I was wondering recently why I like pixel art so much. Be it just a looping scene from an artist or a game like Qora or Hyper Light Drifter, pixel art seems to play my emotions like fiddle.

I thought it could be because that’s what I grew up with. My first games were pixely ones on my old DOS computer or the NES. Nostalgia is a hell of a drug and acts as a lens to distort the past even when we’re experiencing it in the present. If you show Duck Hunt with the old orange NES controller to a 30-something gamer and a 10-year-old  gamer, one of them is going to be way more excited.

While this might be the case, which would be sad because that means that the era of pixel art will be closing in a few decades, I think it might be because pixel art doesn’t focus on hyper-realism, as redundant as that may sound. Pixel art by definition will not represent the real world very well, so instead of showing facial micro-expressions to convey emotion, it needs to build a mood around the scene you’re seeing. Likewise, the labor involved means that every object, shadow, lighting change, and twitch of a cat’s tail was done intentionally to add to the piece.

Once the mood is set, the viewer tends to project more emotion onto it, filling in the blanks with bits of their own experiences that fit into the world they’re watching. The emotions become more personal since they’re slightly unique for every viewer. That means every time I play Hyper Light Drifter, I put myself into the game even more so than if I was able to craft a perfect likeness in Fallout 4 and watch myself killing Super Mutants and running away from Preston Garvey before he can give me another sidequest. Likewise, when the graphics are reduced to pixel art a game company can’t depend on them to draw as many people in, so they put more effort into the story. With these two elements combined, better story-telling and a more unique and emotional visual experience, the game sucks me right into it’s rabbit hole.

There’s exceptions to every rule. There’s pixely games that are just terrible, I even made one for school. But Qora is similar to Dear Ester in that they are both largely “walking simulators” with emotional stories, and yet I’ve played Qora a dozen more times even though Dear Ester is far more realistic. Contrawise, FarCry 5 seems like it had a great story right up until the mo-capped actors had played their part and I was dropped into the game to do the exact same thing I had in the last 4 games; break stuff, kill people, and gather up a resistance. Just a faceless force of nature being told what to do through a walky-talky and formulaically checking off boxes until the bad guy was taken out.

In the end I guess time will tell where pixel art stands in the digital age. It might always have a niche following and put out new art every few years for people like me to enjoy. Or it could be shut out by more conventional forms of art and better selling video games. Who knows. I’m not too sure where I was going with this, but maybe you feel the same way and now you know you’re not alone.

Brink

For many of those who live in chaos, the allure of riding the crests between hurricane and calm seas and the rapture of feeling in control of the storm, is enough to make them spurn the promise of peace.

Hey everyone!

Have a…
Merry Christmas,
Happy Hanukkah,
Joyous Kwanzaa,
Pleasant Festivus,
Wild Saturnalia,
and a Fun-filled Yule.

Congratulations everyone!
We made it halfway through the dark. ^_^

A strange relationship

I think I’m in an abusive relationship with my depression.
I know it’s bad for me.
I know I can do better.
I know I need to leave it.
I know it’s going to kill me one day.

But once I fall back into it’s arms, I stay.
It’s comfortable.
It’s familiar.
I’m used to it.
And maybe this time, things will be different.

Forces of Nature

Love is like the tide.
Like the gentle lapping of waves on the beach.
It’s tireless, eternal, patient, waiting for us to come to it.

Hate is like a hurricane.
Like the monstrous thundering wind and rain.
It’s powerful, consuming, loud, drawing all attention to itself.

But once the hurricane is gone, the tide still hasn’t stopped. It puts the beach back to the way it was and keeps on it’s track, day after day. All you have to do is go to it.

