This class is like psychotherapy, man, seriously. I had originally started with the thought of the "end if this semester" thing from indacan, but it kind of spiralled into this whole thing about my future, so for what it's worth, this is what's going on in my head:
Too much. It’s all too much to consider, too big, to wide, too tall. Too unreal, too unfocused. Too much thinking outside the box, not enough time considering the box itself. Now I’m playing catch-up; not thinking about my work, about my dream, but a box. About structure. Any structure. A plan or an ideal, a goal for one year, five years, twenty years. A goal other than standing on a stage with a little gold man. A goal I could accomplish. That’s what I need.
I don’t want to sell books, movie tickets, fried fucking chicken from behind an apron and a silly hat, standing at a cash register my whole life. But I’ll be doing that in one year, five years, twenty years, if I don’t turn the ship around, or at least take a moment to look at the map, figure out the best course. Still dreaming about the stage, the gold man. Dreaming about sets and actors and props; interviews; arguments with billionaires about artistic integrity. Who am I kidding? Millions of people dream the same dreams, tens of thousands pursue that dream, and for mere dozens does it actually become real. And what of those left? Those left dreaming; those who pursue and fail? What of them, so much creative brilliance waiting tables, driving taxis. Will I be one of them? Waiting, waiting, pursuing, pursuing, but never going anywhere…Is that the Janek O’Toole story?
I could have been a lawyer. I could have been a journalist, or a psychologist. I could have been a chef. I could have done so many much more practical things, so many nice steady 9-2-5, know it’ll be there tomorrow jobs. If I’d kept in touch with the box. As it is, I’m living life without a box, hanging on strings of compliments, potential, changes here and there, slight tweaks to tighten it up, a lot of good ideas. It’s too late now; I can’t go back and start again for another 3 years. Could still become a chef, I suppose. If this doesn’t work out, could peel potatoes and chop onions for my daily bread. What a life.
“Follow your dreams” they said, “Do what you want to do” they said. Fuck that. Where’s that going to get me? 35 years old, waiting ‘til October and my Christmas Casuals job selling calendars. I was so happy to have parents who didn’t push me into medicine or law or something sensible. Now look at me. Friends in practices, fellowships, in other high-end organisations. And me in my stupid apron, organising shifts at a store no one buys from. Fuck. Disillusioning children, making them think they can’t accomplish anything isn’t abuse. Making them believe they can do anything is abuse. Figure out your kid’s potential and reming them ceaselessly where their fucking place is. No pie-in-the-sky ideas about your kid being special, unique, a precious snowflake unlike any other.
I’m like a snowflake, in a way. No direction, blown here and there by the winds, in a very gradual, but very real freefall. I’ll land on a street, in someone’s hair, on a roof, and melt. I’ll fade away and no one will be any the wiser. I am a snowflake, falling with every page of every script I ever wrote. Every bright idea that shimmers and glints in the sunlight, piling up, becoming an amorphous blotch, for someone to stamp on or shovel up, to be swept away to make room for sensible, downtrodden citizens.
Fuck. Where will I be in twenty years? High School Reunion, Trying to pass my job off as “purchasing and logistics technician”, drinking a little too much of the free wine, making a scene. Oh, all those sideways glances, all those covert whispers. “He was so together in school”, “He was really going to go places”, “Didn’t he win that award?”, “Some people just can’t get it together”, “What a shame” “What a pity” “What a waste”. There’s no denying it, I’ll go out with a bang.
45, still living with the parents, or parent, or alone. Living day-to-day off an inheritance or a pittance. People stopping by with some food, some words of sympathy, laugh about how funny I was when I was little, not talk about how ambitious I was when I was a teenager. Not talk about the slow descent into obscurity, even from my own friends and family. No longer lamenting how little they see me anymore, strangers with my blood.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Wk. 12 - Mourning
The piece I wrote to IBM 1401 A User's Manual is actually the first to come from a proper creative spring. The story and characters involved are from a ascreenplay I'm presently developing. I won't say much about the story itself, burt you should be able to gleen something from the written piece:
An old man, sat upon a porch, an old and worn down dog at his feet, sleeping, baking in the sun. Small creaks and groans, from the body of the old man, the frame of the old house, both sitting in their place, staring at the same street for so long, waiting for something new to arrive, or something to return.
The children in the street make him think of her, as they always have. Except before. Before Ellie. The old man watches the girl chase her ball, her black skin becomes pale, her thick curls long brown locks, her blue t-shirt a white dress, covered with sunflowers. Ellie.
Eleven years past. Passed without a word, without a backwards glance. Full of sideways glances, covered mouths, hushed speech, while he kept living, with his dog. The dog he bought for her.
