Owning Deception

N.B. This is the moment of intimacy I started recording in hush, though it is obviously longer than 50 words. I was curious as to what would happen/how I would trigger what was supposed to happen in the game. This was originally written in the autumn of 2007.

Our minutes of fame are extended across posters blazing our faces' imprints into the minds of those fearful enough to notice--wanted: for crimes against time. Denying fact and truth their weight and watchful gaze, the nights became subterfuge. We invented a pocket universe, escaping into the folds of a few select eyes, and absconding from all but the most superficial light. Whispers became shouts of recognition, explanation, and pleading in a frenzied all together too quick moment only drawn into the longer awkwardness of pause and reflection. What does one say next?

Or does one say next? Looking, it became clear to say nothing stretched those seconds we palmed to paint the distance between us physically with hands and faces held in check. We'd borrowed it for art's sake, though every artist has a reason. Painfully protracting the silence to obscene measures so as to barely stand before limitation while creating inhalation of sharp, sudden, shallow breath and wild, frenzying elation. Shortening the distance. And, of course, our pigments flew their own course, no longer needed for our canvas.

Seconds, minutes, hours fled in a burst of our carelessness. Deciding against their hue, we painted our own niche called memory--an ever present enemy of time marching forward.

So the posters stand, waiting to be buried by the next wave of enthusiasts so foolish.

A la Mond

A late night encounter with Gibbous form left pondering, passing, pilfering thoughts at my feet, grounded in practicality, away from the lofty heights of the sky. Staring up at this hunchbacked figure, it became apparent that my attentions were on more earthbound matter, thus robbing Gibbous of her symbolism, and realizing she is no more than the glow of another star; a waiting figure to my eye and imagination.

Recognition of the longing for desire left the possibility of such in perilous chance, recognizing the mere fact that the yearning for possibility outweighed the probability of fact, and the clear hypothesis one should reach upon given events. Gibbous's form granted laughter through sifting thoughts, lunacy being but a guise to pardon illogical motions whose outcome is all too logical in the ever-happening, never-changing ebb and flow.

Defined by the hopeful promise of a future, the unpardonable acts of the past became glossy with the sweat of mundanity and the chemical process of contact. Attributing a timeline that does not--shall not--exist to overlook the feet which walk forward, the head that stares at Gibbous and ponders upon what others have placed on her form.

Used for their own purposes, she has condemned men to beasts, both hunted and hunter. Drawing forth blood in both violent and natural processes, the sanguine sanity which she has apparently robbed from people only so much reverence for the processes we do not understand. Gibbous no more robs humanity than the chance encounter with perfidious lips.

Star Maps

I'm not sure I understand the Jedi Council's decision in having Bastila and I pursuing this 'Star Forge.' Somehow, my lying to them is either not being detected, or they truly believe in this fate garbage which they keep spewing.

Sith? The Dark Side? It annoys me that they have a name for that, but the regular good variety just is.

Jedi. They never ever speak the word Light Side, because it's assumed they are naturally right, and therefore, they only need to distinguish something different from themselves.

From the moment Carth started off on my duties and having to go rescue Bastila, I've been increasingly forced to go along with these plans just to survive. Had I stayed on Taris, I would no longer be here to write these words, and yet it seems odd that all I want to do is walk away. They can hardly blame me for being so antagonistic to anyone whose path I cross.

I have no vested interest in stopping Malek, so we will see where this 'fate' leads me.

Currently I find myself in Manaan, Canderous and Juhani accompanying me.


Excepting Canderous, this journeying about has been quite irksome as far as my companions are concerned. They constantly let me know of their disappointment in me, but what could they expect from someone who was a smuggler before this chain of events even occurred? At least with Canderous, as long as I keep faith in other peoples' battle prowess, he is perfectly content to allow me to handle situations as I see fit.

Juhani and Bastila keep warning me off the Dark Side, both expressing outrage at my using these powers. If I am not to use them, I should not have been given them. If it makes my path easier, there is no reason not to force someone that my way of thinking is correct. People are too often blind and ignorant, and I do not have the patience to constantly try to correct their bull-headed notions of fairness and right.

If I am to save these people, the least they can offer me is coin or useful items.

We recently picked up HK 47 in Tatooine. It is quite capable, and I delight at the thought of having a former assassin droid at my command. Unfortunately, many of its memories have been damaged, and it is a slow process to make the necessary repairs to have it become fully useful to me.

At the very least, the Council has given me the tools to proceed as I see fit, and they hardly seem in a position to be able to stop me if I decide my interests no longer align with theirs in the slightest.

08.17.77

Xandriana was a character I created my last year at Wabash College. The concept was a very strong female personality who was quick to anger. She could be both charismatic and was extremely intelligent, but had no qualms about diving into direct conflict when needed. In essence, she was always going to be in peoples' faces, telling them when they were wrong, and was used to rather smarmily (though the DM did not realize it at the time) bring attention to the lack of female characters in our campaigns.

This was because my first character with this group was to be a female, but the DM told me that he'd prefer I not, in case a wandering passerby would get the wrong impression (Wabash College being all male, and the friend in question having very quickly learned I was queer). Xandriana was very much born of that rage, and with the intent to speak to those supercilious notions.

In Fallout 3 I gave her the starting package of Asian. Her stats were to have a vastly increased intellect and slightly higher charisma and perception. Skills were focused on Energy Weapons, Speech, and Science.

