An Examination of Extremism

An Examination of Extremism — Blue Ink Alchemy

We live in an increasingly interconnected world. It is not difficult to access information that can inform you of all sorts of points of view. It does, however, take time. And time is a precious thing when events are unfolding regarding a controversy or an otherwise unfortunate event. Snap judgements and knee-jerk reactions make for more inflammatory headlines - and more exciting reading. The problem is that this leads to extremist thinking. Be a person firmly entrenched in one side of an issue, or the other, such entrenchment leads to antagonistic stances. Now, it's easy to cast people who are using violence, intimidation, or group-based fear tactics as nothing but villainous thugs, and such methods of persuasion are always unnecessary, and any rational human being would agree to that. That is an easy admission to make, given the circumstances, and a lot of extremists have played lip service to that idea, but it is a lot more difficult to admit that extremism, even in opposition to terror, is wrong. I've commented on the nature of polities before. It is actually somewhat rare for an entire polity to be monolithic in its composition. For the most part, people who have a similar viewpoint on an issue can and do vary wildly in how to approach that viewpoint and the best way to express it. On top of that, there are those who take up the banner of the polity in question but are in reality using it for entirely different goals than the polity's leaders or expressed core values. Suffice it to say that once a movement begins, without strong leadership and defined goals, things can get very confused very quickly. This is to be expected. We are, after all, talking about people. People have hopes and dreams. They have fears and desires. They need food and water. They crave sex and sweets. They have passions they long to share, and embarrassing moments they long to forget. They'll laugh and cry. They'll argue and concede. They will get sick, bleed, grow old, and eventually die. And so will you. I have a difficult time understanding how people can become involved with extremist points of view. Be it one extreme of a debate or the other, I find it a very bad idea to assume that everyone on the other side of the debate is either an absolutely deplorable creature or a total ignoramus. I find myself questioning why people, living breathing human beings with at least a measure of literacy and self-awareness, put themselves in positions that are entirely intractable. The best answer I can come up with - and I have no idea if this is the most accurate one or not - is laziness. They are just too lazy to imagine the other complexly. And I can understand that - I've withdrawn from arguments, myself, too exhausted or frustrated or confused to invest the time and energy to follow a logical line of thought. I think it happens to the best of us. If I were able to give advice to people involved in a debate that I knew would be taken seriously and to heart, it would be this: Stop. Breathe. Think. You can't hear what the other person is saying if you keep talking. Taking a deep breath clears your head and opens your ears, allowing you the chance to process what you're hearing. And once you process the words, you can try to discern meaning, and find ways to bridge the gap towards understanding. Even if you still disagree with what's being said, you may have a better chance to find the means to express your disagreement without attacking the person with whom you disagree. Because that way lies ire, anger, bile, hatred, and even threats. Too many people take the lazy shortcut to that end step. Don't do that. The shortcuts lead nowhere constructive. To make the world a better place, to ensure change that matters, we have to take the long way. The higher road. And when you take those steps, it's important to take your time. Stop. Breathe. Think. Not only will you not come across as a lazy extremist douchebag, you just might understand another person's point of view a bit more completely. And if more of us can do that, the world will be a better place for everyone - every human being - to live.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Casablanca

Movie Review: Casablanca — Blue Ink Alchemy

There are some iconic scenes in fiction, and a lot of them happen in watering holes and cosmopolitan places where people gather. The Mos Eisley cantina in Star Wars, Knowhere of Guardians of the Galaxy, The Prancing Pony in Bree from Lord of the Rings... the list is extremely long. When it comes to films, there are few taverns that have had quite as much influence on the tone, composition, and nature of goings-on within such places as Rick's Cafe Americain. After all, everybody comes to Rick's. That is the name of the play upon which the unquestionably classic film, Casablanca, is based. The year is 1941, and it is early December. The city of Casablanca is relatively neutral territory, even if it is controlled by Vichy France and the oversight of the German Reich. It is a hotbed of clandestine activity, from smuggling to gambling and even the sale of exit visas, which desperate refugees require to flee Europe for the promise of freedom and opportunity in America. Many of these sales happen at Rick's, where the proprietor is surprisingly neutral and reserved, conveying only quiet bitterness and healthy scepticism towards both starry-eyed freedom-fighters and ironclad fascists. All of that changes, however, when the one woman who has ever truly captured Rick's affections walks into his cafe, asking the piano player to play the one song Rick insists he never plays, and changes things in Casablanca forever. It is pretty clear that Casablanca is adapted from a stage play. The settings, dialog, and even the lighting of the scenes could easily be recreated by a savvy director and a good stage crew. In the 1940s, many films were produced in this way, opting for a faster route from script to screen rather than saddling the production with glitz and glamour. In fact, when it was released, a lot of people didn't expect anything groundbreaking from Casablanca; it was just another of the hundreds of films being produced by the studios. But even as it was being made, those directly involved with its creation knew that it was something special.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world..." A big reason for this is the talented, international cast. Only Humphrey Bogart (Rick), Dooley Wilson (Sam), and a minor role or two were American actors. The woman in question, Ilsa Lund, was played by luminous Norwegian actress Ingrid Bergman. Paul Henreid, Ilsa's husband and a reknown freedom fighter named Victor Lazlo, was Austrian. Many actual refugees played roles of all types in the film, including the main antagonist, Major Strausser, who was portrayed by Conrad Veidt, a German who had himself fled from the Nazis. This gives the entire production of Casablanca a palpable sense of authenticity and earnestness. In one of its most famous scenes, Lazlo leads the people in Rick's in a rendition of "La Marseilles", and during the scene, many of the actors burst into tears on set. The nature of this cast is one of the things that makes Casablanca singularly special. There's also the fact that every single leading role is brilliantly executed. Bogart hadn't done any romantic work before Casablanca, but watching Rick's carefully crafted demeanor crack under the pressure of Ilsa's presence is clear evidence of the actor's talent. Bergman smolders, and the two have electric chemistry. Just as good is the interplay between Bogart and the inimitable Claude Rains, who plays Casablanca's prefect of police Louis Renault with equal parts legitimate sleaze and good-natured humor. Henreid is compelling as a man who has witnessed horrid injustice first-hand and will stop at nothing to combat it, and Veidt gives Strausser real menace barely contained by the sort of impersonal, surface-level diplomacy that villains use just long enough to get what they want. Even smaller roles have real talent and nuance behind them, from Wilson's unflappable and loyal Sam to Sydney Greenstreet's unabashedly profit-minded underworld magnate. The performances in Casablanca are more than enough to keep an audience riveted to the screen, far moreso than any amount of modern special effects or computer-generated gimmickery.
The 40s were a great time for hats. Full of classic quotes, unforgettable scenes, scintillating performances, and a true time-capsule of the atmosphere of its day, Casablanca has a lot to offer an audience even in the 21st century. What was once anti-Nazi propoganda now plays as dramatic historical fiction, as uniformed German officers never occupied Morocco and the MacGuffin of the film, the "letters of transit", never existed. Still, as a setting for intrigue, drama, romance, and suspense, Casablanca and Rick's are the foundation upon which many future tales were built. It is film noir at its finest, a shining example of a tightly-produced character-driven story, and one of the best films ever made.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Magnum Damage