The parents moved away, to greener pastures, to new beginnings. He thinks about them bitterly. Hypocrites. Charlatans. Frauds, who would spend more time at each others necks or loins than care to watch their child play. Wherever they are now, they don’t miss her. They have their own new families, new children. But he only had her.
A dog barks in the distance, and the old collie rouses her head. But she looks a moment and rests it down again, too tired, too old to start a fight. The old man, too, now too old. Too old to protest his innocence, to fight accusing eyes, accusing fingers, covered mouths. Let them think what they want, what keeps them happy, what helps them live their lives. What can he do to change their minds?
The mother. She runs across the yard, grabs the child by the wrist and takes her inside, scolding her. As she holds the door open and the child slinks in, she turns her head. Stares at the old man. Turns her head away from him.
His cue to leave. Stand up, creaking, go inside, hold the door open for the dog to slink in before him. Watch some telly, take his mind off things. News, no faith for him; cartoons, the memory of her; soaps, no. Not today. He finds an old film, black and white, and settles into it. There’s comfort in black and white, rosy cheeks that shimmer like snow, lots of wide smiles, no terrible accusing eyes and covered mouths.
A love story. A girl and a boy, who would lasso the moon and pull it down. Who would give her the moon to see her smile. Well he would pull down the moon. And not even for a smile, not for a laugh, a frown, a tear. For a pensive stare, for a cold, admonishing pout, for something to know that she was there. He would lasso the moon for that.
A tear. A tear? No, but something warm, runs down his face, to his chest, his arm, his leg, to the floor. His right side stiff, then slack. Toast. Oh no.
He wakes up later, somewhere new, white, and clean. Not heaven, no. Not so clean. He can feel the IV in his arm, the breathing tube in his nose. He can hear the voices up and down the hall, clinical instructions and obedient orders. A rhythm of “yes doctor” and “right away doctor”. Wails and moans up and down the ward, the choral orchestra playing the background for the speaking parts.
As comfortable as possible. What does that even mean? They can make him as comfortable as possible. But they couldn’t let his dog in, to sleep at his feet, to even say goodbye. Taken in by one of his neighbours. She’d have a good home now, with children. She loved children.
She’d be his only visitor in his comfortable as possible room. His last comfortable as possible days would tick by with visits from nurses with pills, doctors with charts, orderlies with trays, nurses with pills.
One visitor. Just one, who made him as comfortable as possible. Who walked in wearing a dress of white and yellow, a sunflower in her hat. Who cried and laughed at once and who knew him as he knew her. Older now, a young lady. Beautiful.
She sits by his side, replaces a wayward hair, and rests her hand on his heart. After eleven years, back with him. He does not ask her, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She can’t tell anyone, not for a while. He tells her about her parents; she’ll go and see them tomorrow. About the dog; she’ll pick her up this evening.
A departing kiss on the forehead as she stands up to leave. She reaches into her purse, pulls out something clasped in her fist. With a chain. She slips it into his hand. Something round, flat, warm where her fingers were, cold where they were not. Heavy. Ticking.
A tear. A tear? Yes. Eleven years since he’s held his old watch. Eleven years since he’s seen his little Ellie. She tells him not to cry, but he does. So she does too. Crying and laughing at once.
Gone. Just like that. Like the weight of eleven years, of 70 years before that. Gone like she was so long ago, but departed with the promise of returning. And the old man shuts his eyes, makes himself as comfortable as possible. And says goodbye.
An old man, sat upon a porch, an old and worn down dog at his feet, sleeping, baking in the sun. Small creaks and groans, from the body of the old man, the frame of the old house, both sitting in their place, staring at the same street for so long, waiting for something new to arrive, or something to return.
The children in the street make him think of her, as they always have. Except before. Before Ellie. The old man watches the girl chase her ball, her black skin becomes pale, her thick curls long brown locks, her blue t-shirt a white dress, covered with sunflowers. Ellie.
Eleven years past. Passed without a word, without a backwards glance. Full of sideways glances, covered mouths, hushed speech, while he kept living, with his dog. The dog he bought for her.
The parents moved away, to greener pastures, to new beginnings. He thinks about them bitterly. Hypocrites. Charlatans. Frauds, who would spend more time at each others necks or loins than care to watch their child play. Wherever they are now, they don’t miss her. They have their own new families, new children. But he only had her.
A dog barks in the distance, and the old collie rouses her head. But she looks a moment and rests it down again, too tired, too old to start a fight. The old man, too, now too old. Too old to protest his innocence, to fight accusing eyes, accusing fingers, covered mouths. Let them think what they want, what keeps them happy, what helps them live their lives. What can he do to change their minds?
