The old work/sleep routine has well and truly been reinstated. The fact that I actually have time on a Wednesday afternoon to type words into this is nothing short of miraculous. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating there; miracles aren't that bland. Sorry, brain's not working and I have an awful lot of stuff from the last week or so piling up in the virtual depths of a Sky+ hard drive that I need to catch up on.
It'll probably take me the next two days to get through everything, which is just enough time to cover it all before I head back into a working environment once again.
Wednesday, 2 October 2013
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Communications
It's a rare occurrence for me to check my emails; even more rare than me checking my older email address. I currently claim ownership of two separate accounts, completely going against everything nineteen-year-old me stands for. The way nineteen-year-old me sees it, you are one person, therefore you only need one account. One email address, one bank account, one phone contract, one place to live, one plot of earth to rest, one gravestone. Anything more is just wasted extravagance. Nowadays, 24-year-old me (a.k.a. me) is faced with a certain sense of uncertain future and feels like the only thing he can control in his life is the amount of online presence he has. Also he displays a tendency to switch perspective from first- to third-person mid-paragraph.
The latest addition to my vast roster of two electronic communication channels happens to be a Gmail account, courtesy of that powerhouse of search engines (and the only website your nan has ever heard of), Google. I'll be honest with you, having a Gmail account is great. Emails are easy to access. Whenever I stupidly sign up to websites that churn out newsletters and notifications every seven seconds they get automatically filed away as "Social" or "Promotional" or something I don't give a crap about, leaving only the actual ones in my actual inbox. Connectivity to many things is easier, including this blog right here. Yes, you there reading this. Hello. I'm able to communicate this to you a lot easier now thanks to Google. Hell, if anybody were even to actively search for this particular one there's a fairly decent chance Google might put it somewhere near the top ten of all found results. Furthermore, I don't get spam.
Previously, in my email account history, Hotmail (currently known as Outlook and formerly affiliated with the virtual equivalent of an early 2000s youth centre, MSN Messenger) was the only channel of communication I used on a regular basis. Since the end of my University adventures some three months ago, though, the place has been fairly abandoned, gathering virtual messages equivalent to a discarded yogurt pot gathering fluffy green bits. And that's just the inbox. The spam folder however... let's just say that if it was a person that needed taking to a virtual hospital, I'd probably have to check it in for cases of diphtheria, polio, meningitis, high cholesterol, liver failure, appendicitis, a broken leg, tennis elbow, a lodged Tic Tac in one nostril and (apparently) erectile dysfunction. The only reason I haven't pulled the plug on its life support yet is that, on occasion, it may still prove useful. And behold and lo...
A series of communications between a past uni tutor and myself have unfolded, skipping over the fact that it might actually be better to get in touch with me another, more Google-orientated way. Ultimately, we've briefly had the "what are you doing now that uni's finished?" discussion, with potential University-related opportunities being mused over by both him and me in a blind attempt at (a) remaining a part of the University family after my recent graduation, and (b) giving me something to do.
As it happens, we've now progressed to the stage where, semi-awkwardly, he's asked me if I want to go out for coffee. This could, of course, quite simply be an innocent offer of meeting up and having this discussion in person rather than in words. Cold, static, Times New Roman words. However, there's a little part of me that is aware of the underlying meaning of two people going out for coffee. Heck, I even wrote a shite story about it; one which this same tutor marked fairly poorly due to its obvious shitness. Anyway, there's a certain awkwardness about the idea of meeting up with my past tutor for coffee in this way. For starters, he's not really my type. For other starters, I don't actually like coffee.
Needless to say, I have tentatively accepted his invitation to meet up since it'd be nice to have a bit of a catch-up and hopefully get a chance to hang around the University campus for a little while longer. However, I must stress that I have only accepted purely on the pretence that there's no funny business.
The latest addition to my vast roster of two electronic communication channels happens to be a Gmail account, courtesy of that powerhouse of search engines (and the only website your nan has ever heard of), Google. I'll be honest with you, having a Gmail account is great. Emails are easy to access. Whenever I stupidly sign up to websites that churn out newsletters and notifications every seven seconds they get automatically filed away as "Social" or "Promotional" or something I don't give a crap about, leaving only the actual ones in my actual inbox. Connectivity to many things is easier, including this blog right here. Yes, you there reading this. Hello. I'm able to communicate this to you a lot easier now thanks to Google. Hell, if anybody were even to actively search for this particular one there's a fairly decent chance Google might put it somewhere near the top ten of all found results. Furthermore, I don't get spam.
Previously, in my email account history, Hotmail (currently known as Outlook and formerly affiliated with the virtual equivalent of an early 2000s youth centre, MSN Messenger) was the only channel of communication I used on a regular basis. Since the end of my University adventures some three months ago, though, the place has been fairly abandoned, gathering virtual messages equivalent to a discarded yogurt pot gathering fluffy green bits. And that's just the inbox. The spam folder however... let's just say that if it was a person that needed taking to a virtual hospital, I'd probably have to check it in for cases of diphtheria, polio, meningitis, high cholesterol, liver failure, appendicitis, a broken leg, tennis elbow, a lodged Tic Tac in one nostril and (apparently) erectile dysfunction. The only reason I haven't pulled the plug on its life support yet is that, on occasion, it may still prove useful. And behold and lo...
A series of communications between a past uni tutor and myself have unfolded, skipping over the fact that it might actually be better to get in touch with me another, more Google-orientated way. Ultimately, we've briefly had the "what are you doing now that uni's finished?" discussion, with potential University-related opportunities being mused over by both him and me in a blind attempt at (a) remaining a part of the University family after my recent graduation, and (b) giving me something to do.
As it happens, we've now progressed to the stage where, semi-awkwardly, he's asked me if I want to go out for coffee. This could, of course, quite simply be an innocent offer of meeting up and having this discussion in person rather than in words. Cold, static, Times New Roman words. However, there's a little part of me that is aware of the underlying meaning of two people going out for coffee. Heck, I even wrote a shite story about it; one which this same tutor marked fairly poorly due to its obvious shitness. Anyway, there's a certain awkwardness about the idea of meeting up with my past tutor for coffee in this way. For starters, he's not really my type. For other starters, I don't actually like coffee.