Flash Fiction: Magnum Damage — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Alistair Cunningham For the Terribleminds challenge, Somethingpunk. I think this qualifies more as laserpunk than cyberpunk, but you be the judge.

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Jack Magnum was never more at home than he was on the ground, a warm beamer in his hand, goons on his tail. The incandescent neon of the street illumination and the various store signs were a counterpoint to the lances of hard light that sliced through the night. This had been a nice neighborhood once. Before Manhattan had been co-opted by the Cyber-Mafia, it had been making a comeback from the various financial failures of the early 21st century. That was before America got carved up and sold like so much cake at a desperate bake sale. But Jack Magnum hadn't given up on America. "Jack! Two more on your nine-o'-clock!" "I know." The AI in Jack's head, which called herself Artemis, was helpful in some situations and irritating in others. His cyber-enhanced senses and on-board radar could communicate with him at the speed of thought. There was no need for Artemis to engage his inner ear speaker to give him information he already knew. Still, there was a hard barrier between them when he was conscious, so he understood her desire to keep him safe. After all, if his body failed, she'd cease to exist. He swung his .75 caliber heater in the direction and squeezed off two rounds. The projector snapped off two flashes of steel-melting light, and one assailant found his faceplate burned off, exposed circuitry sizzling and its CPU melting down its chin and faux leather jacket. The Cyber-Mafia liked to dress its goons up like bikers, so the human populace didn't blatantly see the mostly robotic terrors that kept them in line and fed the syndicate its cash and bodies to maintain business with the struggling and laughable US government. "That's three total still on our tail, Jack. What's the plan?" "There's a hoverbike 100 meters ahead. Can you hack it?" "I'm on it." The wireless transmitter in Jack's skull hummed as Artemis tried to access the hoverbike's security and key it to Jack's DNA. Jack fired behind him, and heard a surprised, robotic squawk as another foot soldier got blasted. Two to go. If he couldn't blast them, he could outrun them, and keep the information packet in his hard drive out of Cyber-Mafia hands. "It's ready, Jack!" "Thanks, babe." He turned and sprinted backwards, taking his gun in both hands, firing a shot that melted the gun-arm off of one of his pursuers. The other opened fire, chewing up pavement just behind Jack. He had to turn quickly and jump, lest the half-molten pavement slow him down. The neon of the airbike snapped on, and Jack leapt onto it. He holstered his heater and revved the drive, getting the fans up to speed, and kicked hard off the ground. Standard airbikes didn't have much in the way of altitude, but the hop threw off the aim of his pursuers. He whipped around the corner and tapped the holo-projector in his right cybernetic eye to call up his GPS plotter. "They know your face, Jack. It's going to be hard to get off of Manhattan." "The CIA didn't hire me because this would be easy, Artemis. Now find me a chopper or a boat." "I'm on it. I'm just saying, they're going to shut down the island rather than let you off." "I don't get what the big deal is." Jack swerved around a truck, which honked at him on general principle. "All I have is the shipping manifests for the Cyber-Mafia's airplanes and boats for the next six months, and a detailed list of every government document to which they have access." "Which means they can no longer blackmail the government into holding Manhattan, I know. It's what they wanted you to get." Jack's map was replaced by a holo-representation of Artemis. He knew it was a replication of one of her designers, a petite young woman with bangs, short hair in the back, and a form-fitting suit. "But Jack, the Cyber-Mafia's been in control of the island for almost a decade. They have a private army. Hell, for all we know they have an air force by this point. How do you plan on getting around them?" "If I can't, I'll just go through 'em. Just like in Casablanca." Artemis rolled her eyes. "Jack, after Casablanca, your organics were barely alive and your system was shot to pieces. You had to crawl onto the rescue boat and it nearly sank!" "We'll be okay, Art. Trust me." She sighed. "I hope you're right." She brought his GPS back up and plotted a course through the streets to a dock. Smiling, Jack revved the engine and made a sharp turn. Minutes later, he brought the bike to a halt near the dock. He blasted the lock off of the gate with his heater, and made his way down to the boats. Artemis had picked out a small speedboat, rigged up for water skiing. It was a derelict, a relic from before the Cyber-Mafia. Artemis walked him through getting the engine running and disengaging the rig that could slow them down. When he looked up, he saw spotlights in the distance. "Artemis, tell me those are CIA choppers on the other side of the sea wall." "Negative. Cyber-Mafia attack choppers on an intercept course. Three of them so far." "Well, shit." Jack pulled out his heater and checked the charge. 50%. Probably enough to take down one chopper with a well-placed full-power shot. He looked down at the boat. "Artemis, I need to know how to drive this thing like a pro." "Jack..." "Look, we're the only hope the country has of getting back to what it was. It has to start with us. We have to at least try. Agreed?" "You mess up, you're going to get us both killed." There was a pause. Then, suddenly, a rush of information, part head-swimming kiss from a beautiful woman, part searing shock of straight whiskey. "So don't." Jack Magnum smiled. "Trust me, darlin'. Just hang on. It'll be fun!"