-

Butch's panic-stricken stare is still having its effect on me.

My father left rather suddenly, without my having any warning. All I knew was that Amata handed me a gun and pleaded with me to run. One of the overseer's brutes had seen fit to start harassing me when radroaches distracted him and I managed to quickly flee through an adjoining room.

I'd already contemplated using my gun once, and here was Butch, the jackass who'd been annoying me all these years, pleading for me to help his mother. Honestly, it took a moment to even register a word he said, having had so much other information thrown at me directly upon waking.

That's probably why I raised the gun, taking careful aim. I wasn't used to the light weight of the handgun, or the fact that I didn't have the butt of a rifle pressed against my shoulder; I recall my left hand feeling particularly awkward, as if it didn't know what to do, but felt the need to to something.

Butch, oblivious as ever, kept mumbling on about his mother. While I didn't necessarily wish harm on her, I recalled Butch's crude comments to Amata about his 'Tunnel Snake,' while surrounding her with his asshole friends. Given this, I briefly weighed the options of saving his mother and taunting him with his own ineffective 'manliness' versus shooting him then and taunting his mother with the knowledge that her son was too weak to save her.


No, that would imply I was going to stay, which the officer's screeches around the corner told me was clearly not going to happen. Forcing a petulant sigh, I holstered the gun and turned to leave, telling him that it was his problem, not mine; the pressing reality that I needed to hurry shrilling through the sirens wailing in the background.

I was not going to sacrifice myself to save Butch's mother, even if I did excuse her for raising such a son--I loathe martyrs.

No, my father left. I wouldn't call this an abandonment issue; I'd call this a betrayal of my trust. If I'm so adult, dear father, why not trust me to actually make a decision? Whatever your reasons may be for keeping me shrouded in mystery all these years, and then suddenly taking your secrets off with you, I will follow you. Know that the three officers I shot to escape from the Overseer's wrath are on your hands; you gave me the training, you gave me the incentive.


Given all this, I still can't place the discomfort that comes (and it does so of its own bidding) when I recall Butch's eyes and the gun trained between them.

Yes, you will be displeased, father, but you will come to realize that it is nothing compared to my own displeasure.

Elsabeth Farr

Discussing my apprehensions concerning my career with Dallas, he convinced me to find something else. With his encouragement, I called the department and explained that I would no longer be coming in to work. Surprisingly, they took it extremely well and there was no complaint; no one even seems to hold a grudge against me. Both my boss and partner took it in stride and I had a lovely chat with them over the phone later that day.

With my attentions focused more on my own life and what I wanted to achieve, it occurred to me that I wanted to move away. This place never really sat well with me--it was the place to which I fled after I caught Travis in the arms of his commanding officer. It was an escape, but one that offers the memory of its existence every so often. It's also where I saw Dallas jogging one morning and decided to approach him. Memories both good and ill seem to hang a pall over my enjoyment of this particular house.

With that in mind, I asked Dallas if he would mind us moving across from the school. He agreed.

As we stepped across the threshold, I held him in my arms and thanked him for his understanding. In many ways, it just seems he's along for the ride in the story of my life--a thought that disturbs me if I think on it too long.

It didn't take long for me to present my other request to him, which he saw forthcoming after my particular request. After a short discussion, I picked up the phone and rang up the adoption agency. Giving the particulars of what we were seeking, I'm happy to say we are now the proud fathers of one Elsabeth Farr.

Happy Fathers' Day to us!

Holey Unicorns and Burglars!

I woke up around 2.00 in the AM this morning, an hour after I'd laid myself down to sleep. An uncomfortable feeling settled in my gut that something was amiss, and I decided to walk downstairs; that's when I heard an attempt at furtive steps being trod on my front steps.

With a warcry curled on my lips, I ripped open the front door and found in front of me a young woman who was quite shocked at my appearance before her (though I'm quite glad I decided to sleep in my suit this evening).

Immediately she grabbed at me, and a kerfuffle ensued.



The battle was short-lived, as I emerged the victor. She quickly ran off before I could gather any information, but as I sat at my laptop to convey the events in writing, details that I did not consider at the time readily became available.

This woman seemed as shocked as I was, and this was not a life she seemed quite comfortable in living. While I could conjecture about her living situation, it made me wonder what I have that was so important so as not to give her something in these trying times, particularly as I'm hardly wanting. Perhaps I'm trying to moralize a situation because I wonder if I'm bringing in the right 'criminals' in my line of work.

Perhaps job satisfaction is not something I have fully appreciated thus far, as I look at my résumé. Leaving the TV anchor position after Travis's affair with his fellow astronaut was discovered so as to disappear from the public eye. A brief stint in a restaurant to tide me over until I found something more appealing. The luck to be able to pick up my guitar and start recording music (unfortunately, I was to be so mass-marketed to 'star' status that I felt entirely too restricted in a career that offered me many other freedoms).

Perhaps it's time to think of a career change again. Maybe I need to pursue affecting real change. Could politics be my calling? I remain skeptical, but it may be time to take that step.

At least I confirmed that it is not a unicorn I see prancing about while keeping my telescope low and scrying the neighborhood this morning. Perhaps I am starting to suffer a sort of delirium if I'm seeing horses with alicorns on their noggins. It stands all too poignant.