The mother. She runs across the yard, grabs the child by the wrist and takes her inside, scolding her. As she holds the door open and the child slinks in, she turns her head. Stares at the old man. Turns her head away from him.
His cue to leave. Stand up, creaking, go inside, hold the door open for the dog to slink in before him. Watch some telly, take his mind off things. News, no faith for him; cartoons, the memory of her; soaps, no. Not today. He finds an old film, black and white, and settles into it. There’s comfort in black and white, rosy cheeks that shimmer like snow, lots of wide smiles, no terrible accusing eyes and covered mouths.
A love story. A girl and a boy, who would lasso the moon and pull it down. Who would give her the moon to see her smile. Well he would pull down the moon. And not even for a smile, not for a laugh, a frown, a tear. For a pensive stare, for a cold, admonishing pout, for something to know that she was there. He would lasso the moon for that.
A tear. A tear? No, but something warm, runs down his face, to his chest, his arm, his leg, to the floor. His right side stiff, then slack. Toast. Oh no.
He wakes up later, somewhere new, white, and clean. Not heaven, no. Not so clean. He can feel the IV in his arm, the breathing tube in his nose. He can hear the voices up and down the hall, clinical instructions and obedient orders. A rhythm of “yes doctor” and “right away doctor”. Wails and moans up and down the ward, the choral orchestra playing the background for the speaking parts.
As comfortable as possible. What does that even mean? They can make him as comfortable as possible. But they couldn’t let his dog in, to sleep at his feet, to even say goodbye. Taken in by one of his neighbours. She’d have a good home now, with children. She loved children.
She’d be his only visitor in his comfortable as possible room. His last comfortable as possible days would tick by with visits from nurses with pills, doctors with charts, orderlies with trays, nurses with pills.
One visitor. Just one, who made him as comfortable as possible. Who walked in wearing a dress of white and yellow, a sunflower in her hat. Who cried and laughed at once and who knew him as he knew her. Older now, a young lady. Beautiful.
She sits by his side, replaces a wayward hair, and rests her hand on his heart. After eleven years, back with him. He does not ask her, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She can’t tell anyone, not for a while. He tells her about her parents; she’ll go and see them tomorrow. About the dog; she’ll pick her up this evening.
A departing kiss on the forehead as she stands up to leave. She reaches into her purse, pulls out something clasped in her fist. With a chain. She slips it into his hand. Something round, flat, warm where her fingers were, cold where they were not. Heavy. Ticking.
A tear. A tear? Yes. Eleven years since he’s held his old watch. Eleven years since he’s seen his little Ellie. She tells him not to cry, but he does. So she does too. Crying and laughing at once.
Gone. Just like that. Like the weight of eleven years, of 70 years before that. Gone like she was so long ago, but departed with the promise of returning. And the old man shuts his eyes, makes himself as comfortable as possible. And says goodbye.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Wk. 11 - Nerves
Statement on "nerves", written to Kraftwerk's "Computer Love"(? I can't recall)
Nervous? I’m not nervous, what makes you think I’mnervous imnotnervousimnotfreakedi’m perfectlyfine!
So I’m a little nervous. I don’t mind the crowd. Four people or four thousand people I don’t mind. And it’s not the idea. The idea is solid. I like the idea, and I put a lot of thought into it. The jokes? The jokes are awesome, my jokes are always awesome. No…what is it?
The microphone? Nope. I’ve been in front of microphones before, had to pitch to them before, not a big deal, really.
The dry mouth thing? When I have to get up and speak, even when I’m not nervous, my mouth goes all dry and I end up croaking words. But I’ve got my bottle of water here, so I shouldn’t have any problem with the dry mouth thing.
No, it’s something else. Something bigger. It’s reality. In first year, second year, in high school, I could talk about whatever the hell I wanted, totally hypothetical, not remotely related to reality. I could pitch this, or that or the other, no worries about it being realistic, as long as it was entertaining it was fine.
But now, I need budget layouts? I need possible producers? Oh my God, I need demographics and I need outlines and I need costs. Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my! Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my!
I’ve never actually pitched anything I thought would ever go anywhere. Even in debating, I never argued anything I believed in, I always played devil’s advocate. So now, I have to go and stand there with something I really want to happen. And I know it’s just a classroom, but it’s still a pitch. And it’s still my ambition, my idea, my writing under the microscope. It’s never been so much of “me” up there.
