I dream of rain

Lacking the funds or the endurance to go anywhere special to watch this sunrise, I drove to a hole-in-the-trees beach access 2/3rds of the way to Sebastian Inlet. It was drizzling and heavily overcast, and as the sky lightened, an entrepid fisherman came out and set up his gear.

This was about as much direct sunlight as I got that morning, but hey, I made it another year.

So in the wee hours of the morning, last night I caved on a long-standing principle and actually registered on a single social notworking(sic) site. No, it's not one of the biggies, so spare me the "friending" requests.

It'll probably be an interesting and (I hope) useful tool, but my initial impression after digging a little deeper than I really needed to do was simply, "what a cesspoool."

During the slack moments at work today I'll try to come up with what to say on my profile -- or perhaps more pointedly, how much to say. I've always been rather careful about what I put online, especially in the hands of third parties, but in the case of social notworking sites, other people can put stuff up about you too, and you have no control over that at all.

Aynway. We'll see what happens, eh?

So for the second xmas in a row, I've had my heart trampled on. I hope this isn't the start of a trend, but man, this one's been a real doozey. In a sense I'm grateful that this happened now, as opposed to a few months or years down the line, but I can't help but wish it had happened sooner so that I'd have not spent the last month stressed out of my mind (and too late to make any travel arrangements for New Year's).

....it's been one hell of a crazy year. I hope I've learned something through all of this. I'll write up a recap of the years in a few days.

That's S.J. Tucker, with Ginger Doss in the background.

Ginger Doss and Bekah Kelso. Ginger's a hard one to get photos of; she's always hiding behind a mic and/or in the shadows. And Bekah is usually so animated...

The hands belong to the lovely Ginger Doss, a member of The Travelling Fates.

Taunting seagulls is fun. Until they tag you.

Went camping last weekend, it was wonderfully lazy.

I woke up this morning with one of the "Observation Lounge" piano pieces from Wing Commander II running through my head. It is different, hearing this now. My better-trained ear recognizes the structure of the piece, with its layered patterns and rhythms, and how these are bent with exquisitely placed skipped half-heartbeats.

Anyone can hold a beat, a rhythm.. but it is in those fractional heartbeats that the master makes a rhythm their own, keeping the listeners just a little off-balance with subtle tugs on their heartstrings.

I first heard this piece many, many years ago, during one of the deeper moments of the game; a pause, a respite, a wondering-what's-next, a moment of mourning, a moment where you have to somehow find the strength and will to keep going desipte insurmountable odds. In a game filled with memorable music, this piece stood out.

I was one of those computer geeks growing up, playing whatever games I could get my hands on. It wasn't for the sake of playing games though; in hindsight I was using it as an escape; immersing myself in a world and system that I could understand and experience. Instead of the general platformer/action/etc tripe, I was drawn to games that exuded atmosphere and story, evoking emotion, emotion I could feel, emotion that was so lacking in my meatspace life.

This was also behind my voracious appetite for books; I'd escape into other worlds woven by masters of the word, consistent worlds populated by People. I capitalize People because not every person is a Person. I knew I certainly wasn't, and I had no idea how I could ever become one of those Persons who could create, change, evoke, emote, and generally be a master of their own world.

But I digress. There were many games (and many more books) but few really stand out in my memory. Some were true masterpieces, but most others boiled down to that intangible property we call Atmosphere. The feeling of another world, the little details in the writing and art, believable dialog, and phyrric victories. That there are sometimes no "right" choices. The price of attachment. Feeling of accomplishment. Especially those feelings; there was nothing that was good or bad, as long as I would feel something. Something that wasn't me, or so I hoped.

Sometimes... that atmosphere, that sense, that feeling, was carried by the game's music. Music is usually overused, especially today, wielded as a crude "This Is How You Should Feel Now" bludgeon, but when done right, it's something you don't notice, blending into the experience as a whole. Until you hear it later, out of context, and your whole being lurches in memory.

My most powerful memories are associated with music; for a long time they were the only emotions I really had. Over the years I've learned something of how this works; how to create atmosphere; how to invoke and evoke; how to weave words, notes, rhythms, and touch; how to show someone that there is something more than ourselves, something deeper, something higher, something greater, something smaller.

I still hear the melancholy notes of Jazz playing the grand piano in the observation lounge of the Concordia as it hides in an asteroid field to make critical repairs. I hear the clean plucked guitar of Erana's Peace as my hero sleeps beneath its tree. I hear Duke's one-liners overlaid on top of Grabbag, followed by the steady 5/4 progression of Stalker as the first level starts. I hear the haunting themes of the Agro Planet and New Constantinople, all alone against a dark, dangerous universe. I hear SHODAN's taunts as I crawl towards the CPU nodes on the Executive deck, carried by a thousand variations on a simple theme. I hear the dropship falling towards Presephone, leaving behind everything for... something that is little more than an unknown hope. I hear Synapse as I truck around Hong Kong after a frantic escape from UNATCO, its peaceful theme morphing into the aptly-named Opponent Within.

I hear the travels, the transitions; I hear the trials, the tribulations; I hear the quiet losses and the not-so-quiet losses; I hear trust and betrayal; I hear the wonder, the incompletions; I hear growth and change; I hear laughter and tears.

I hear memories and experiences, woven into me, sometimes with a deft touch of a pickpocket, and others with the grace and impact of a powersledge.

I hear my heart and soul.

Yet... were any of these real? These worlds I escaped into, these worlds that touched, changed me? Were they ever mine, really? Where is my world, my music? Where is my Loom and my place in the Pattern? Why did the swans leave me behind?

Are these words real? ...Am I real? Can we ever truly know? And does it really matter?

...So as long as we have and create music, sing, and dance, who cares?

I sit here, half naked on my tattered couch, procrastinating from vacuuming and cooking dinner, wondering why I'm utterly unmotivated to finish getting the #**%^@$ sandspurs out of the carpet.

I sit here, watching the curtains billow and sing from the cool fall wind gusting powerfully through the house, casting backlit shadows across stained carpets.

I sit here, music turned up, the pulsing bass rumbling through my my gut, foot tapping along to a beat older than time itself, only half aware of the lyrics that flow through my mind.

I sit here, breathing in the world, goosebumps rippling over charged skin, words flowing through electrified fingertips, touch leaping over distance and time, and wonder...

...Am I really sitting here?

There's another story here, only I happen to know what it is...

Your Hands
 pinning my wrists
 stinging my cheeks
 gripping my hips
 crushing my throat
Own Me

soft touch, rough touch 
 wild peace and endless heartbeats
careful touch, painful touch
 endless moments and wild tears
gentle touch, brutal touch
 endless comforts and wild joys
loving touch, deadly touch
 wild heartbeats and endless peace

A warm presence on the foot of the bed
 dark and sleek
  breathing peacefully as she rests
   safe in her place
    knowing she has served her master well
     in all ways
      the collar woven around her throat
        from two sacred vows.

I have much to think about this morning

 of life and love
 of currents and feeling
 of family and home
 of storms and breath

I have much to feel this morning

 of words and power
 of compassion and tenderness
 of night and shadows
 of distance and touch

I have much to learn this morning

 of presence and consequence
 of rage and passion
 of owning and growing
 of serenity and death

I have much, this morning

It's not my trade, but it is perhaps the oldest of them.

Happy puppy...

Sorry about the hiatus. Been pretty sick.