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Closed Casket

Flash Fiction: Closed Casket — Blue Ink Alchemy

Chuck challenged us to use one of these stock photos that BuzzFeed claims nobody could ever use. I picked #4, and pulled this out of my brain. Enjoy!

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"I really appreciate you doing this, padre." Father Pryce still looked a bit skeptical. He shook the offered hand, for certain, and the money Timothy had given him was a welcome contribution to the church. Still, it was something Pryce had never done before. Tim handed the priest a case containing a syringe, shrugging out of his coat once Pryce took it. As the priest lifted the device, the man in the casket rolled up his left sleeve and turned his arm over. Shaking his head, Pryce watched as Timothy prodded the inner surface of his arm, up by his elbow, and his finger stopped on a prominent vein. "You know I'm not a doctor or a nurse, Timothy." "I've had training, and I can walk you through it. Just place the tip of the needle just under my finger." Pryce obeyed. "Like this?" Timothy nodded. "Good. Now, tell me there will be a slight pinch, and gently apply pressure with the needle, without pressing the plunger." "Um. There will be a slight pinch." Timothy chuckled. "Great bedside manner, Father." He didn't wince when the needle pierced his skin, but nodded after a moment. "Okay. It's in. Push the plunger." The translucent, green fluid disappeared down the needle as Pryce pressed the plunger. Once it was gone, Timothy talked him through removing the needle and applying a bandage. He rolled his sleeve back down and put his jacket back on. He relaxed, laying back in the casket, his eyelids already heavy. Pryce gently closed the casket, turned to his pulpit, and went over his notes and words. Family walked in, paying the respects. Friends kept towards the back. Finally, three men entered. Two were very tall and broad, not removing their sunglasses as they flanked the shorter, older man in the middle. The old man smiled beatifically at Father Pryce. "I understand that the deceased met with a very violent end," the newcomer said. "That's right," Father Pryce replied. "May I see him?" The priest blinked. "I beg your pardon?" "Got a hearin' problem, padre?" This came from one of the older man's... well, "goons" was the word that came to Father Pryce's mind. "Do you know who this is?" The other one took a step towards him. The old man held up his hand. "I'm Antonio Firenze. This man was one of my employees. He also was endebted to me. I have encountered situations where people in Timothy's position have done elaborate things to avoid my ire. I can make a significant donation to your church if you just open the casket for a moment. I would rather not make things uncomfortable on the off chance you make the other choice." Father Pryce swallowed. He did, indeed, know who Antonio Firenze happened to be. He looked out over the family and friends in the pews, mostly talking to one another and listening to the organist, then turned towards the casket, blocking the view from the pews to the sanctuary. He gently lifted the lid of the casket, turning slightly to let Antonio approach. "Ah. There you are, Timmy." Timothy was completely still, and unnaturally pale. There was an odd, jagged wound on his forehead, over his left eye, stitched shut with what looked to be a fair degree of difficulty. Father Pryce swallowed. "The undertaker tried to make him presentable. When I showed his mother, she asked for a closed casket." "Hmm. I can see why." Antonio leaned down and pushed on Timothy's shoulder. When there was no response, he did it again. Finally, after a moment, he reached back and slapped Timothy across the face. Timothy didn't move, but revealed some blood and gore spattered on the pillow holding his head. The goons stepped back. "So. He does seem dead." Pryce lowered the lid as Antonio reached into his suit coat for his handkerchief and wiped his hands. "I apologize, Father. Thank you for indulging me." The men retreated from the altar, and Father Pryce got the service going in short order after that. The pallbearers took the casket out of the church and into the hearse. The procession to the graveyard was slow, often interrupted by cross traffic, and it was late afternoon by the time Father Pryce supervised the lowering of the casket into Timothy's grave, with Antonio Firenze and his goons looking on. Following the service, Pryce retired to his rooms in the rectory. It was the dead of night, half past midnight, when he took Timothy's cellular phone out of his desk and used an application to summon a car. He wasn't entirely sure how it worked, only that there would be no record of his phone or the land line from the rectory calling a taxi service. From the back of the car, Pryce kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed before the car left him at the gate. The grave was far back from the road, and the earth was fresh. Pryce left the car, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and picked up one of the shovels the groundskeeper had left behind. It was long, grueling work, and he still was on the lookout for anyone approaching. But, knowing what was at stake, he persevered, until his shovel hit wood. He placed the shove out of the grave and opened it. Timothy removed his oxygen mask and smiled, taking the hand offered to help him out of the casket. He removed the makeup from his head and tossed it into the casket. Pryce did the same with Timothy's phone. Together, they re-filled the grave. "Will you be all right?" Timothy walked with Pryce towards the gate. "Yeah. I have a locker at the train station with a change of clothes, some cash, and documentation. The Feds will be contacted once I'm safely away. What about you?" Pryce shrugged. "Public transit. I don't mind riding the bus home." They shook hands, and Timothy walked away into the night.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Masks Off