And, oh, I forgot the video! What if they don’t like the video. This video is my taste, it’s a clear outline of where I want both the show, and all its extra content, to go. If they all hate it, does that mean they hate my idea? Does that mean I’ll never be able to make it happen? I mean my God, I’m comparing my great vision to a show that only made it one and a half seasons before it was cancelled. Brought back, yes, in production now, but still…shitcanned to make way for some rich-teens-in-the-sun pop trash.
I hate that. I hate the thought of my great idea, my great vision, failing. I don’t want it to fail. I don’t mind failing, not in the least. I’ve failed before, it presentations and in essays, well actually no, never failed a presentation. But it’s not my presentation they could shoot down. It’s what’s in my head. What if they find a way to kill this great idea? Will they kill the others as well? Will all my creativity die, and leave me with a shift to studying accountancy and buying lots of beige shirts?
Eight years. I’ve wanted this for eight years. Nearly a decade, more than a third of my life I’ve wanted one thing and one thing only. I’ve torpedoed every other opportunity for a career, for a love life, for any kind of social life, to pursue this one. After so many bad ideas, after struggling through hack writing and turning to clichés, after finally escaping all the traps of the beginning writer, will my first quality idea get slammed? Has someone already done it? Are all my great innovations already out there on Dutch or Japanese or Slovak TV?
Maybe I’m just late to the party, a gate crasher already drunk and full of himself and getting to work on spiling everyone else’s fun. Is that who I am? It’s Caine’s 18th all over again. I’m about to puke on someone’s dress. Metaphorically speaking, of course, now. Caitlin never did forgive me. Now though, am I going to taint this great story? Turn a fun and thrilling tale into another mass-produced/mass-consumed piece of TV trash> another multimillion dollar white noise generator? No, I won’t, surely not.
I’m a smart guy. I have to say it, over and over. I do have good ideas. I’m not just useful for semiotics. God, I can’t just be good for semiotics. I HAVE to be creative. I mean, Hero & Zero was a hugely popular idea. But that was rip off of “The Tick”. The Tick was a hero, not a villain. The premise is the same, only the perspective is different. Isn’t new perspective a new story? You even looked at all “The Tick” history. It’s not, it’s my idea and it’s a good, new idea.
Nervous? I’m not nervous, what makes you think I’mnervous imnotnervousimnotfreakedi’m perfectlyfine!
So I’m a little nervous. I don’t mind the crowd. Four people or four thousand people I don’t mind. And it’s not the idea. The idea is solid. I like the idea, and I put a lot of thought into it. The jokes? The jokes are awesome, my jokes are always awesome. No…what is it?
The microphone? Nope. I’ve been in front of microphones before, had to pitch to them before, not a big deal, really.
The dry mouth thing? When I have to get up and speak, even when I’m not nervous, my mouth goes all dry and I end up croaking words. But I’ve got my bottle of water here, so I shouldn’t have any problem with the dry mouth thing.
No, it’s something else. Something bigger. It’s reality. In first year, second year, in high school, I could talk about whatever the hell I wanted, totally hypothetical, not remotely related to reality. I could pitch this, or that or the other, no worries about it being realistic, as long as it was entertaining it was fine.
But now, I need budget layouts? I need possible producers? Oh my God, I need demographics and I need outlines and I need costs. Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my! Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my!
I’ve never actually pitched anything I thought would ever go anywhere. Even in debating, I never argued anything I believed in, I always played devil’s advocate. So now, I have to go and stand there with something I really want to happen. And I know it’s just a classroom, but it’s still a pitch. And it’s still my ambition, my idea, my writing under the microscope. It’s never been so much of “me” up there.
And, oh, I forgot the video! What if they don’t like the video. This video is my taste, it’s a clear outline of where I want both the show, and all its extra content, to go. If they all hate it, does that mean they hate my idea? Does that mean I’ll never be able to make it happen? I mean my God, I’m comparing my great vision to a show that only made it one and a half seasons before it was cancelled. Brought back, yes, in production now, but still…shitcanned to make way for some rich-teens-in-the-sun pop trash.
I hate that. I hate the thought of my great idea, my great vision, failing. I don’t want it to fail. I don’t mind failing, not in the least. I’ve failed before, it presentations and in essays, well actually no, never failed a presentation. But it’s not my presentation they could shoot down. It’s what’s in my head. What if they find a way to kill this great idea? Will they kill the others as well? Will all my creativity die, and leave me with a shift to studying accountancy and buying lots of beige shirts?
Eight years. I’ve wanted this for eight years. Nearly a decade, more than a third of my life I’ve wanted one thing and one thing only. I’ve torpedoed every other opportunity for a career, for a love life, for any kind of social life, to pursue this one. After so many bad ideas, after struggling through hack writing and turning to clichés, after finally escaping all the traps of the beginning writer, will my first quality idea get slammed? Has someone already done it? Are all my great innovations already out there on Dutch or Japanese or Slovak TV?
