is the natural, a person who appears to excel at all activities.  Third are those who excel due to a love of excellence at a particular activity. These characteristics can certainly carry over, and are by no means mutually exclusive. Then there is my brand of competition: the patient, the scholar.
I was not a natural, nor an angry gamer, nor even necessarily a lover of the competition I chose. I generally thrived on the competition more than the activity that drove it. When I discovered whatever it was I was to compete at next, I dove into the deep end of research immediately. What did I need to know? What were all the rules? Could the rules be bent? What ruts were current players stuck in that were irrelevant? Could I alter the meta-game? What was the psychology of each of the players, and how could I take advantage of that? Theory-crafting was my game, in the most opaque of ways.


---- I don't remember how I was going to end this. So I'll duck out.



Last poem before bed - an almost devotional poem, though I suspect it could be used romantically, I've never had the occasion:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Now I'll go to sleep.