Masks Off — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've had kind of a shitty week. I haven't heard from recruiters. Barely a word from the dayjob leads I'm pursuing on my own. I've had difficulties in maintaining focus, getting words out, not being pulled into discussions on the Internet. Hell, I finally went to bed at a reasonable hour last night, and I still didn't rise again until most of the morning was gone. I'm pissed at myself, which is kind of dumb, since I have no conscious control over whatever the chemicals in my brain are doing on a day to day basis. I'm not even on any drugs. Nothing fun, at least. It's all vitamins and mood stabilizers and cholesterol regulators, and even those are starting to run dry. (The last two, at least. I've got vita-gummies for weeks.) The thing is, waking up and making coffee and sitting here, a thought occurred to me. I could do an extensive write-up on the experience I had yesterday with some GG folks who were actually nice to me, and answered my questions logically, and the really terrible knot in my stomach that I got afterwards. But I'm not going to. For one very simple reason. I'm not getting paid for it. I'm going to write the article. I'm going to give my observations on the phenomenon, how it's grown, what it does - really does, in spite of what happened yesterday - and what it could mean for the future of gaming culture. But I won't be putting it here. It's going to get pitched. I'm going to write about the appeal of old games and why GoG announcements make me giddy. I'm going to write about the reasons why I'm finding myself playing Old Republic so much lately. I'm going to write articles from the perspective of a cantankerous old bat of a gamer who wants the Candy Crush kids off of his goddamn lawn and the Call of Duty fuckwits to stop egging his house. The only way to write is to write, and I think I've been afraid to do that. I look in the mirror and I see something that scares me. I see someone tired. I see someone bruised and battered. I see someone who doesn't believe he's good enough to make it on his own, and I mean entirely on his own, no corporate structure or steady paycheck to back him up. The mask has worked so well. The smiling mask. The one I would put on every morning before the commute to the office. I think I've been trying it on again, and the damn thing is itchy and uncomfortable and sticking to my skin and I'm sick of it. I mean, I can be that guy, but I don't necessarily want to be. Yes, I know. Beggars can't be choosers. Any port in a storm. A job is a job is a job, and slinging burgers at McPuke's or presenting clothes to women who feel judged and uncomfortable just walking through the goddamn door at the Gap is better than no income whatsoever. I'm not an idiot. But I'm also sick and tired of pretending. I'm not a hateful person by nature. I'm an optimist. I would like to believe in the better aspects of humanity, that individuals can rise above the miasma of self-centeredness and stupidity that seems to dominate our species. In my mind, intelligent folks who can conceptualize the circumstances of others and imagine those concepts in a complex manner can work together to make the world a better place. I've seen it happen. Unfortunately, I don't see it happening often enough. I see people taking advantage of others. I see victims who carry senses of shame and regret a hundred times bigger than their cardboard signs, victims of a system that's fucked them over or choices they would undo if someone just gave them a chance (but nobody does). I see fat cats getting fatter while they people they claim to care about and protect suffer and scream and plead and die in obscurity, their supplications drowned out by lobbyist money and the hum of narcotics. I see societies and individuals railing against change because it means that you don't get to have all of the best toys to yourself anymore. I hate that bullshit. I hate ignorance. I hate misogyny. I hate rampant materialism. I hate reckless misinformation. I hate the corruption of young people. I hate corporate globalization and I hate upper-crust greed and I hate people who lack empathy or compassion and I fucking hate making people feel worthless because they don't fit your advertising image and I fucking HATE people who make liberal use of slurs like "faggot" or "bitch" or "slut" or specific racial terms I won't repeat, THOSE ARE HUMAN BEINGS YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT YOU IGNORANT ASSHOLE. This is me with my mask off. Boo. I'm a role-player. I write fiction. I pretend as a matter of course. And I'm pretty good at it. But you can only lie to yourself for so long before it starts to drive you insane. I'm not giving up on the job search, but I can't maintain this level of dishonesty with myself and people who would choose to trust me with what is, to them, important work. I've tried it before and I've always let people down. The more I push myself to try and care, to adopt that mask, the more something inside of me rails against it and along the way, something breaks. I really need to stop getting into that cycle because it never ends well. Hence the brutal honesty. I'm going to start coming at things differently. It's never too late to change things. It hasn't been easy so far, and the practical and static side of me has been fighting me along the way because, like I said, change is frightening. Lying to someone to land a cushy corporate gig is easier than putting myself out on the edge of everything, tossing out pitches on the end of lifelines and hoping someone grabs one and gives me just enough positive momentum back from the void so I can finally say, without a trace of irony or caveat, that I am a goddamn journalist. If I can do that, I can write more and write even better, because I won't be held back by this endless sense of guilt that plagues me because I might be letting down my parents since I'm not holding down a steady job. If I can do that, I might be able to forgive myself for wasting a good portion of my adult life chasing cubicles instead of opportunities for a decent byline. If I can do that, then I can finally set this stupid mask on fire, and never look back. That's the plan, and I'm fucking sticking to it. If you believe in higher powers, pray for me. If you believe in luck, wish me that. Otherwise, just keep reading. A mind needs words like a sword needs a whetstone, and my words are worthless without your eyeballs.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Masks Off