Maybe I’m just late to the party, a gate crasher already drunk and full of himself and getting to work on spiling everyone else’s fun. Is that who I am? It’s Caine’s 18th all over again. I’m about to puke on someone’s dress. Metaphorically speaking, of course, now. Caitlin never did forgive me. Now though, am I going to taint this great story? Turn a fun and thrilling tale into another mass-produced/mass-consumed piece of TV trash> another multimillion dollar white noise generator? No, I won’t, surely not.
I’m a smart guy. I have to say it, over and over. I do have good ideas. I’m not just useful for semiotics. God, I can’t just be good for semiotics. I HAVE to be creative. I mean, Hero & Zero was a hugely popular idea. But that was rip off of “The Tick”. The Tick was a hero, not a villain. The premise is the same, only the perspective is different. Isn’t new perspective a new story? You even looked at all “The Tick” history. It’s not, it’s my idea and it’s a good, new idea.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Wk. 10 - Augmented Story
Despite my glee at the announcement of the multiplatform Heroes series presently in development, I must admit I was a little miffed, because it rather steals the thunder from my idea for The Gun Seller.
TGS is a great conspiracy story, one which involves both world finance and wolrld politics, to of the world's present hot buttons, which means that viewers can get caught up in the drama of it as if it were real. My idea is to augment the story within the TV show with a subscription SMS service and a series of websites.
The SMS service could send texts to subscribers with additional information about the goins-on of the various characters in the story, and for users in turn to send in their own theories about what's going on in the series.
Rather than a "show website" as is common with Tv shows, I plan to include several seperate sites, each of which connects with a different area of the show. For instance, one could link with the "Sword of Justice" group, another with the fake "Ministry of Defense", in addition to several conspiracy sites connected to the plot of the show. These highten the reality of the story, and can be used to gave extra information. They can also, with the use of message boards or even live chat, allow for the growth of a community around the show.
Though the book was written in 1996, before the days of such wondrous things as blogs, these are an easy and effective way for the characters to interact with the audience. As such, I can see both the show's main characters having blogs.
Finally, let's have some fun in the real world. I have an idea to place special clues in certain places within the real world which could lead viewers to deeper inside information, or even cash and prizes, though I think I prefer the former, as cash and prizes highlight the fact that the show is fiction.
TGS is a great conspiracy story, one which involves both world finance and wolrld politics, to of the world's present hot buttons, which means that viewers can get caught up in the drama of it as if it were real. My idea is to augment the story within the TV show with a subscription SMS service and a series of websites.
The SMS service could send texts to subscribers with additional information about the goins-on of the various characters in the story, and for users in turn to send in their own theories about what's going on in the series.
Rather than a "show website" as is common with Tv shows, I plan to include several seperate sites, each of which connects with a different area of the show. For instance, one could link with the "Sword of Justice" group, another with the fake "Ministry of Defense", in addition to several conspiracy sites connected to the plot of the show. These highten the reality of the story, and can be used to gave extra information. They can also, with the use of message boards or even live chat, allow for the growth of a community around the show.
Though the book was written in 1996, before the days of such wondrous things as blogs, these are an easy and effective way for the characters to interact with the audience. As such, I can see both the show's main characters having blogs.
Finally, let's have some fun in the real world. I have an idea to place special clues in certain places within the real world which could lead viewers to deeper inside information, or even cash and prizes, though I think I prefer the former, as cash and prizes highlight the fact that the show is fiction.
Wk. 10 - Converga-wassa-?
Good grief, I am so very old-fashioned. I don't have an iPhone and have no particularly interesting, I don't Tweet and I barely, BARELY use Facebook.
My main issue with the iPhone is capacity. My 120GB iPod has only about 45GB left, and that shrinks with every new TV show I like or great movie I see. Frankly, I find it hard to get excited about an 8GB iPhone.
But far from that, I see my friends and the apps they have on their iPhones, and I see that the iPhone is in a kind of aloescence. To expand the analogy, when a new concept (particularly a piece of technology) is introduced, it's like a baby everyone wants to see it and "ooh" and "aww" at it and watch it grow and get better.
Then it enters its adolescence it becomes associated with stupid, even dangerous behaviour (i.e. Youtube) and no one really believes it will go anywhere. Finally, it emerges into adulthood (where Youtube is now) and everyone is surprised that after those rough years, it's ingeneous and handy to have around. Right now, the iPhone is great if you want to make lightsaber noises and play games, and even many of the useful apps (such as maps and directions) are available on regular mobile phones.