Needless to say, I have tentatively accepted his invitation to meet up since it'd be nice to have a bit of a catch-up and hopefully get a chance to hang around the University campus for a little while longer. However, I must stress that I have only accepted purely on the pretence that there's no funny business.
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
Nothing
Contrary to how it sounds, violent mood swings are not (necessarily) the way one would describe the sensation of being hit repeatedly over the head with a golf club made of anguish. Instead, "violent mood swings" is how one might describe the sensation of being hit directly in the life with a something made out of something. Unfortunately, a bout of mild depression has hindered me from allowing that last image to make any sort of sense in any coherent sort of manner... sort of.
It seems that, whilst I may be working, the idea of being paid in monthly instalments is taking its toll on my attitude towards being comfortable in this life. Keeping track of the hours I'm working and the pennies I'm earning is most deflating when I realise that I don't get to touch any of that money for up to four weeks depending on what day I look at the numbers and think about it. Sure, with each night that passes, the amount of time I have to wait lessens by one day. But the days seem to be travelling by so slowly I feel that science needs to take a long hard look at itself and redefine the duration of a day. Although with that in mind, it's unsure how long that long hard look will take exactly. If I were to guess, I'd say six days (or seventeen "new days") would be appropriate.
Even though the time passes so slowly, however, I still can't help wondering about the future. Actually. Scratch that. Some subconscious part of my mindspace can't help lazily drifting off towards damning thoughts about the future. Where am I going to be one year from now? What am I going to be doing? Where will I live? Who will I live with? What about three years from now? Or seven? Or twenty-three (in "new years" [actually, that sounds dangerously close to "New Year's" and could cause an awful lot of confusion {should I just end that whole lengthening of time periods thread of thought? «so many brackets!»}]). Ultimately, the general feeling generated by whatever evil portion of my brain does that travels throughout the rest of my very being is one of monotonous pointlessness.
There came a moment yesterday during which I stopped everything I was doing. For the record, "everything I was doing" was watching potatoes boil. I stood, one hand over my head, little feeling in my legs and the uncontrollable urge to lie in a foetal position on the cold, tiled floor of the kitchen, suck my thumb and cry. Fortunately, the oven timer went off to signal that the sausages were done and snapped me out of my regressive trance before my body hit the deck. You may be pleased to know the potatoes were mashed successfully and the sausages coated with onion gravy. However, the whole thing was rather bland and tasteless, much like life at this time.
I later went on to watch whatever episodes of Friends Comedy Central had thrown on. It happened to be one of the first season ones where Ross' gay, pregnant ex-wife gives birth to his child. During the episode, he, Phoebe and the other lesbian (the not-pregnant one) get locked in a supply cupboard and nearly miss the birth. During this mediocre plot point, Phoebe (who, for some reason, brought her guitar into the supply cupboard with her) begins to sing a maudlin, sombre ditty about how trapped they are and how their corpses would be discovered a day later. During this brief musical interlude, a tear rolled down my cheek and I genuinely despaired at the hypothetical sudden deaths of these characters in what was essentially a throwaway comic situation in a work of fiction. There's no real point to this, other than the fact that depression does weird things to a person.
I'm not going to sit here and claim I've been clinically depressed, by the way. I know that clinical depression is a truly awful thing, as opposed to that pansy meaning that's been tagged onto the word "depression" lately. There's a mighty difference between "got sick and can't go on holiday" depression and "just curled up in a ball cried on the kitchen floor and have no idea why" depression. The overwhelming sense of pointlessness, worthlessness, lifelessness and "ehh" is a truly awful set of feelings to experience. There's no strong sense of happiness or sadness, but instead nothingness. If it feels as though I'm not describing it very well, sorry, but it's hard to describe nothing.
Close your eyes. Go on close them.
Now think of nothing.
What?
Shit, well open your eyes again.
Read this first: when you close your eyes, think of nothing.
Now close your eyes.
And open them again. Hi, welcome back. Did you think of nothing? What did it look like? Dark? Black? Empty? Blank? Good, but you're wrong. Those are all still things. Darkness exists. Black is the absence of light and therefore has a definition as "something". Even the word "nothing" is something. See, it's hard to truly imagine nothing, and it's just as difficult to experience it. I suppose, in that sense, that feeling of "nothing" is in fact, thousands of things (might I refer you back to the many future questions my subconscious threw at me) bombarding you all at once. The senses can't handle it. Information overload. And as a result, that little part of your life that tells you to "just keep on going" suddenly stops talking and stares blankly out the window at a puddle or something.
I've experienced this before, I'm experiencing it now and I'll probably come into contact with it again in my life. I know people who've been affected by it much worse than myself and subsequently feel as though I have no right to complain about feeling shit on occasion. When it comes for me, it comes in concentrated bouts after steady healthy doses of what I'd like to refer to as "feeling normal". Feeling normal is much better than anything else in the world; way better than "just happiness" and "just sadness", and miles better than "just nothingness". Feeling normal is when I know I'm coping in life just fine. I cook meals, I shower regularly, I watch TV, I'm slightly addicted to virtual games, I read, I work. These are the things that let me know I'm a capable and fully functioning adult. And I am an adult, and I have a Nectar card to prove it.
Most of the time, I'm able to cope in this world using only the tools provided. But occasionally, I crash and hit a wall made out of nothing (or the meaning of "nothing" since that's actually something) and I struggle to carry on without somehow dragging myself out of it. And you can rest assured that next time that happens, it'll probably end up being a case of me writing all about it.
It seems that, whilst I may be working, the idea of being paid in monthly instalments is taking its toll on my attitude towards being comfortable in this life. Keeping track of the hours I'm working and the pennies I'm earning is most deflating when I realise that I don't get to touch any of that money for up to four weeks depending on what day I look at the numbers and think about it. Sure, with each night that passes, the amount of time I have to wait lessens by one day. But the days seem to be travelling by so slowly I feel that science needs to take a long hard look at itself and redefine the duration of a day. Although with that in mind, it's unsure how long that long hard look will take exactly. If I were to guess, I'd say six days (or seventeen "new days") would be appropriate.