Masks Off — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've had kind of a shitty week. I haven't heard from recruiters. Barely a word from the dayjob leads I'm pursuing on my own. I've had difficulties in maintaining focus, getting words out, not being pulled into discussions on the Internet. Hell, I finally went to bed at a reasonable hour last night, and I still didn't rise again until most of the morning was gone. I'm pissed at myself, which is kind of dumb, since I have no conscious control over whatever the chemicals in my brain are doing on a day to day basis. I'm not even on any drugs. Nothing fun, at least. It's all vitamins and mood stabilizers and cholesterol regulators, and even those are starting to run dry. (The last two, at least. I've got vita-gummies for weeks.) The thing is, waking up and making coffee and sitting here, a thought occurred to me. I could do an extensive write-up on the experience I had yesterday with some GG folks who were actually nice to me, and answered my questions logically, and the really terrible knot in my stomach that I got afterwards. But I'm not going to. For one very simple reason. I'm not getting paid for it. I'm going to write the article. I'm going to give my observations on the phenomenon, how it's grown, what it does - really does, in spite of what happened yesterday - and what it could mean for the future of gaming culture. But I won't be putting it here. It's going to get pitched. I'm going to write about the appeal of old games and why GoG announcements make me giddy. I'm going to write about the reasons why I'm finding myself playing Old Republic so much lately. I'm going to write articles from the perspective of a cantankerous old bat of a gamer who wants the Candy Crush kids off of his goddamn lawn and the Call of Duty fuckwits to stop egging his house. The only way to write is to write, and I think I've been afraid to do that. I look in the mirror and I see something that scares me. I see someone tired. I see someone bruised and battered. I see someone who doesn't believe he's good enough to make it on his own, and I mean entirely on his own, no corporate structure or steady paycheck to back him up. The mask has worked so well. The smiling mask. The one I would put on every morning before the commute to the office. I think I've been trying it on again, and the damn thing is itchy and uncomfortable and sticking to my skin and I'm sick of it. I mean, I can be that guy, but I don't necessarily want to be. Yes, I know. Beggars can't be choosers. Any port in a storm. A job is a job is a job, and slinging burgers at McPuke's or presenting clothes to women who feel judged and uncomfortable just walking through the goddamn door at the Gap is better than no income whatsoever. I'm not an idiot. But I'm also sick and tired of pretending. I'm not a hateful person by nature. I'm an optimist. I would like to believe in the better aspects of humanity, that individuals can rise above the miasma of self-centeredness and stupidity that seems to dominate our species. In my mind, intelligent folks who can conceptualize the circumstances of others and imagine those concepts in a complex manner can work together to make the world a better place. I've seen it happen. Unfortunately, I don't see it happening often enough. I see people taking advantage of others. I see victims who carry senses of shame and regret a hundred times bigger than their cardboard signs, victims of a system that's fucked them over or choices they would undo if someone just gave them a chance (but nobody does). I see fat cats getting fatter while they people they claim to care about and protect suffer and scream and plead and die in obscurity, their supplications drowned out by lobbyist money and the hum of narcotics. I see societies and individuals railing against change because it means that you don't get to have all of the best toys to yourself anymore. I hate that bullshit. I hate ignorance. I hate misogyny. I hate rampant materialism. I hate reckless misinformation. I hate the corruption of young people. I hate corporate globalization and I hate upper-crust greed and I hate people who lack empathy or compassion and I fucking hate making people feel worthless because they don't fit your advertising image and I fucking HATE people who make liberal use of slurs like "faggot" or "bitch" or "slut" or specific racial terms I won't repeat, THOSE ARE HUMAN BEINGS YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT YOU IGNORANT ASSHOLE. This is me with my mask off. Boo. I'm a role-player. I write fiction. I pretend as a matter of course. And I'm pretty good at it. But you can only lie to yourself for so long before it starts to drive you insane. I'm not giving up on the job search, but I can't maintain this level of dishonesty with myself and people who would choose to trust me with what is, to them, important work. I've tried it before and I've always let people down. The more I push myself to try and care, to adopt that mask, the more something inside of me rails against it and along the way, something breaks. I really need to stop getting into that cycle because it never ends well. Hence the brutal honesty. I'm going to start coming at things differently. It's never too late to change things. It hasn't been easy so far, and the practical and static side of me has been fighting me along the way because, like I said, change is frightening. Lying to someone to land a cushy corporate gig is easier than putting myself out on the edge of everything, tossing out pitches on the end of lifelines and hoping someone grabs one and gives me just enough positive momentum back from the void so I can finally say, without a trace of irony or caveat, that I am a goddamn journalist. If I can do that, I can write more and write even better, because I won't be held back by this endless sense of guilt that plagues me because I might be letting down my parents since I'm not holding down a steady job. If I can do that, I might be able to forgive myself for wasting a good portion of my adult life chasing cubicles instead of opportunities for a decent byline. If I can do that, then I can finally set this stupid mask on fire, and never look back. That's the plan, and I'm fucking sticking to it. If you believe in higher powers, pray for me. If you believe in luck, wish me that. Otherwise, just keep reading. A mind needs words like a sword needs a whetstone, and my words are worthless without your eyeballs.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Interstellar

Movie Review: Interstellar — Blue Ink Alchemy

There is a sense of awe and wonder that comes over a lot of people when they behold images from deep space. Astronomers and physicists have long theorized about what awaits us in the void: new habitable worlds, wormholes, distortions of time, and so on. When filmmakers turn their eyes to this material, to what the future might actually hold, their visions take the form of films like 2001:A Space Odyssey and Moon, exploring not only science, but human nature and evolution. Now, Christopher Nolan has taken an exploratory flight into this rich and textured material with Interstellar. Environmental damage has lead mankind to the point that food is becoming scarce and the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere is depleting at an alarming rate. In survival mode, most humans have turned inward, eschewing science and engineering for farming. One obstinate man, test-pilot-turned-farmer Cooper, struggles to both make a living for his family and teach his daughter, Murphy, the truth. A phenomenon in Murphy's room points Cooper in the direction of a hidden silo, where the remains of NASA have undertaken a daring, last-ditch effort to save humanity by relocating it to another world. The task of finding that world falls to Cooper and NASA's scientists, but the means of getting to our potential new home will mean that he may not return until Murphy is much older... if she's alive at all. Christopher Nolan, as a filmmaker, has a proven record for the correct means to frame and present a shot. The depictions of cosmic phenomena in Interstellar are clear, intriguing, and at times, breathtaking. Nolan has also proven that his films ply towards fidelity for the real and the scientifically possible. One of the hallmarks of his Dark Knight trilogy, for better or for worse, places the world, villains, and gadgetry of Batman squarely in the realm of the feasible. Interstellar's physics and science, while at least partially theoretical, are presented with as much fact and fidelity as possible. Between these two aspects, Interstellar has elements that could have lead it to be this generation's 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Believe it or not, folks, space has three dimensions! Maybe more! However, Christopher Nolan struggles with one of the most vital aspects of effective filmmaking: the human factor. The moments of awe-inspiring visuals, impressive and breathtaking all on their own, are often interrupted with a scientific explanation or an oppressive orchestral sting from Hans Zimmer's bombastic, grandiose score. A great deal of this film's significant run-time is occupied with in-depth scientific explanations of this or that portion of the goings-on, and while the film never makes the mistake of talking down to its audience, it does seem to have trouble properly conveying human emotion in the same way it does theoretical extra-dimensional concepts. This is a stumbling block Nolan has run into before, and he's still not quite at a level of showing humans being human as, say Steven Speilberg, who was originally slated to direct Interstellar. Thankfully, Nolan has the good sense to line up a well-rounded cast of excellent actors. It's unfortunate that he has to make them work so hard to squeeze the right amount of emotional complexity out of his surface-level script, but these are masters of their craft. Matthew McConaughey, who has been enjoying a bit of a revival in his career, is completely comfortable and incredibly adept at conveying everyman pathos that makes scenes with his daughter deeply effective and puts his point of view squarely in line with that of the audience. Anne Hathaway and Jessica Chastain do the bulk of the non-main-character heavy lifting, every bit as effective and engaging as Matthew, bridging the gap between Nolan's clinical, distant perspective on the human experience, and the realities of our everyday lives. It's hard work, and the strain shows in places, but gets the job done.
When you're not sure how to do the human thing, get the most human actors you can. This is one of them. That is actually an apt description for the experience of Interstellar as a whole. In terms of a hard sci-fi epic that pushes the boundaries of our notions of what is possible in space exploration, it gets the job done. It's very well constructed, and definitely takes the audience on a worthwhile journey, but the experience could have been tightened, the moments of wonder more awe-inspiring. There is a moment in Inception where the film stops explaining itself, and lets its story and drama unfold without further comment or pretense. That moment never comes in Interstellar. Its "twists" being either predictable or superfluous and its science suffering from nigh-constant in-universe fact-checking undercut what would have otherwise been a very effective storytelling experience. Interstellar could have been a breathtaking epic of proportions not seen since the days of Kubrick, and clearly had that ambition. The fact that it falls short of that mark just means that its flaws are all the more glaring, at least to someone like myself. It's quite good, and worth seeing on the big screen, but I sadly doubt it has the kind of staying power we've seen with some of Nolan's other work. What Interstellar does, it does well, but it could have done more.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Interstellar