I guess eventually I'll have to hop on the bandwagon, but I will do so only when I have to, and until then I will shake my head in pompous self-righteousness at all the idiots around me discussing their "apps".
My main issue with the iPhone is capacity. My 120GB iPod has only about 45GB left, and that shrinks with every new TV show I like or great movie I see. Frankly, I find it hard to get excited about an 8GB iPhone.
But far from that, I see my friends and the apps they have on their iPhones, and I see that the iPhone is in a kind of aloescence. To expand the analogy, when a new concept (particularly a piece of technology) is introduced, it's like a baby everyone wants to see it and "ooh" and "aww" at it and watch it grow and get better.
Then it enters its adolescence it becomes associated with stupid, even dangerous behaviour (i.e. Youtube) and no one really believes it will go anywhere. Finally, it emerges into adulthood (where Youtube is now) and everyone is surprised that after those rough years, it's ingeneous and handy to have around. Right now, the iPhone is great if you want to make lightsaber noises and play games, and even many of the useful apps (such as maps and directions) are available on regular mobile phones.
I guess eventually I'll have to hop on the bandwagon, but I will do so only when I have to, and until then I will shake my head in pompous self-righteousness at all the idiots around me discussing their "apps".
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Wk. 9 - The Gun Seller
Here's the piece of writing. As mentioned in a previous blog, I'm basing my project on The Gun Seller, a novel by Hugh Laurie, turning it into a 10-12 part miniseries. This is adapted from the last couple of chapters. Obviously it's not formatted or even written for a screenplay, but anyway, here is is:
"I am here to save the world. Honestly. With my gun, with the grenades strapped to my belt, with my whacky army pants, I am here to save the world. I’m here because Morocco is the place to be; Casablanca, of all the bars in all the towns in all the world…yeah!
I came here to be a terrorist, to be An American, to be a patriot hating patriots – a mystery of an enigma – I came here not to break down the fabric that runs society, nor the banks that fund society; I came here to reinforce those wonderful ideals; commerce, capitalism, poor poorer and rich richer, all that jazz.
That’s why they sent me here. Yes, “they” sent me here. They are the bad men, the men in the shadows, the cigarette smoking men who lurk in darkness and add that something extra to conspiracy theories throughout the world. They aren’t just a conspiracy. “They” are real, but “They” are not who we think they are. They’re not government officials, secret societies, men in robes with terrible weapons. They’re bankers, financiers, stock market traders; they are goods manufacturers, short, fat, sweaty men in too-small suits; these are the men that rule the world.
And these are the man who sent me to sunny, sandy Casablanca to maintain the status quo – ironically by disrupting the status quo. Oh yes, you heard me. I’m the sacrificial lamb, so to speak. In gothic novels there was this glamorous bad guy, who was evil and wicked and charismatic (that’s me) and then at the end of the novel, he gets destroyed (that’s in an hour) and the forces of good (that’s “them”) triumph and everything is exactly the way it was before, but now everyone’s happier about it.
It’s an odd psychology, I know, but it’s the way the world works, on a grand scale at least. The only problem though, is I am a poor sacrificial lamb. I’m not wicked or evil; I’m not even that charismatic. What I am is a sap who fitted their needs well and who’s ended up here through coincidence and poor planning.
So we know what they think I’m here to do, but what am I really here to do? Ah, wouldn’t that be so grand, if I could tell you? But I’m not going to tell, so there! I didn’t tell Solomon, I didn’t tell Ronnie; I told Sarah, and Sarah ended up…well…She just ended up not being a good person to tell. So I’ll keep this one my little secret, at least until we see if it pans out the way I hope it will.
Ol’ Carlos is calling for me. Carlos, the heroic leader of the SWORD OF JUSTICE! It sounds like a battle cry from a bad cartoon, eh? Something that would be shouted by a man in spandex before the bad synthesizer music kicks in.
But Ricky doesn’t hate Carlos, Ricky loves Carlos. Not in that way, like in an idolise way. Carlos is standing up for all the things poor lil’ misguided Ricky believes in. Ricky is me, by the way; the name they gave me with the assignment. There was a real Ricky, but he…Yeah, so now I’m Ricky and Ricky loves Carlos and Ricky hates corporations, but according to “them” I love corporations, but really I don’t love corporations. It’s a very confusing business. It really is much like an onion, there are lots of layers, it gets very chopped up, and it often makes one cry.
There’s no sense in trying to explain it all; it’s mostly too convoluted for me, and I was the one who came up with the plan. All I’ll say is that one way or another, this will all end with a bang. Well, that’s saying rather more than I imagined. I mean, I suppose it could be a physical, or psychological or emotional or metaphysical bang; and even though we all know it’ll be physical, it could be a lot of different things making a bang. Bang on the door, bang on the floor, bang in the sky…the possibilities for banging during a hostage negotiation are really endless.