How Heavy Is The Dark

How heavy is the dark
That light will fall before an instant
Giving way to inky curtains
Unless the guard’s ever persistent

How heavy is the dark
That follows souls through cycled days
Wearing, grinding, gnashing, waiting
Draining their light day after day

How heavy is the dark
That brings despair and deathly trance
That takes it’s toll without a glance
That never gives a second chance

How heavy is the dark
That it can take the stout and brave
Exhaust them with it’s patient hunger
Weighing, waiting ’til they cave

How heavy is the dark
That drives the desperate to the light
A single point that lifts the night
A gun
A bullet
A flash
A life

How heavy is the dark

 

Note: I had this idea and threw this together. I reserve the right to come back to it and do it better because I don’t like it as it is now, but then I never do like what I write do I? Still, there’s room for improvement, so once I’m better, so will it be.

Getting started: anger and altruism.

I don’t know what to blog about. My life is pretty much just work and my son right now. I don’t have any hobbies or anything I’m particularly good at. But they say that the only way to get better at writing is to write, so here’s some writing.

I felt really down yesterday, and that extended into this morning even though it usually doesn’t. Sleep is restarting the computer when it’s running slow, or so it has been until now. This revelation led to a pretty crappy two days so far. And because of the way I think about things, I always wonder if other people are going through the same thing and just sucking it up better, or if I really have a problem. Only time and professional help can tell. Unfortunately everything costs money and I don’t have that, so I’ve been procrastinating looking for help. I should really do that this week. We’ll see.

I tend two have two operating modes which are angry and placid unless I am otherwise inebriated. The anger usually comes from small frustrations and it burns out of control. Fortunately it’s also exhausting and I can’t stay mad for more than  maybe a hour, usually less, before I will literally fall asleep. These experiences have made me come to think of anger like a drug. At the time, it feels great. Getting anger our fills you up with energy and makes your mind fully awake. Adrenaline does that I suppose. But then afterwards you feel foolish and promise yourself you’ll never get out of control like that again. Wash, rinse, repeat.

It’s a terrible cycle, and an addicting one which only lends itself further to the explanation that anger is a drug. So maybe, sometimes, if you have an anger problem, it really does warrant being treated like an addiction, especially if that’s what it takes for you to get help. Anger will tear apart a family, lose you your job, and destroy your health just as readily as a drug addiction. I’ve seen what anger can do to a family. It’s not something I’ve ever wanted to see repeated.

It also seems to me that I am selfish. Though I like to think of myself as selfless, as I’m sure most people do, I’m not. I do a lot of things selfishly, and so do you. So does everybody. They say there’s no altruism in nature and I wholeheartedly agree. Whenever I do something for someone else it makes me feel good. I do it because helping makes me feel good, and it is only a side effect that it helps someone else as well. I think that when we use the term “selfish”, it’s usually people who act just the same way, but the person they’re helping is themselves. Condemning that behavior is great for building a society where people can work together and achieve more than they could on their own. It’s part of how we got this far as humans already. Plus, I’m not saying we shouldn’t frown upon it. I just think we should take a closer look at ourselves so we can understand why we undertake selfless actions.

If what you’re doing doesn’t benefit you in any way, you don’t want to do it, you’ll feel crappy about losing whatever it is you’re going to lose for doing it, and the only possible reason for you to do it is that logically it will benefit a community or individual that means nothing to you, that could be pure selflessness, actual altruism. But let’s be real, when’s the last time that happened? If given the choice between one of two groups of people dying where one is your kid and the other is 5 random kids, picking your kid is selfish. You’re letting up to five other families experience that kind of loss instead of just yourself. At the same time, you’d be hard pressed to find someone who wouldn’t make that choice the selfish way, and I’m pretty sure we all understand why. But if you want to make someone uncomfortable, ask how many other kids there would have to be for them to let their own kid die. Narrow it down to an exact number that they feel their kid is worth more than. It’s a great idea for the next time politics comes up around the dinner table and you want to change the subject.

That’s all I’ve got for now. Until next time, cheers.