Movie Review: Interstellar — Blue Ink Alchemy

There is a sense of awe and wonder that comes over a lot of people when they behold images from deep space. Astronomers and physicists have long theorized about what awaits us in the void: new habitable worlds, wormholes, distortions of time, and so on. When filmmakers turn their eyes to this material, to what the future might actually hold, their visions take the form of films like 2001:A Space Odyssey and Moon, exploring not only science, but human nature and evolution. Now, Christopher Nolan has taken an exploratory flight into this rich and textured material with Interstellar. Environmental damage has lead mankind to the point that food is becoming scarce and the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere is depleting at an alarming rate. In survival mode, most humans have turned inward, eschewing science and engineering for farming. One obstinate man, test-pilot-turned-farmer Cooper, struggles to both make a living for his family and teach his daughter, Murphy, the truth. A phenomenon in Murphy's room points Cooper in the direction of a hidden silo, where the remains of NASA have undertaken a daring, last-ditch effort to save humanity by relocating it to another world. The task of finding that world falls to Cooper and NASA's scientists, but the means of getting to our potential new home will mean that he may not return until Murphy is much older... if she's alive at all. Christopher Nolan, as a filmmaker, has a proven record for the correct means to frame and present a shot. The depictions of cosmic phenomena in Interstellar are clear, intriguing, and at times, breathtaking. Nolan has also proven that his films ply towards fidelity for the real and the scientifically possible. One of the hallmarks of his Dark Knight trilogy, for better or for worse, places the world, villains, and gadgetry of Batman squarely in the realm of the feasible. Interstellar's physics and science, while at least partially theoretical, are presented with as much fact and fidelity as possible. Between these two aspects, Interstellar has elements that could have lead it to be this generation's 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Believe it or not, folks, space has three dimensions! Maybe more! However, Christopher Nolan struggles with one of the most vital aspects of effective filmmaking: the human factor. The moments of awe-inspiring visuals, impressive and breathtaking all on their own, are often interrupted with a scientific explanation or an oppressive orchestral sing from Hans Zimmer's bombastic, grandiose score. A great deal of this film's significant run-time is occupied with in-depth scientific explanations of this or that portion of the goings-on, and while the film never makes the mistake of talking down to its audience, it does seem to have trouble properly conveying human emotion in the same way it does theoretical extra-dimensional concepts. This is a stumbling block Nolan has run into before, and he's still not quite at a level of showing humans being human as, say Steven Speilberg, who was originally slated to direct Interstellar. Thankfully, Nolan has the good sense to line up a well-rounded cast of excellent actors. It's unfortunate that he has to make them work so hard to squeeze the right amount of emotional complexity out of his surface-level script, but these are masters of their craft. Matthew McConaughey, who has been enjoying a bit of a revival in his career, is completely comfortable and incredibly adept at conveying everyman pathos that makes scenes with his daughter deeply effective and puts his point of view squarely in line with that of the audience. Anne Hathaway and Jessica Chastain do the bulk of the non-main-character heavy lifting, every bit as effective and engaging as Matthew, bridging the gap between Nolan's clinical, distant perspective on the human experience, and the realities of our everyday lives. It's hard work, and the strain shows in places, but gets the job done.
When you're not sure how to do the human thing, get the most human actors you can. This is one of them. That is actually an apt description for the experience of Interstellar as a whole. In terms of a hard sci-fi epic that pushes the boundaries of our notions of what is possible in space exploration, it gets the job done. It's very well constructed, and definitely takes the audience on a worthwhile journey, but the experience could have been tightened, the moments of wonder more awe-inspiring. There is a moment in Inception where the film stops explaining itself, and lets its story and drama unfold without further comment or pretense. That moment never comes in Interstellar. Its "twists" being either predictable or superfluous and its science suffering from nigh-constant in-universe fact-checking undercut what would have otherwise been a very effective storytelling experience. Interstellar could have been a breathtaking epic of proportions not seen since the days of Kubrick, and clearly had that ambition. The fact that it falls short of that mark just means that its flaws are all the more glaring, at least to someone like myself. It's quite good, and worth seeing on the big screen, but I sadly doubt it has the kind of staying power we've seen with some of Nolan's other work. What Interstellar does, it does well, but it could have done more.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Lest We Forget

Lest We Forget — Blue Ink Alchemy

I know this is a rehash of a previous post. I'm not altering a word in or after the block quote. I believe that these ideas are worth repeating, because we're talking about people who voluntarily walk into warzones and don't necessarily walk back out; if they do, chances are, they will never be the same. I tend to run a post that reads like this when a posting date falls on Memorial Day:

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." - George Santayana

We have the country we have today because people got pissed off enough to fight for it.

America's military is based entirely on volunteer service. People enlist for various reasons, from pure-hearted desire to serve the country to paying for a college education. And those who can already afford college can embark upon a career as an officer right from the start. The important fact, though, is that none of it is compulsory. Nobody is making these young men and women sign up for service that could ultimately mean they're going to die far from home, in some foreign land, possibly alone with no one to remember them save for a line item in a report listing them as "Missing In Action".