Yes, we have hostages. We have the biggest and brightest of the American Embassy here in sunny Casablanca, crowded in an office, eating strange bread with strange things to dip the bread in; drinking water provided by the hostage negotiation team, ironically better than any of the other water we’ve had here. Maybe they’re trying to make us too comfortable, to that we all take a collective nap, and then they can storm the building on their tippy-toes.
The ambassador is an nice man, not a business man or a prominent buddy of the U.S. president. A career politician; I imagine he’s earned the right to live in sunny Casablanca. But I don’t know, Ricky doesn’t know things, because it’s not his place to know things. Ricky is a good boy from Minnesota, who got tangled up with the wrong girl, then the wrong group, then the wrong side of the law.
There’s Ricky, cropping up in my mind again. Ricky, last known address: Hills. Somewhere. What a way to go out, last known address, somewhere. Tombstone: Here lies Ricky, someone, somewhere, some time. I feel bad for the kid.
I feel bad for all these guys. Saskia and Sofia and Stefan and even Benji, yeah Benji, who insists on calling me a “fucking fuck”, I even feel sorry for him. Because all these little chaps with their little ideologies aren’t really fulfilling their ideological ends. They’re the other charismatic lotharios and lothariettes, rounded up like so many usual suspects, given guns and a fancy, stupid name and sent out to do exactly what their cigarette smoking, bracket-named masters ordered.
There’s no getting out now. I already got out once; I don’t think anyone noticed. I had to knock Saskia out to do it, but I’m not sure she noticed either. Sarah, the last thing I’ll see of this world, before I enter a new world, of one kind or another. It’s not the sight I would have seen, had it been up to me. I lost my interest in that sight a long time ago, but it happened to be the sight that most fits the plan, and whom I don’t entirely mins giving up. I gave her my thing, she gave me hers, and hopefully we’re both on our way to our respective packages’ final destinations.
I’m on my way, but I don’t know about her; about Russel P. Barnes, about Graduate Studies. I don’t know about any of it and so I don’t trust any of it. Especially not Sarah."
Does cynical count as an emotion? I dunno that's what I see. I guess there's a little stuff there about Sarah, and about his main aims, but there's not much of either. Oh well.
"I am here to save the world. Honestly. With my gun, with the grenades strapped to my belt, with my whacky army pants, I am here to save the world. I’m here because Morocco is the place to be; Casablanca, of all the bars in all the towns in all the world…yeah!
I came here to be a terrorist, to be An American, to be a patriot hating patriots – a mystery of an enigma – I came here not to break down the fabric that runs society, nor the banks that fund society; I came here to reinforce those wonderful ideals; commerce, capitalism, poor poorer and rich richer, all that jazz.
That’s why they sent me here. Yes, “they” sent me here. They are the bad men, the men in the shadows, the cigarette smoking men who lurk in darkness and add that something extra to conspiracy theories throughout the world. They aren’t just a conspiracy. “They” are real, but “They” are not who we think they are. They’re not government officials, secret societies, men in robes with terrible weapons. They’re bankers, financiers, stock market traders; they are goods manufacturers, short, fat, sweaty men in too-small suits; these are the men that rule the world.
And these are the man who sent me to sunny, sandy Casablanca to maintain the status quo – ironically by disrupting the status quo. Oh yes, you heard me. I’m the sacrificial lamb, so to speak. In gothic novels there was this glamorous bad guy, who was evil and wicked and charismatic (that’s me) and then at the end of the novel, he gets destroyed (that’s in an hour) and the forces of good (that’s “them”) triumph and everything is exactly the way it was before, but now everyone’s happier about it.
It’s an odd psychology, I know, but it’s the way the world works, on a grand scale at least. The only problem though, is I am a poor sacrificial lamb. I’m not wicked or evil; I’m not even that charismatic. What I am is a sap who fitted their needs well and who’s ended up here through coincidence and poor planning.
So we know what they think I’m here to do, but what am I really here to do? Ah, wouldn’t that be so grand, if I could tell you? But I’m not going to tell, so there! I didn’t tell Solomon, I didn’t tell Ronnie; I told Sarah, and Sarah ended up…well…She just ended up not being a good person to tell. So I’ll keep this one my little secret, at least until we see if it pans out the way I hope it will.
Ol’ Carlos is calling for me. Carlos, the heroic leader of the SWORD OF JUSTICE! It sounds like a battle cry from a bad cartoon, eh? Something that would be shouted by a man in spandex before the bad synthesizer music kicks in.