So about that…

I have failed at consistent writing before. This blog is a constant reminder that I did it again. I’m not sure why I thought that it would be different two years ago when I tried for the umpteenth time. I don’t think I’ll ever get content out on the regular. A normal blog? Maybe. Creative short stories or even writing exercises? Not a chance. But I have recently read about the virtues of keeping a journal. It’s supposed to be something to just clear out the crud in your mind and let you write what you want to write later. Something that no other human eyes will see, so you don’t have to worry about what you put. Well, I’m going to give using this blog a try again and see what happens. I believe that whoever read this before doesn’t anymore after such a long absence. So if anyone does come upon this entry, welcome weary internet traveler. You’ve come a long way down many distant and untrodden paths to find my hidden writing home. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll put on the kettle for some tea. You can stay here as long as you’d like.

First New Story In A While

A while ago I met a friend of mine to catch up. We used to room together when we were younger, but ended up going our separate ways when he moved back in with his father to take care of him in his waning years. His father had a rough life by his own hand, if you understand what I mean. He was never really a good dad, or even a good person, but my friend decided he didn’t want to leave him alone or in the care of strangers. There was no love between them, more of a determined obligation on both their parts.
We met up and went to a park because my friend was an avid nature lover and never felt more at home than when he was amongst the trees. We chose a long path and began with the normal pleasantries, talking about jobs and hobbies and what all of our old acquaintances were up to. When we stopped at a particularly appealing tree, my friend jumped up to a low branch and began to climb, only a few dozen feet, and I tried to follow.
About the time I reached him he had settled onto a branch and before he could pull his shirt back down, I saw a large scar running from his navel to his mid back across his side. It was a gnarly scar, not one that had received immediate proper attention. He saw me notice and I finished to climb to sit beside him right as he began to speak again. A warm summer breeze blew through the park and ruffled the leaves all around us. “I’m sure you want to know what happened. Get comfortable, I’ve wanted to tell this to someone for a while.” He face grew pained as he started his story.
“Around the time I went back to keep track of my dad, he’d started getting worse than ever. Not just his health, he’d been losing his mind. I’m ashamed to say this, but it never hurt me to see him like that. We both knew he was closing in on the end of his life. I was, honestly, relieved. I’d hoped for this as a kid, before I knew what it meant. After I’d even thought about making it happen, after everything he put my mom and I through. Maybe I never had the courage to follow through, or thought better of it at the time, I don’t know. But eventually we both escaped him and I put it out of my head. Still, the day I went back and saw him for the first time in all those years, it was like he knew what I had thought, what I was thinking.”
“He gruffly told me to get out, he would die when he was ready, but I just replied that mom and asked me to come here since she couldn’t stand to be near him. He turned away after that and we barely spoke. I put my stuff in his extra bedroom and made dinner. We’d eat silently, I’d head out to be somewhere besides there, and I’d come home to him asleep. In the morning I’d make us both breakfast and head to work before he got up. That’s how most days went, over and over again. He’s always greet me the same way. After a month or so he got delusional. I had to stay home to keep him from hurting himself. One day he started trying to peel the wallpaper off of the living room walls. He swore there were people under it who were spying on us. I asked for him to give me the knife back that he was using. When he refused I tried to take it, and he slashed with it and cut me right across my side. I hit the ground screaming. I couldn’t get to a phone because I couldn’t stand.”
“When I tried to crawl away, he came after me. He reached down for me but I’d scream and punch at him as hard as I could muster. It seemed to take forever for me to blackout as I inched towards the door. I decided that if I was going to die, if he was going to kill me, he’d hear exactly how much I hated him. I only got a few sentences out before he hit me in the head and knocked me out. When I woke up, I was sure I couldn’t be alive. But there I was, surrounded by blood, mind foggy with his morphine pills, my gut stitched together with sewing thread and dripping with his whiskey. I don’t know how long I stayed on the floor, but when I lifted my head, he was there in his armchair, drinking from his bottle. ‘Those were some terrible things you said son.’ He was slurring more than usual. ‘Now you don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya.’ I murmured more insults as best as I could. I still wasn’t sure I would live. When I was out of profanity, I tried to wiggle myself towards the door again. ‘Don’t go no where, the medics won’t find ya.’ I saw that he had my cellphone right before I passed out again. I woke up once to a medic yelling for another stretcher before I finally work up in the hospital.”
“If it hadn’t been for the fact that I couldn’t even shift my weight in bed without feeling like I would rip open my wound again, I would have sworn it was all a bad dream. The nurses said I’d been there for just over a day. I didn’t say anything, just stayed lying in bed for another day. I never asked if anyone was checking on my dad. After I told the staff that I didn’t want any visitors at all, I tried to just put him out of my mind. Figured he was in a jail cell somewhere. On the third day, when the doctor came in to check on me, he said he had some bad news. ‘Of course,’ I thought, ‘I got tetanus from the knife or some crazy infection or something.’ But that wasn’t it. They’d redone the stitches when I arrived and filled me with antibiotics and vaccines. No, it was my dad. When the medics had arrived, he’d been shot in the chest. They figured it was suicide, but they couldn’t be sure. I froze. My dad was dead.”
“I didn’t think it’d bother me at all, but I cried. I cried for hours. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it’s just instinctual. I still haven’t figured it out. But despite how horrible he was, I felt a little empty inside. What really got me, though, was that I felt free now. Safe. And I could go and live my life. My own life for me. And I beat myself up for liking like that for a while, until I realized that that was exactly why my dad did what he did. Could be just about the only good thing he did for me other than be a warning, and show me what not to be when I grew up. He set me free from himself during a brief fit of lucidity. I’ve gotta tell you, I still don’t quite know how to feel about that.”
I was stunned into silence. Even now, my friend’s eyes were cloudy with tears, and neither of us had anything to say that could appropriately fill that moment. So we let it fill with silence, and the sound of trees and wind. That moment stretched on eternally. The sun didn’t move any closer to the horizon and no one walked past that tree for as long as we sat there in silence. I finally reached over and grabbed his hand, and he seemed to appreciate the gesture. It’s hard to say, because I couldn’t begin to know how he felt. All of the sudden he leapt forward and wrapped his arms around a branch, swung back and forth a bit, and dropped to another, making his way down. I climbed down carefully, back the way I’d come, and met him back on the park path. We started walking again and I asked “So, what are you going to do now?”
He responded, with a smile, “I have no idea.”