Even though the time passes so slowly, however, I still can't help wondering about the future. Actually. Scratch that. Some subconscious part of my mindspace can't help lazily drifting off towards damning thoughts about the future. Where am I going to be one year from now? What am I going to be doing? Where will I live? Who will I live with? What about three years from now? Or seven? Or twenty-three (in "new years" [actually, that sounds dangerously close to "New Year's" and could cause an awful lot of confusion {should I just end that whole lengthening of time periods thread of thought? «so many brackets!»}]). Ultimately, the general feeling generated by whatever evil portion of my brain does that travels throughout the rest of my very being is one of monotonous pointlessness.
There came a moment yesterday during which I stopped everything I was doing. For the record, "everything I was doing" was watching potatoes boil. I stood, one hand over my head, little feeling in my legs and the uncontrollable urge to lie in a foetal position on the cold, tiled floor of the kitchen, suck my thumb and cry. Fortunately, the oven timer went off to signal that the sausages were done and snapped me out of my regressive trance before my body hit the deck. You may be pleased to know the potatoes were mashed successfully and the sausages coated with onion gravy. However, the whole thing was rather bland and tasteless, much like life at this time.
I later went on to watch whatever episodes of Friends Comedy Central had thrown on. It happened to be one of the first season ones where Ross' gay, pregnant ex-wife gives birth to his child. During the episode, he, Phoebe and the other lesbian (the not-pregnant one) get locked in a supply cupboard and nearly miss the birth. During this mediocre plot point, Phoebe (who, for some reason, brought her guitar into the supply cupboard with her) begins to sing a maudlin, sombre ditty about how trapped they are and how their corpses would be discovered a day later. During this brief musical interlude, a tear rolled down my cheek and I genuinely despaired at the hypothetical sudden deaths of these characters in what was essentially a throwaway comic situation in a work of fiction. There's no real point to this, other than the fact that depression does weird things to a person.
I'm not going to sit here and claim I've been clinically depressed, by the way. I know that clinical depression is a truly awful thing, as opposed to that pansy meaning that's been tagged onto the word "depression" lately. There's a mighty difference between "got sick and can't go on holiday" depression and "just curled up in a ball cried on the kitchen floor and have no idea why" depression. The overwhelming sense of pointlessness, worthlessness, lifelessness and "ehh" is a truly awful set of feelings to experience. There's no strong sense of happiness or sadness, but instead nothingness. If it feels as though I'm not describing it very well, sorry, but it's hard to describe nothing.
Close your eyes. Go on close them.
Now think of nothing.
What?
Shit, well open your eyes again.
Read this first: when you close your eyes, think of nothing.
Now close your eyes.
And open them again. Hi, welcome back. Did you think of nothing? What did it look like? Dark? Black? Empty? Blank? Good, but you're wrong. Those are all still things. Darkness exists. Black is the absence of light and therefore has a definition as "something". Even the word "nothing" is something. See, it's hard to truly imagine nothing, and it's just as difficult to experience it. I suppose, in that sense, that feeling of "nothing" is in fact, thousands of things (might I refer you back to the many future questions my subconscious threw at me) bombarding you all at once. The senses can't handle it. Information overload. And as a result, that little part of your life that tells you to "just keep on going" suddenly stops talking and stares blankly out the window at a puddle or something.
I've experienced this before, I'm experiencing it now and I'll probably come into contact with it again in my life. I know people who've been affected by it much worse than myself and subsequently feel as though I have no right to complain about feeling shit on occasion. When it comes for me, it comes in concentrated bouts after steady healthy doses of what I'd like to refer to as "feeling normal". Feeling normal is much better than anything else in the world; way better than "just happiness" and "just sadness", and miles better than "just nothingness". Feeling normal is when I know I'm coping in life just fine. I cook meals, I shower regularly, I watch TV, I'm slightly addicted to virtual games, I read, I work. These are the things that let me know I'm a capable and fully functioning adult. And I am an adult, and I have a Nectar card to prove it.
Most of the time, I'm able to cope in this world using only the tools provided. But occasionally, I crash and hit a wall made out of nothing (or the meaning of "nothing" since that's actually something) and I struggle to carry on without somehow dragging myself out of it. And you can rest assured that next time that happens, it'll probably end up being a case of me writing all about it.
Wednesday, 11 September 2013
15 Years Old
Dear The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time,
Whoa, Jesus, man! Seriously?! I mean, forgive the lack of clarity to such outbursts and rest assured they shall be clarified soon enough, but seriously, are you for reallies?!
Anyway, it's nice that you've dominated a solid week and a half of my time and filled it with so much joy, wonder, frustration and surprise. I must say, however, that the truth is I really don't know how to feel about you. You see, I have this blog, right. I set it up with the intention of keeping me writing so that I wouldn't lose my mojo and that, which - as an aspiring writer - is an extremely important thing to have, dangerous thing to lose and horrifically difficult to get back. To put it in terms you might understand, imagine your first ever meeting with Volvagia except you've just had the big-ass hammer knocked into the lava and all you have to destroy the flamin' dragon is a Deku Stick.
It's now been almost a month since I last put something on that blog, which is monumentally awful considering my intention to keep at it on a weekly basis. Naturally, as with trying to sell banal masks to people with nothing better to do, more important aspects of life get in the way and subsequently take over all of your time, meaning the little things get put on hold. Since I last posted, I've been employed in a retail establishment, spent time away with family and played with you. Somewhere along the way, that whole notion of me wanting to write turned into me not wanting to write, which then turned into me not wanting to do anything at all. Even getting up before midday is a chore. I suppose I could blame my working shift pattern; I generally only work in the evenings meaning that by the time I get home and want to put my feet up and stare at the TV, the only thing that's on is a repeat of Family Guy or three, or twelve.