But Ricky doesn’t hate Carlos, Ricky loves Carlos. Not in that way, like in an idolise way. Carlos is standing up for all the things poor lil’ misguided Ricky believes in. Ricky is me, by the way; the name they gave me with the assignment. There was a real Ricky, but he…Yeah, so now I’m Ricky and Ricky loves Carlos and Ricky hates corporations, but according to “them” I love corporations, but really I don’t love corporations. It’s a very confusing business. It really is much like an onion, there are lots of layers, it gets very chopped up, and it often makes one cry.
There’s no sense in trying to explain it all; it’s mostly too convoluted for me, and I was the one who came up with the plan. All I’ll say is that one way or another, this will all end with a bang. Well, that’s saying rather more than I imagined. I mean, I suppose it could be a physical, or psychological or emotional or metaphysical bang; and even though we all know it’ll be physical, it could be a lot of different things making a bang. Bang on the door, bang on the floor, bang in the sky…the possibilities for banging during a hostage negotiation are really endless.
Yes, we have hostages. We have the biggest and brightest of the American Embassy here in sunny Casablanca, crowded in an office, eating strange bread with strange things to dip the bread in; drinking water provided by the hostage negotiation team, ironically better than any of the other water we’ve had here. Maybe they’re trying to make us too comfortable, to that we all take a collective nap, and then they can storm the building on their tippy-toes.
The ambassador is an nice man, not a business man or a prominent buddy of the U.S. president. A career politician; I imagine he’s earned the right to live in sunny Casablanca. But I don’t know, Ricky doesn’t know things, because it’s not his place to know things. Ricky is a good boy from Minnesota, who got tangled up with the wrong girl, then the wrong group, then the wrong side of the law.
There’s Ricky, cropping up in my mind again. Ricky, last known address: Hills. Somewhere. What a way to go out, last known address, somewhere. Tombstone: Here lies Ricky, someone, somewhere, some time. I feel bad for the kid.
I feel bad for all these guys. Saskia and Sofia and Stefan and even Benji, yeah Benji, who insists on calling me a “fucking fuck”, I even feel sorry for him. Because all these little chaps with their little ideologies aren’t really fulfilling their ideological ends. They’re the other charismatic lotharios and lothariettes, rounded up like so many usual suspects, given guns and a fancy, stupid name and sent out to do exactly what their cigarette smoking, bracket-named masters ordered.
There’s no getting out now. I already got out once; I don’t think anyone noticed. I had to knock Saskia out to do it, but I’m not sure she noticed either. Sarah, the last thing I’ll see of this world, before I enter a new world, of one kind or another. It’s not the sight I would have seen, had it been up to me. I lost my interest in that sight a long time ago, but it happened to be the sight that most fits the plan, and whom I don’t entirely mins giving up. I gave her my thing, she gave me hers, and hopefully we’re both on our way to our respective packages’ final destinations.
I’m on my way, but I don’t know about her; about Russel P. Barnes, about Graduate Studies. I don’t know about any of it and so I don’t trust any of it. Especially not Sarah."
Does cynical count as an emotion? I dunno that's what I see. I guess there's a little stuff there about Sarah, and about his main aims, but there's not much of either. Oh well.
Wk. 8 - Motivations to Play
I read the article. It made my head hurt. Because whether it's games or film, it's all there for the sake of escapism. And all of Yee's catagories of motivation are essentially tied to escapism. Achievement - you're not a badass in the real world, no one's a badass in the real world, except Samuel L. Jackson, so it's cool to be the badass champion of a videogame; Social - We've talked about this, when you're in a game, you're not really socializing as yourself; Emersion - At least this catagory is admitting to being escapism.
I suppose that apart from anything else, I'm an old-fashioned soul, and I believe that what draws people is character and story. I guess it's different with games, but when I look at the shelves in EB-Games, I see boy games and I see girl games, and that's why boys go for certain games and girls go for others. Not because they have different modes of thinking, but because games are shoved at the one or the other.
For me and my assignment, I have a strong lead character, good supporting characters and a great story. That'll draw audiences and that will hook audiences. The interactive element, that's just gravy.
I suppose that apart from anything else, I'm an old-fashioned soul, and I believe that what draws people is character and story. I guess it's different with games, but when I look at the shelves in EB-Games, I see boy games and I see girl games, and that's why boys go for certain games and girls go for others. Not because they have different modes of thinking, but because games are shoved at the one or the other.
For me and my assignment, I have a strong lead character, good supporting characters and a great story. That'll draw audiences and that will hook audiences. The interactive element, that's just gravy.
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