The Other Side Of Fear

It has been said that fear brings death. That it is to be avoided, defeated, and surpassed. But that isn’t the truth. Fear is one of the greatest assets you have. It’s the primal motivation, the darkness of the abyss that keeps you moving, climbing, struggling and striving for more and better. It’s the virtuous poison; in the wrong circumstances it can drag you down and make you sick, but in others it fuels you with a reserve you didn’t know that you had left. Fear is power and energy. It’s the tickle in the back of your neck that lets you know you’re alive and it keeps you that way. Fear drags you up out of the dirt when all else fails you and kicks you in the ass until you start running again. When kindness and hope and trust and anger and sorrow all fail you, and believe me they will, fear will be your companion. It was there before all of the others, and it will be the last one to remain, unto your very last breath. Casting off fear is walking a never-ending tightrope with no net below it. I suppose in a civilized society, for people who’s biggest problem is, compared to survival, infinitely shallow, fear could be considered a bad thing. To those who let fear rule them, it could be desirable to overcome it. For those who can’t use fear, who don’t understand it, it can be a problem to surpass, to try and feel superior to because they “conquered their fear.” But for a hundred thousand years, fear was the only thing that kept us from the darkness, from obliteration. Fear is the reason, the only reason, humans ever made it to the point that they could consider fear a “problem.” It’s more ingrained in us than the need to eat and breed. However I, for one, will ever consider fear a friend, a motivator, a coach, and a mentor. I fear being mugged, so I train my body and learn to fight. I fear mediocrity, so I go to school and write stories and poems to better my mind. I fear death, so I strive to live a healthier life. I fear being alone, so I work to cultivate relationships with friends and family. I’m not particularly good at any of those, not yet. But I’m trying. I’m striving. I’m bettering. All because of my fear. Because a life without fear is stagnation, and complacency. Without fear, you’re already dead.