My time away on Britain's south coast produced a multitude of thoughts. Thoughts like: "Wouldn't it be nice to live in one of those apartment blocks overlooking the beach?", "Did we really just pay that entrance fee for a walk around an underground cave?", and the realisation that as much as I love my immediate family members and enjoy the rare amounts of time I now spend with them, it's uncanny how quickly everyone is able to fall into the old routine of "yelling at each other for no reason". Several factors managed to raise tensions between the family unit on holiday: the staying quarters (a crowded static caravan in amongst other crowded static caravans), disagreements over what attractions to see/places to eat, Monopoly. All in all though, a fun time was had by everyone, but I'd like to end this segment by informing you that if you think crossing from one side of Hyrule Field to the other takes a long time, clearly you've never attempted the M25 on a Bank Holiday weekend.
I had my first day working in Morri-Tesc-Asd-bury's (I'm not telling you where I am, just pick your favourite one) mere days before the family vacation and exactly a week after I last touch my blog. Going back into the workplace a week and a half later, therefore, proved fairly daunting. It was like waking up one morning and suddenly being thrust into the dank and dark, monster filled interior of a giant tree. I've started to ease myself into the place, but like most working humans, I look forward to returning home again. Which bring me to you, dear game.
The sheer fact that you actually exist is nothing short of marvellous. Your vastness and depth (which is really just another word for "vastness", but you know, struggling to get back into writing here) is grand, you've got mini-games coming out the wazoo, if I were to place your chronological origin in history, I wouldn't want to go any further back than 2005. Yet as I understand it, you've been around since 1998. You're 15 years old. Christ, I've met fully grown adults more dense and moronic than you. As a piece of technology from the '90s, you actually hold up well in today's world, and for that I am eternally surprised by you. I must say I had my doubts. After all, so many have hailed you as one of, if not, THE greatest video game of all time. Now that I've experienced you, I feel as though I can jump into that forum and throw my own opinion in there now too.
Labelling something as THE greatest of those somethings, to me, seems a bit obtuse. It's all relative really. You're an action/adventure/RPGish amalgamation, sort of like a child-friendly, cartoony version of Tomb Raider (the old ones, not that new one that's like an episode of Lost as written by a serial killer). There's not a lot else in the world like you to compare to. And if we're judging you on a technical aspect, there have been newer releases since 1998 that have accomplished more that your Deku Nut-sized brain probably ever could. But the way in which I shall judge you is that for the time you were created, you were unrivalled. I realise that for the many who played with you in your earliest days, that memory cannot be overwritten. However, I can only look at you with my own eyes and say you're probably not THE greatest game ever, but you are pretty damn good for an audience today. And if you're pretty damn good today, it's no wonder people worshipped you a decade and a half ago.
I must admit to you, though, I've only played through your recent 3D remake (only using the 3D function for cutscenes, mind), allowing me the use of a touchscreen to switch items at a moment's notice. I feel that in order to get the full authentic experience of you, I'd need to see you in your original, unaltered form and become aggravated whenever I need to switch boots inside the Water Temple without a simple touchscreen tap to do it in an instant.
So well done to you Ocarina of Time. You've managed to provoke a reaction from me, which I suppose is all that's needed to prove that you are worthy of discussion. You've managed to further distance me from the prospect of writing whilst distracting me from the more boring, workaday parts of my life. However, that strange combination of wonder and marvel at how something so complex could've come from a time that (now in relative terms) feels so primitive, has actually giving something to write about. Thanks Ocarina, and I vow to play with you again at some point. But not straight away. Jesus. Asking me if want to play the harder, mirror-world Master Quest version the moment I just finished, are you friggin' crazy? I wanted a brew straight afterwards, not to relive it all in backwards mode!
Yours tunefully,
Me.
P.S. I still find Fi more irritating that Navi, but I suppose that's an issue I'll take up with Skyward Sword next time we speak.
Whoa, Jesus, man! Seriously?! I mean, forgive the lack of clarity to such outbursts and rest assured they shall be clarified soon enough, but seriously, are you for reallies?!
Anyway, it's nice that you've dominated a solid week and a half of my time and filled it with so much joy, wonder, frustration and surprise. I must say, however, that the truth is I really don't know how to feel about you. You see, I have this blog, right. I set it up with the intention of keeping me writing so that I wouldn't lose my mojo and that, which - as an aspiring writer - is an extremely important thing to have, dangerous thing to lose and horrifically difficult to get back. To put it in terms you might understand, imagine your first ever meeting with Volvagia except you've just had the big-ass hammer knocked into the lava and all you have to destroy the flamin' dragon is a Deku Stick.
It's now been almost a month since I last put something on that blog, which is monumentally awful considering my intention to keep at it on a weekly basis. Naturally, as with trying to sell banal masks to people with nothing better to do, more important aspects of life get in the way and subsequently take over all of your time, meaning the little things get put on hold. Since I last posted, I've been employed in a retail establishment, spent time away with family and played with you. Somewhere along the way, that whole notion of me wanting to write turned into me not wanting to write, which then turned into me not wanting to do anything at all. Even getting up before midday is a chore. I suppose I could blame my working shift pattern; I generally only work in the evenings meaning that by the time I get home and want to put my feet up and stare at the TV, the only thing that's on is a repeat of Family Guy or three, or twelve.
My time away on Britain's south coast produced a multitude of thoughts. Thoughts like: "Wouldn't it be nice to live in one of those apartment blocks overlooking the beach?", "Did we really just pay that entrance fee for a walk around an underground cave?", and the realisation that as much as I love my immediate family members and enjoy the rare amounts of time I now spend with them, it's uncanny how quickly everyone is able to fall into the old routine of "yelling at each other for no reason". Several factors managed to raise tensions between the family unit on holiday: the staying quarters (a crowded static caravan in amongst other crowded static caravans), disagreements over what attractions to see/places to eat, Monopoly. All in all though, a fun time was had by everyone, but I'd like to end this segment by informing you that if you think crossing from one side of Hyrule Field to the other takes a long time, clearly you've never attempted the M25 on a Bank Holiday weekend.
I had my first day working in Morri-Tesc-Asd-bury's (I'm not telling you where I am, just pick your favourite one) mere days before the family vacation and exactly a week after I last touch my blog. Going back into the workplace a week and a half later, therefore, proved fairly daunting. It was like waking up one morning and suddenly being thrust into the dank and dark, monster filled interior of a giant tree. I've started to ease myself into the place, but like most working humans, I look forward to returning home again. Which bring me to you, dear game.