Other countries compel their citizens to join the military from an early age. There's no choice in the matter. Regardless of how you feel about your country, you're going to be serving in its military. As much as I admire Heinlein, the idea of compulsory military service being the only route to citizenship is a pretty scary one. But unless I'm mistaken, no country has gone completely that far yet.

Here, though, every person who puts on that uniform, male or female, young or old, gay or straight, left or right, does so for the same reason. They want to serve. They chose to answer the call to duty. Nobody made them.
And if they died on a foreign shore, they did so as the ultimate result of that choice. As lonely, painful, cold and dark as it might have been for them, it is a deep hope of mine that they do not consider themselves forgotten.

We have not forgotten.

Read the rest here

It may seem we have forgotten to some veterans, though. If they make it home, they tend to bear scars, and not always obvious ones. It's shamefully easier to sympathize with a soldier who's lost a limb or suffered major facial trauma than it is one who seems intact in body but says nothing about what's going on in his or her mind. These are people who, because of a choice they made, have stared death in the face, and been told, ordered, demanded not to flinch. We hold soldiers in high esteem. Most see them as brave or even fearless. But they're human beings, just like you and me. They have our doubts, our fears, our weaknesses. They, like us, are mortal. They're going to die, and some die on foreign shores because they're told to be there. They fight for us anyway, and that's what makes them great, and worth remembering. I don't have any particular charity or cause to champion here, nor do I know how easily one can get to some place like Walter Reed to see what becomes of those who only partially make it home. All I ask is that you remember them, not just today, but every day.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Truth About #GamerGate

The Truth About #GamerGate — Blue Ink Alchemy

"It's actually about ethics in games journalism." To some, it's an argument against inflammatory, despicable behavior that arises from and is associated with the GamerGate movement. To others, it's the punchline of the bad joke the movement has become, in the light of threats of rape, damage, and even school shootings in protest of women speaking out. Evidence suggests that the movement has all of the markings and makings of a hate group. But hate groups tend to have a unified vision that, to the deranged, make perfect sense. Normally, you don't see two narratives in a single group. You don't have some saying the goals are one thing, and others acting in ways that completely undermine the legitimacy of the first. To this writer, it made no sense. I backed away from the issue and looked at the bigger picture. What makes games journalism different from regular journalism? Reporters have had a very long tradition of seeking the truth, being offered rewards for hiding the truth, and risking a great deal in pursuit of the truth. Asking for ethics in journalism of all kinds is part of that tradition, and it hasn't gone away. Even through the lens of comedy and satire - The Daily Show and The Colbert Report - people are on the lookout for peddlers of corruption and misinformation. But there's not a lot of groundswell for that sort of lookout in general. Not with the sort of momentum GamerGate has had. So, I put the question to some of those people. I was, frankly, surprised with the answers I got. Now, it wasn't the content of the answers that surprised me. It was the tone. I wasn't expecting respect from people who use that hashtag. It got even stranger when I started putting questions to a young woman who is very proud to be a part of the movement. I experienced what can only be described as a colossal amount of cognitive dissonance in the wake of these exchanges. This made sense. This was reasonable. This was, dare I say it, positive. I looked at the words in front of me, and then I looked at the words of others, from Chris Kluwe to Felicia Day, and I started to get a sinking feeling in my gut. Are they talking to me like a human being because I'm a white heteronormative male? Once the idea got into my head, I couldn't shake it. It colored the majority of my interactions and I had to question everything I had just experienced. Too many people associated with the movement are rampant misogynists. I could not just ignore that fact and take it on good feelings that what I experienced was how they really behaved when they weren't threatening to shoot up universities because they don't like Anita Sarkeesian. I must confess that, for a moment, I wanted to believe this. I really did. It seemed like there might be hope for the notion that this is, in fact, about ethics in games journalism. But I couldn't hold onto that. Not for long. Not when just one day later, I saw David Hill reporting on a teenage girl talking about her interest in game design. She had written about how GamerGate and other groups made her afraid to follow her dream. She was forced to delete her Twitter account and the article she'd written because of messages telling her she's the problem, that feminism is at fault, and she's irrational because GamerGate has had zero negative effect on things around them. A girl likely the same age as the one with whom I'd interacted. The argument will likely be made that it wasn't true Gaters saying those things, that the movement isn't about harassment, so on and so forth. And that is if any argument is made in response to this article at all. Because it's been written by a white heteronormative male. Even if I am a journalist, and a games journalist at that, I am not the target of GamerGate. I have not been doxxed, threatened, or even treated badly. Somehow, that is even worse. If my question had been met with accusations of being a social justice warrior (I'm actually a social justice wizard, thank you very much) or implications that my mother performs sex acts for cash, at least that'd be consistent. But no: I was treated very differently from a Zoe Quinn or a Susan Arendt. The origins of the movement are public and available. Its impact is palpable and overwhelmingly negative. Some in the community feel betrayed by the movement's behavior, and many have an empathetic feeling of outrage at its treatment of women. So where does that leave people who are legitimately looking for ethics in journalism, and refuse to give up the tag? It pains me to think that someone truly intelligent, truly well-meaning, and truly compassionate has been roped into the hype used to try and whitewash the movement. To such an individual, propaganda should be obvious and deplorable. Conspiracy theorists would put it that there is a deliberate smokescreen being used to try and obfuscate the true nature of every single person who uses that hashtag. I think the truth is far simpler, and far more terrifying. Since human beings are complex and nuanced creatures, the movements they perpetuate are also complex and nuanced (for the most part: organized hate groups are not very complex). So, there is room for disparate narratives within a single polity. Especially when said polity is a disorganized, ill-defined, and relatively aimless one united under a label proposed by, at best, a very vocal and prominent public figure with inflammatory and very subjective opinions. The terrifying part is that some are so entrenched in their own intentions, positive though they might be, they will not divorce their quest for ethics from the majority of a movement. And the fact is, that majority behaves in a way that is not only unethical, but downright disturbing and deplorable. There are truly people within GamerGate who do not do this. Their intentions are good. They believe they can change the movement from within. And I want to believe in them so much that it breaks my heart. It's important to look at the facts. Look at where the movement started. Investigate the origins of its hashtag. See the results of the actions taken by those who carry its banner. Yes, there are some who speak in a positive way and convey earnestness in beliefs that are not objectionable. But the vast, vast majority speak and act in despicable ways, and their outlook and behavior casts a pall on the minority who do not, to the point that even an outside observer has to question positive interactions. This is not how gaming, and gamers, should be. This is wrong. This is dark. And it has to stop.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

From the Vault: How to Survive Living with a Writer

From the Vault: How to Survive Living with a Writer — Blue Ink Alchemy

For the benefit of my new flatmates, here are some tips on living with a writer!

