The lights are on
Veteran Member - Level 14
THIS BLOG IS A RESPONSE TO THE WGWC, WHICH IN A SPATE OF BOREDOM AND GENUINE
INTEREST, I DECIDED TO PARTICIPATE IN. FEEL FREE TO COMMENT BELOW.
"The temple bell stops.But the sound keeps comingout of the flowers."
It is a philosophy that I follow before
anything else, a perpetual continuum of goals and aspirations both realized and
unrealized. Life is my text, infinitely malleable and perceivable. With respect
to GIO, Gaming culture is just one small aspect of this sprawling narrative I
choose to explore.
order for you to understand me as a writer, as well as my inspiration, I must
communicate to you in a means that allows you to understand my experience beyond
the limitations of text, so we'll play a simple thought experiment. This will
require an imagination - hard, right? - so bear with me. I'll even provide a picture to assist you.
I want you to imagine a river flowing nonstop. Consider
its color, feel, smell, and texture, as well as the place surrounding it.
Perhaps a jungle surrounds it? Perhaps a forest or a savanna? Maybe a field
skirting the edge of a gigantic mountain range? It's your choice. Now, imagine
this same river, diminishing over time, gradually receding and disappearing
until nothing but small puddles and moist dirt remain.
the darkness of this soil in contrast to the arid soil surrounding it. Imagine
the cracks forming as the moisture disappears and the ground is lashed by heat.
Finally, visualize the channel where this river once existed, merely a memory
lost to all but those who knew it was once present. All that remains of it are
now faint lines, hints of the past for the uninformed perceiver to recognize.
the river in my example, I was born a writer, with an unending imaginative
consciousness. I understood Shakespearean as a child in elementary school and
often read his plays, laughing at his grotesque double-entendres and profane
re-imaginings of common literary tropes. I lived and breathed the myths of
Edith Hamilton's Mythology and later, the African
Trickster tales of Kwaku Ananse and Eshu, creating my own whenever the time
called for it. I wrote many stories, and soon would begin developing a project
I've been working on for well over a decade.
However, there were few people of authority outside of my family
and those few faculty who weren't bigoted that actually recognized I had a
viable talent. Most dismissed me as a barely literate POC and thus set their
it came to my writing. However, I remain to this day an extremely stubborn
person, and took each of these challenges as an opportunity to prove myself. I
would face these challenges soon in high school and later throughout college, and despite the added complications of
Epilepsy and Brain surgery, my desire to write would somehow survive, whether
it was blogging - I once had an enormous following when I still visited
Myspace- or pursuing fiction.
During these periods, my interest in writing
waned several times, to near extinction in fact. My entire writing future once
hinged on something as capricious as being accepted for publication. Needless to
say, that work - and others- have been published, or I would not be writing
In closing, return
to the image of the river.
the channel from before; the river bed dried with clay older than the grass
surrounding it. Consider its firm, yet dusty texture that crumbles underneath
the pressure of your hands. Imagine the heat of the sun bearing down upon it as
you run your fingers along the cracks in the ground. Notice the faint lines at
either edge of the river bed, telling a story of a lost history. Then, imagine
rivulets of water and dew gradually accumulating. Visualize
the claylike soil as it yields to the moisture; new growth now appears as small
puddles increase in size. There's just enough water for amphibians to lay their
eggs, and as the seasons continue, this stream of water will expand completely,
until the river bed has regained all it once lost and teems with new life.
Hopefully, you've grasped through the highs and lows of
my writing history that this lifestyle is something transient. I can't always
control when or how my interest or writing evolves- potentially a problem in more serious situations- but I can always rest assured
that its imprint will remain, similar to the sound waves resonating in the flowers of Basho's poem. As such, I could hardly care less about being
recognized by others as a blogger or writer. I simply "write", and with respect
to games, I am rewarded not by the number of views my pages receive, but by the
opportunity to experience a new form of narrative storytelling and the
opportunity to exchange perspectives with others.