The sheer fact that you actually exist is nothing short of marvellous. Your vastness and depth (which is really just another word for "vastness", but you know, struggling to get back into writing here) is grand, you've got mini-games coming out the wazoo, if I were to place your chronological origin in history, I wouldn't want to go any further back than 2005. Yet as I understand it, you've been around since 1998. You're 15 years old. Christ, I've met fully grown adults more dense and moronic than you. As a piece of technology from the '90s, you actually hold up well in today's world, and for that I am eternally surprised by you. I must say I had my doubts. After all, so many have hailed you as one of, if not, THE greatest video game of all time. Now that I've experienced you, I feel as though I can jump into that forum and throw my own opinion in there now too.
Labelling something as THE greatest of those somethings, to me, seems a bit obtuse. It's all relative really. You're an action/adventure/RPGish amalgamation, sort of like a child-friendly, cartoony version of Tomb Raider (the old ones, not that new one that's like an episode of Lost as written by a serial killer). There's not a lot else in the world like you to compare to. And if we're judging you on a technical aspect, there have been newer releases since 1998 that have accomplished more that your Deku Nut-sized brain probably ever could. But the way in which I shall judge you is that for the time you were created, you were unrivalled. I realise that for the many who played with you in your earliest days, that memory cannot be overwritten. However, I can only look at you with my own eyes and say you're probably not THE greatest game ever, but you are pretty damn good for an audience today. And if you're pretty damn good today, it's no wonder people worshipped you a decade and a half ago.
I must admit to you, though, I've only played through your recent 3D remake (only using the 3D function for cutscenes, mind), allowing me the use of a touchscreen to switch items at a moment's notice. I feel that in order to get the full authentic experience of you, I'd need to see you in your original, unaltered form and become aggravated whenever I need to switch boots inside the Water Temple without a simple touchscreen tap to do it in an instant.
So well done to you Ocarina of Time. You've managed to provoke a reaction from me, which I suppose is all that's needed to prove that you are worthy of discussion. You've managed to further distance me from the prospect of writing whilst distracting me from the more boring, workaday parts of my life. However, that strange combination of wonder and marvel at how something so complex could've come from a time that (now in relative terms) feels so primitive, has actually giving something to write about. Thanks Ocarina, and I vow to play with you again at some point. But not straight away. Jesus. Asking me if want to play the harder, mirror-world Master Quest version the moment I just finished, are you friggin' crazy? I wanted a brew straight afterwards, not to relive it all in backwards mode!
Yours tunefully,
Me.
P.S. I still find Fi more irritating that Navi, but I suppose that's an issue I'll take up with Skyward Sword next time we speak.
Wednesday, 14 August 2013
Bits Of Imagination
Words are great, aren't they. Of course they are, you're looking at them. Without them all this would be meaningless. Trying to find the right words for any occasion, though, is a bit more tricky. Like this. After typing the word "tricky" I just stared blankly at the screen for about eleven-and-a-half minutes wondering what to put next.
I've come to realise that those who write do it because, generally, they each have something they want to say. Whether it's a story they want to tell, an opinion they want to express, wisdom they want to impart or an idea they want to bludgeon you over the head with, the desire to share something with the rest of the world takes over and manifests itself in combinations of letters like this.
The problem I've been faced with in terms of my approach to writing is that I don't have anything to share. Or at least I feel like I don't have anything of significance to share. This little neglected corner of the web is only ever really frequented by me as a project to keep my fingers active and my brain making words, and even I'm prone to neglecting it fairly often. By the time another Wednesday comes around, I realise I have nothing passionate to babble on about and leave the existence of this thing in the back of my mind for another week.
Being trapped in a state of mild depression doesn't help matters. The lack of an active lifestyle pertains to the lack of an active mind, and not having the drive to work towards a completed goal of any life significance is just a by-product of not having the drive to do anything at all. Note that when I talk about depression, I don't refer to the figurative mopiness that the word's come to mean by teenagers who get given front row tickets to see The Wanted for their birthday when they specifically asked for One Direction ("God I'm sooo depressed"). I mean, like, you know, the actual real meaning of depression. The kind of "what-the-hell-is-my-point-in-existing" sense of hopelessness and monotony, having a five-hour lie-in every morning because the only reason you actually muster for getting up is that you've reached the point when you can't hold it in any longer and it's an absolute necessity to go and urinate.
Like I said, my depressed state over the last couple of weeks has only been mild and has generally stemmed from a lack of purpose (i.e. job), a lack of reason to actually go outside and get supplies (i.e. money) and the consequent lack of supplies (i.e. food). My poor and somewhat hungry state has kept me bedridden for the best part of a week-and-a-half with the most fresh air I get coming in those eight seconds wherein the full bin bag from the kitchen gets mercilessly dumped into the giant green plastic tub outside the back door.
You, if you're there, may well be glancing over this and thinking "Is this idiot sure he wants to write for a living?" to which I can offer the honest answer "I don't really know." I mean, I have ideas for stories to tell. One currently exists as an incomplete setup to a novel, a large proportion of which I'm going to have to pull out of some sort of figurative arse, poorly constructed from bits of imagination and sugary tea. Furthermore, I have two screenplay ideas (well, two separate premises involving the same characters and vaguely similar situations) budding in my head. The biggest problem is that none of them want to go on the page... or the computer screen.
Foresight seems to be a bigger enemy than hindsight here, and it occurs to me that the giant stumbling block in the way of me trying to be a writer (instead of just kidding myself) is that I still have inhibitions. I still worry that it's all going to end up face down in a pit of flaming coals, rusty spikes and faecal matter. So as long as I don't write anything, I can't have failed at it, right? As long as it stays unwritten and only semi-formed inside my imagination, it'll be fine and nobody will mock its worthlessness or be concerned for my mental wellbeing if this is the best I can come up with.