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Courtesy Floating Robes One of the most popular posts ever over at terribleminds is this one, entitled "Beware of Writer." He also penned a sequel that's just as worthwhile to read. But let's say you've ignored his advice. You're going to fly in the face of common sense and good taste and actually shack up with one of us crackpot writer-types, in spite of the tiny hurricanes of impotent rage and the nigh-constant smell of booze. Here's a couple things to keep in mind that may help you keep from running screaming into the night.

Writers are Finicky Bitches

In addition to being very easily distracted (if you didn't know, we are), writers can get new ideas all the time, at the drop of a hat. It's not uncommon for a writer to have a few projects at work at any given time. Let's say our subject is working on a novel and some poetry, and all of a sudden gets an idea for a new tv series about puppet detectives. It's not enough for us to be distracted by video games or movies or pet antics or offspring or bright flashing lights or loud noises. No no, we need to distract ourselves on top of all of that. Writers either drift in a slight miasma of barely cognizant perceptions as they indulge in their distractions, or they're frustrated by efforts to reassert their concentration on something they're righting. It can make a writer seem bipolar. And if they really are bipolar, woo boy you talk about fun times!¹ Surviving this as an outsider requires a metric fuckton of patience. Either you will be asked to participate in some sort of odd habit, or you will be all but ignored as something new distracts the writer. You can go along with it or rail against it, but the important thing is to remind the writer that they should, at some point, write. Yes, you may get bitten over it. That's what the rolled-up newspaper is for. Aim for the nose.

Writers are Masters (and Mistresses) of Excuses

You're going to catch a writer not writing. This can be like catching a teenager with their pants down and making them explain the nature of the self-examination they seem to be enjoying. You just need to keep in mind that procrastination is perfectly natural and lots of writers do it. There are even some writers who encourage other writers to procrastinate. Before I stretch that metaphor any more uncomfortably, the important thing to note is that writers will tell you all manner of tall tales in an effort to avoid your scrutiny. Especially if said writer's bailiwick is fiction. I mean, come on, these people lie for a living. Or at least as a primary hobby. Of course they're going to tell you space monkeys invaded in the middle of the night and that's why the lawn hasn't been mowed or the dishes remain unwashed. Damn dirty space simians!² Just as writers need and, if they're responsible and good, want to be told when something they write doesn't quite work, writers also need to occasionally be called on their bullshit. "Space monkeys? I don't see any poo on the walls other than your own. It's time to shut off the Internet and make some more of that word magic happen, pooplord." Your exact wording may vary, but you get the idea.

Writers Do, In Fact, Want to Write

So let's say you're keeping a writer focused on the now. You're getting them to help out around the house. They're watching the kids. They're cooking meals. They're renovating your siding and keeping you in whatever it is you like to do when you're not working. Guess what they're not doing? If you guessed "writing", you just won a bigass shiny No-Prize! Congrats!³ Take a look at any writer pontificating on the need to write, and you'll see something emerge. There's definitely a deep-seated compulsion there. On top of any other madness or psychosis, a writer needs to write. Yes, the writer may procrastinate, putter around, put off writing because writing can suck a big fat one from time to time, but at the end of the day, writing is at the core of who that person is, otherwise - Anyone? Anyone? Beuller? - they wouldn't be a writer. So do them and yourself a favor. Take the kids for an hour. Put the video game down yourself. Mow the lawn or wash a few dishes. Just give them space, and a little bit of time. If it's been a while since they've written, you bet your ass words will happen while you're tending to chores. Or you could not, and they'll resent you in a deeply personal way. Your call. I think this may be the biggest key to surviving life with a writer. Giving a little measure of time to write, moreso than calling them on excuses or distractions, relieves the pressure in their minds and helps them get closer to their goals. And the writer will love you for it.

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¹ I can't say anybody acted all that surprised when I was diagnosed as bipolar. There was plenty of relief that legitimate psychosis wasn't involved, though. Not that the doctors could detect, at least. Suckers. ² They're rude as hell, too. Coming in the middle of the evening and keeping me from finishing a blog post with their howling and poop-slinging and I was researching League of Legends champion builds and got distracted from finishing this last night I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry please don't bap me with the newspaper again. ³ Actual contents of No-Prize may vary, from "absolutely nothing" to "sweet fuck-all."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Change Isn't Always Fast

Change Isn't Always Fast — Blue Ink Alchemy

Have you ever walked into a room in your home, be it yours specifically or just one you tend to occupy, and look around with a feeling of "Boy, I have got to clean this thing up"? That's been my feeling regarding this website lately. I've never had a whole lot of success selling myself. I have some ink here and some recognition there, but it's difficult not to feel put off by a litany of rejection that is evident with even a cursory glance. And while I can't necessarily do one specific thing that will magically make all of that do a complete about-face, there are steps that can definitely be taken to make it easier to present a marketable, business-like face to the public. So in addition to other work I'm doing, I'm looking into the best way to push the blog to a sub-section of the site, and put a better face up front for folks to see. I know it's been done by others (Chuck Wendig for one), and I'm curious as to the best way to go about it. This is part of a plan I need to define for and impose upon myself to make change happen. It isn't easy, and it's not always fast - in terms of personal growth, it's never as fast as we'd like. But I didn't move out here to not change things. As always, I am open to suggestions. That's what the comments section is for!

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Blue Ink Alchemy