That’s what happens when you binge on books and then run on four hours of sleep. Close the door to the office to dampen the sounds of passersby. Roll my sweater into a ball and use my coat as a blanket. I press the small of my back into the concrete floor. It’s cold.
Light headed. Imagining myself a plant. The world is a cracked fading photograph. Fissures in the world where one could just spread your fingers and dig in. Digits become grasping roots and if I just close my eyes and concentrate, I could feel.
I Am A: True Neutral Human Druid (7th Level)
True Neutral A true neutral character does what seems to be a good idea. He doesn’t feel strongly one way or the other when it comes to good vs. evil or law vs. chaos. Most true neutral characters exhibit a lack of conviction or bias rather than a commitment to neutrality. Such a character thinks of good as better than evil after all, he would rather have good neighbors and rulers than evil ones. Still, he’s not personally committed to upholding good in any abstract or universal way. Some true neutral characters, on the other hand, commit themselves philosophically to neutrality. They see good, evil, law, and chaos as prejudices and dangerous extremes. They advocate the middle way of neutrality as the best, most balanced road in the long run. True neutral is the best alignment you can be because it means you act naturally, without prejudice or compulsion. However, true neutral can be a dangerous alignment when it represents apathy, indifference, and a lack of conviction.
Humans are the most adaptable of the common races. Short generations and a penchant for migration and conquest have made them physically diverse as well. Humans are often unorthodox in their dress, sporting unusual hairstyles, fanciful clothes, tattoos, and the like.
Druids gain power not by ruling nature but by being at one with it. They hate the unnatural, including aberrations or undead, and destroy them where possible. Druids receive divine spells from nature, not the gods, and can gain an array of powers as they gain experience, including the ability to take the shapes of animals. The weapons and armor of a druid are restricted by their traditional oaths, not simply training. A druid’s Wisdom score should be high, as this determines the maximum spell level that they can cast.
Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)
So there is a bot called “What Would I Say?“
“what would i say?” automatically generates Facebook posts that sound like you! Technically speaking, it trains a Markov Bot based on mixture model of bigram and unigram probabilities derived from your past post history. Don’t worry, we don’t store any of your personal information anywhere. In fact, we don’t even have a database! All computations are doneclient side, so only your browser ever sees your post history.
I am making my own game of basing a post upon a weezbot saying.
I know them; see whether I stay or go.
In rooms connected, huddled ’round LED lit displays. This is the new tea room. Commenting in person on comments made out of person. Delimited by a table or a low wall. Cubicle mazes make a rough path. This is the new terrain observed beyond the glass wall.
Szpigiel posted a comment on something about Anonymous predicting some LA version of 9-11. No shit. For real. I didn’t go. Someone wrote, “Don’t read the comments. Whack jobs.”
I take their advice.
- Pride and Prejudice by sprspr on DeviantArt
The not-getting not quite unrequited is a sweet state. Jane Austen. Because it works out in the end despite all the tiny drama and miscommunications.
Sucker for that stuff.
I have someone now. Part of me still fights it — this different than the arrogant, distant, oh-so-ready to leave and I’m-not-really-here type that have been my script. Mr. Darcy was only icy on the outside. My guys, well, their outsides really matched the inside.
Such masochistic delight in what ifs? And belief in an underneath that is so close to being. Those crafted stories hanging on hope and rescue and sighs.
“You’re sure? I am broken.”
“You’re not broken.”
“I am old.”
“You are not old. You are beautiful. You are silly.”
He’s been there waiting for me to see him. Friend. Devoted. Not at all like those guys in the books of mysterious glances and predatory interest. Just this sweet kind man who would wait on my doorstep forever with the hope I open the door and allow him to stay.
Carved out a bubble of alone in a quiet corner of the house. Washing machine and a whir of air. Aware of the clicks of fingers on keys.
They do that on purpose, you know? So you know you’re doing something.
Tomorrow is a work day. Getting gear together for animation for a student, and design gear for me. Really mostly hanging out while Aidan attends college open house. Wrapping my head around that. Didn’t think it’d be as big a deal as it is proving to be. Right in the feels. Percolating.
I get that I am aging. That time is passing.
But my boys are an external measure in inches and the timbre of their voices. Even the dog is getting pokey and there is gray around his muzzle.
Autumn. It feels like Autumn.
And though the leaves are on the trees
I feel the breeze
Photography is not like painting. There is a creative fraction of a second when you are taking a picture. Your eye must see a composition or an expression that life itself offers you, and you must know with intuition when to click the camera. That is the moment the photographer is creative. Oop! The Moment! Once you miss it, it is gone forever.
– Henri Cartier-Bresson
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
- excerpt from The Love Song J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot
Do not ask, “What is it?”
There is so much and nothing behind that sigh. Nothing to explain. It’s a feeling that would take so many words.
I like the word ineffable.
So you caught me at this moment. This off day. This time of sighs on an overcast warm (for this time of the year) day. Where the colors pop and the skin feels the breeze. Where the mad man made noise makes the fist clench.
It creaks where the bends happen. Better to bend than break. Better to creak than splinter.
This is to be expected of all things mechanical as they degrade over time.
We are mechanical electrical water filled sacks of varying intelligence. Varying by the time of day, of years, of life times.
Hormones. Pretty sure it’s hormones.
Elaine shot me a link to a blog post about crying like Holly Hunter in Broadcast News.
are just sad.
A cry would be great. Some great cathartic wave like some passing storm. Leave me clean. But it isn’t there to that point. Not built to a level to pour out my eyes. Until then, I am wrapped in a fuzzy blue filter.
UPDATE: Maybe I wasn’t sad. Maybe all I needed was a nap and something with butter.
“You’re the best mom in the world.” He pulls my hand so I sit next to him on the bed.
“You got fifteen minutes.” I get up and and gingerly go down the stairs using the walls as support. Mornings are not my friend. The body creaks as I reach for the cast iron pan. Heat it up. Start the coffee.
“Aidan?…Connor?…Ga-” Gabriel is plopping himself in a seat by the table. He folds his arms and puts his head down and goes back to sleep. I wipe my hands on my apron. (I know, I know, apron? They’re a good thing.) Walk to the base of the stairs and yell their names again. I wait for muffled and clearly still in bed voices of acknowledgement.
Oil in the pan. Slice the bread and butter a side, grill it. “Honey, wake up. Get your socks and shoes on.” He sleepwalks. Flip the bread. Steam the milk. Plate the toast and start the eggs two at a time. Over medium. I yell up at the ceiling, “Breakfast is almost ready! You should be down here!”
Sleepyboy sits down and starts his breakfast. I saw a fleeting Connor heading downstairs to the basement for fresh laundry. Aidan comes down and says as he usually does, “I’m tired of eggs.”
“Well eat something.” He will make himself a cup of tea and leave it behind on the table. He does this. He opts for cereal. The dog announces a car.
Jim arrives and says, “We’re late.” And as he packs lunches into the boys’ backpacks I turn breakfast into some sort of sandwich. I am guessing Jim’s back seat is littered with my fiestaware. Mass exodus.
Five minutes of quiet before
Feed the dog. Feed the cats. Shoes. Bag. Out.
There is a glimpse of frustration, anger, and could it be meanness? That. Some behavior. Takes me right back to another not so happy time. There is no one ex. I have a small basket of them. Each of them with various behaviors marked in red with the words “never ever again.”
Disengage. Get out. Fighting this flight. Alone is easier.
Let this just be a wave. Let it pass over me. Tiny drama. Stupid monkeys. My monkeys. My circus.