I would go on in a similar self-loathing fashion, but I think this article explains my state of mind (and how I can get out of it) a lot better than my fickle words ever could. I warn you, it's long, but it's the greatest thing I've ever laid eyes upon that comes close to a self-help guide. I read it shortly after it appeared online and vowed to follow the advice given within. Eight-and-a-half months later, I wrote this.
Perhaps I need a bit more time.
I've come to realise that those who write do it because, generally, they each have something they want to say. Whether it's a story they want to tell, an opinion they want to express, wisdom they want to impart or an idea they want to bludgeon you over the head with, the desire to share something with the rest of the world takes over and manifests itself in combinations of letters like this.
The problem I've been faced with in terms of my approach to writing is that I don't have anything to share. Or at least I feel like I don't have anything of significance to share. This little neglected corner of the web is only ever really frequented by me as a project to keep my fingers active and my brain making words, and even I'm prone to neglecting it fairly often. By the time another Wednesday comes around, I realise I have nothing passionate to babble on about and leave the existence of this thing in the back of my mind for another week.
Being trapped in a state of mild depression doesn't help matters. The lack of an active lifestyle pertains to the lack of an active mind, and not having the drive to work towards a completed goal of any life significance is just a by-product of not having the drive to do anything at all. Note that when I talk about depression, I don't refer to the figurative mopiness that the word's come to mean by teenagers who get given front row tickets to see The Wanted for their birthday when they specifically asked for One Direction ("God I'm sooo depressed"). I mean, like, you know, the actual real meaning of depression. The kind of "what-the-hell-is-my-point-in-existing" sense of hopelessness and monotony, having a five-hour lie-in every morning because the only reason you actually muster for getting up is that you've reached the point when you can't hold it in any longer and it's an absolute necessity to go and urinate.
Like I said, my depressed state over the last couple of weeks has only been mild and has generally stemmed from a lack of purpose (i.e. job), a lack of reason to actually go outside and get supplies (i.e. money) and the consequent lack of supplies (i.e. food). My poor and somewhat hungry state has kept me bedridden for the best part of a week-and-a-half with the most fresh air I get coming in those eight seconds wherein the full bin bag from the kitchen gets mercilessly dumped into the giant green plastic tub outside the back door.
You, if you're there, may well be glancing over this and thinking "Is this idiot sure he wants to write for a living?" to which I can offer the honest answer "I don't really know." I mean, I have ideas for stories to tell. One currently exists as an incomplete setup to a novel, a large proportion of which I'm going to have to pull out of some sort of figurative arse, poorly constructed from bits of imagination and sugary tea. Furthermore, I have two screenplay ideas (well, two separate premises involving the same characters and vaguely similar situations) budding in my head. The biggest problem is that none of them want to go on the page... or the computer screen.
Foresight seems to be a bigger enemy than hindsight here, and it occurs to me that the giant stumbling block in the way of me trying to be a writer (instead of just kidding myself) is that I still have inhibitions. I still worry that it's all going to end up face down in a pit of flaming coals, rusty spikes and faecal matter. So as long as I don't write anything, I can't have failed at it, right? As long as it stays unwritten and only semi-formed inside my imagination, it'll be fine and nobody will mock its worthlessness or be concerned for my mental wellbeing if this is the best I can come up with.
I would go on in a similar self-loathing fashion, but I think this article explains my state of mind (and how I can get out of it) a lot better than my fickle words ever could. I warn you, it's long, but it's the greatest thing I've ever laid eyes upon that comes close to a self-help guide. I read it shortly after it appeared online and vowed to follow the advice given within. Eight-and-a-half months later, I wrote this.
Perhaps I need a bit more time.
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
The Corridor
Hi there. You know, we've had a lot of fun over here and we've touched on quite a few important topics - procrastination, boredom, weather - and they've all been a approached with an air of witticism and whimsy you probably wouldn't normally waste on a dog with cataracts. But now, we here at this blog (by which I mean "me here at this computer") have decided to focus on some of the bigger things in life. Bigger things like houses, trees, erm... what else? Statues, they're pretty big too.
Okay, there probably won't be much of a focus on statues. Or trees. Or physically large things. Or anything of importance, really. I feel like the need to reinvent the whole nature of the meaning of this place but I just know I'll only end up reverting and defaulting to mundane stuff, like the fact that my new bedroom is significantly smaller than my old one. Furthermore, this bedroom is situated adjecent to next-door's bathroom which seems to be perpetually inhabited by a bloke with irremovable phlegm in his throat, not matter how often and constantly he makes that throaty HHWWKKKH noise. He's even doing it now. Twenty-three times, in fact, during this paragraph.
Ever since my initial moaning about not having work, I've been thrust into two potential lines of work, allowing me to keep a metaphorical foot in the present day whilst also symbolically stepping into a potential future career. Going along with that metaphorical image there you've got in your head just now, I want you to imagine life as one big corridor that starts a birth and pretty much just forms an extention of a birth canal. Actually, yeah, there's an idea. Picture your mum's gateway to the world forming the entire wall at the end of a corridor. Don't worry, it's not naughty, it's natural. We all came from there. Well, no, we didn't all come from your mum. We came from our own mums, respectively. Where the hell am I going with this? Now turn around. No, not physically you idiot, now you can't read this.
Turn back.
Good.
Hi again. Now turn around in the corridor in your head and stop looking at your mum there. At the other end of that corridor is a bright light that people in movies are told not to go towards when they're lying in a pool of their own innards and feebly reaching upwards. Whatever that light is, that's the end. And along the way, the life corridor is lined with many, many doors. And behind each of these doors is some kind of opportunity like a job or the ownership of property or a bikini-clad woman on a motorbike (or if she's not your thing, a charcoal dusted bloke holding a fire-hose near to his groin as some kind of sexual metaphor). Many of these doors remain closed to us but if you get to the right place at the right time, and occasionally talk your way past the bouncers well enough, you're granted access to whatever opportunity lies within.
Great. Now that we've established that metaphor I can explain the related image that's in my head. Basically, after months (or what seems like months) of nothing, two doors have decided to open for me around the same time and I'm essentially stretching across the length of the corridor trying to prop both opposing doors open with a foot each. Okay, I pretty much nailed it already with the foot metaphor earlier, but I like the corridor one better. Plus I just made you imagine a lot of images with words, which is the thing I like most about writing, really.
In the meantime, when I'm not worrying about leading a future double life like some lame superhero who's a checkout assistant by day, but by night puts his underwear on last and goes by the name of Freelance Copywriter Boy, I'm playing old video games, watching American sitcoms and kidding myself into being more cultured by reading novels very, very slowly. Also I seem to be perpetually cleaning a house that's just completely out to get me - mentally - because it like gathering mess whenever I'm not looking. Speaking of which, since moving here, I've designated Wednesday as "Cleaning Day" and I'm not about to go throwing away some weekly tradition by neglecting it, thus leaving it for another entire week like it's some kind of mindless blog.
Okay, there probably won't be much of a focus on statues. Or trees. Or physically large things. Or anything of importance, really. I feel like the need to reinvent the whole nature of the meaning of this place but I just know I'll only end up reverting and defaulting to mundane stuff, like the fact that my new bedroom is significantly smaller than my old one. Furthermore, this bedroom is situated adjecent to next-door's bathroom which seems to be perpetually inhabited by a bloke with irremovable phlegm in his throat, not matter how often and constantly he makes that throaty HHWWKKKH noise. He's even doing it now. Twenty-three times, in fact, during this paragraph.
Ever since my initial moaning about not having work, I've been thrust into two potential lines of work, allowing me to keep a metaphorical foot in the present day whilst also symbolically stepping into a potential future career. Going along with that metaphorical image there you've got in your head just now, I want you to imagine life as one big corridor that starts a birth and pretty much just forms an extention of a birth canal. Actually, yeah, there's an idea. Picture your mum's gateway to the world forming the entire wall at the end of a corridor. Don't worry, it's not naughty, it's natural. We all came from there. Well, no, we didn't all come from your mum. We came from our own mums, respectively. Where the hell am I going with this? Now turn around. No, not physically you idiot, now you can't read this.
Turn back.
Good.
Hi again. Now turn around in the corridor in your head and stop looking at your mum there. At the other end of that corridor is a bright light that people in movies are told not to go towards when they're lying in a pool of their own innards and feebly reaching upwards. Whatever that light is, that's the end. And along the way, the life corridor is lined with many, many doors. And behind each of these doors is some kind of opportunity like a job or the ownership of property or a bikini-clad woman on a motorbike (or if she's not your thing, a charcoal dusted bloke holding a fire-hose near to his groin as some kind of sexual metaphor). Many of these doors remain closed to us but if you get to the right place at the right time, and occasionally talk your way past the bouncers well enough, you're granted access to whatever opportunity lies within.
Great. Now that we've established that metaphor I can explain the related image that's in my head. Basically, after months (or what seems like months) of nothing, two doors have decided to open for me around the same time and I'm essentially stretching across the length of the corridor trying to prop both opposing doors open with a foot each. Okay, I pretty much nailed it already with the foot metaphor earlier, but I like the corridor one better. Plus I just made you imagine a lot of images with words, which is the thing I like most about writing, really.
In the meantime, when I'm not worrying about leading a future double life like some lame superhero who's a checkout assistant by day, but by night puts his underwear on last and goes by the name of Freelance Copywriter Boy, I'm playing old video games, watching American sitcoms and kidding myself into being more cultured by reading novels very, very slowly. Also I seem to be perpetually cleaning a house that's just completely out to get me - mentally - because it like gathering mess whenever I'm not looking. Speaking of which, since moving here, I've designated Wednesday as "Cleaning Day" and I'm not about to go throwing away some weekly tradition by neglecting it, thus leaving it for another entire week like it's some kind of mindless blog.
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
Complaining
A lot of the time, I find I'm never happy with anything. Case in point: I've just spent the best part of the last 40 minutes typing up post completely different to this, only to completely delete the lot and start on this instead. See, I can tell when it's a rubbish topic and that I'm not actually interested in what I'm writing when the paragraphs are short and take forever to come up with because I keep stopping mid-sentence to check the dirt under my fingernails. In hindsight, it's really not all that good anyway when the post essentially talks about swearing toddlers and the fact that babies - just like the rest of us - defecate.
Since my last moan-fest on here about how I have no means of financial support, two job offers have found their ways into my inbox, causing me to stop blaming the virtual postmen for losing my stuff in the vast ether and actually realising that I'm able to receive messages just fine. Furthermore, the fact that two of my conquests managed to get back in touch with me, that means that the other 37 people and places I've politely asked for employment have all ignored me and that they're obviously bastards.
The two respondents - whom I'd like to stress are definitely not bad at all - cover bother short- and long-term bases for me; one could potentially help to kickstart a career in writing whilst the other is what could be classed as "the day job" people are often advised not to give up. So soon, I could have regular access to money and stop complaining about how I'm never happy. Actually, that's a point. Since I complained about it so much in my last post, only for job-related advances to occur in my life, I could use this bit of web space to my advantage and moan about more things I'm not happy about. Then over the course of the coming week I can expect my luck to turn.
At the risk of sounding topical, I'd like to end by moaning about the latest monarchistic birth and how nobody cares what name he'll be given. At least I don't anyway. It's not like I've put a bet on what the kid's name will be that I'm not going to win. Stupid baby. Anyway, if you're reading this in 2089, Your Majesty, with your brain linked up to the Ultra-Hyper-Inter-Highway from your throne in the floating palace of the sky metropolis of New Londinium, I'm turning 100 years old around now. If you weren't offended by that "stupid baby" remark and you can find it in your heart to not execute me, I'd very much like a congratulatory birthday telegram or whatever it is you get when you're 100 now. If I don't get it soon, I'll only write a blog post (or think it, or however we put stuff on here now) complaining about it, meaning I'll definitely get it within the next week.
What am I doing?
Okay, erm. Well at the moment I don't really have anything else to complain about. If anything comes up though, I'll be in touch. Thanks Universe.
Since my last moan-fest on here about how I have no means of financial support, two job offers have found their ways into my inbox, causing me to stop blaming the virtual postmen for losing my stuff in the vast ether and actually realising that I'm able to receive messages just fine. Furthermore, the fact that two of my conquests managed to get back in touch with me, that means that the other 37 people and places I've politely asked for employment have all ignored me and that they're obviously bastards.
The two respondents - whom I'd like to stress are definitely not bad at all - cover bother short- and long-term bases for me; one could potentially help to kickstart a career in writing whilst the other is what could be classed as "the day job" people are often advised not to give up. So soon, I could have regular access to money and stop complaining about how I'm never happy. Actually, that's a point. Since I complained about it so much in my last post, only for job-related advances to occur in my life, I could use this bit of web space to my advantage and moan about more things I'm not happy about. Then over the course of the coming week I can expect my luck to turn.
At the risk of sounding topical, I'd like to end by moaning about the latest monarchistic birth and how nobody cares what name he'll be given. At least I don't anyway. It's not like I've put a bet on what the kid's name will be that I'm not going to win. Stupid baby. Anyway, if you're reading this in 2089, Your Majesty, with your brain linked up to the Ultra-Hyper-Inter-Highway from your throne in the floating palace of the sky metropolis of New Londinium, I'm turning 100 years old around now. If you weren't offended by that "stupid baby" remark and you can find it in your heart to not execute me, I'd very much like a congratulatory birthday telegram or whatever it is you get when you're 100 now. If I don't get it soon, I'll only write a blog post (or think it, or however we put stuff on here now) complaining about it, meaning I'll definitely get it within the next week.
What am I doing?
Okay, erm. Well at the moment I don't really have anything else to complain about. If anything comes up though, I'll be in touch. Thanks Universe.
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
Limbo
Life, I've discovered, is made up of all those engagements, appointments and important adult-related things that occur in between sparsely posted blog entries. After a quick look back, the last time I came here I was in the midst of packing up an old dwelling and reminiscing about a long gone childhood. In the time that's passed since then, I've moved from one house to another, organised the ensuing clutter, attempted to find work, spent sweltering nights wishing I could sleep in a cooler environment, got a stye on my eye, got rid of a stye on my eye, attempted to find work, thrown an academic cap in the air, added another annual notch to my future gravestone and attempted to find work. A lot of this I've done without regular access to the internet in the middle of a housing tranfer, so I've not really been able to document it at all here, really. Sorry.
There's an overwhelming sense of self-worthlessness that comes with existence. Days get spent in a zombified state on the couch, staring vacantly at moving images supposed to entertain you. There's an underlying context to any piece of TV or film which essentially just screams out "What is your meaning/purpose/existence worth when this is the most you're doing?" The fact that you've attempted to hunt down collaborative things to do with your time/means of monetary support, yet yeilding no response doesn't help matters. Eventually, you realise your proudest achievement of the last few weeks is that you've managed to reach a 79% completion rate on the first Crash Bandicoot game, which is brilliant considering it's a challenging piece of interactive entertainment and you never got past the first couple of levels when you were younger anyway.
At the moment, I'm somewhere in that horribly grey intersection of a Venn diagram, stuck inbetween the segments of "no longer studying" and "technically still a student". As the kind fellow at my local JobCentre Plus pointed out to me, I'm currently unable to claim Jobseeker's Allowance as the institution I've attended for the last three years is still clinging onto me until the end of August, despite the fact that it just kicked me away with a "Good luck and all that" two days ago. I even have a photo taken to prove it. In the picture, I'm dressed like a cross between a Hogwarts student and Dickensian headmaster whilst smiling vaguely and holding a piece of plastic drainpipe, thus officially certifying me "clever". My current stint in limbo, therefore, means I have to seek jobs and not get paid for it by the country, which is fair enough, I suppose. I've pretty much been brought on making a living out of actually doing something other than watching the same two episodes of Scrubs three times a day.
It is said that struggling through hardship makes us stronger. A butterfly cannot fly without battling its way through the cocoon and so on. And when the day comes when I lie in bed, dilapidated and ravaged by Father Time and I reminisce on a life gone by, I cannot help but feel this period will be regarded as one of great complexity; as a period of academic success and no money; as one of sunshine and friendship and no money; as one of new beginnings and no money. And maybe, just maybe, that reminiscing will be better than sorting through dusty videos of rapping mathematicians.
There's an overwhelming sense of self-worthlessness that comes with existence. Days get spent in a zombified state on the couch, staring vacantly at moving images supposed to entertain you. There's an underlying context to any piece of TV or film which essentially just screams out "What is your meaning/purpose/existence worth when this is the most you're doing?" The fact that you've attempted to hunt down collaborative things to do with your time/means of monetary support, yet yeilding no response doesn't help matters. Eventually, you realise your proudest achievement of the last few weeks is that you've managed to reach a 79% completion rate on the first Crash Bandicoot game, which is brilliant considering it's a challenging piece of interactive entertainment and you never got past the first couple of levels when you were younger anyway.
At the moment, I'm somewhere in that horribly grey intersection of a Venn diagram, stuck inbetween the segments of "no longer studying" and "technically still a student". As the kind fellow at my local JobCentre Plus pointed out to me, I'm currently unable to claim Jobseeker's Allowance as the institution I've attended for the last three years is still clinging onto me until the end of August, despite the fact that it just kicked me away with a "Good luck and all that" two days ago. I even have a photo taken to prove it. In the picture, I'm dressed like a cross between a Hogwarts student and Dickensian headmaster whilst smiling vaguely and holding a piece of plastic drainpipe, thus officially certifying me "clever". My current stint in limbo, therefore, means I have to seek jobs and not get paid for it by the country, which is fair enough, I suppose. I've pretty much been brought on making a living out of actually doing something other than watching the same two episodes of Scrubs three times a day.
It is said that struggling through hardship makes us stronger. A butterfly cannot fly without battling its way through the cocoon and so on. And when the day comes when I lie in bed, dilapidated and ravaged by Father Time and I reminisce on a life gone by, I cannot help but feel this period will be regarded as one of great complexity; as a period of academic success and no money; as one of sunshine and friendship and no money; as one of new beginnings and no money. And maybe, just maybe, that reminiscing will be better than sorting through dusty videos of rapping mathematicians.
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