I’m a video game writer now! Well, not actually,
but I’ve always had fantasies of writing video games, and I finally got up the
gumption to try my hand at creating my own Neverwinter Nights quest using The Foundry, their content creation engine. It
turns out my imagination is far bigger than my technical skills, so the first
quest I wrote was too elaborate for me to pull off as a complete novice. I’m
working on a much simpler story now, one that doesn’t involve custom map design
and epic-level plot complications. The number one rule of newbie quest creation—don’t
overreach! Anyone who thinks that video games aren’t art are profoundly wrong.
Balancing all of the elements that go into creating a compelling player experience
takes enormous skill and artistry. I’d be happy just to create something that
entertains someone mildly for about thirty minutes. Things have been heavy in
this typist’s life lately, and it’s amazing how a little side project has managed
to perk up my sagging spirits. I’m excited to see if I can actually pull off
designing a fun, well-written quest that people will want to play.
I’m happy to report that the "Public about Privacy" reading at the Good Shepard Center last Wednesday went swimmingly! It was a
nice, quirky bunch of folks, all with very interesting takes on privacy—looking
at it politically, spiritually, physically, and even as it pertains to the
human/animal connection. Therapist and
novelist Rebecca Meredith read an excerpt from the sequel to her novel “The Last of the Pascagoula”, which addressed the lack of physical privacy afforded
to quadriplegics. It made me consider all of the ways in which we lose privacy
when we’re severely ill, hospitalized, or otherwise dependent on others for physical
care. Sometimes I wonder if the loss of privacy is actually worse than any
disease we could get that would make us dependent on others for our care.
The reading organizer David D. Horowitz read a
series of poems that ran the gamut, but one in particular stood out for me—it talked
about the utterly creepy and apparently ubiquitous practice of putting cameras in
the eyeballs of department store dummies, which record data about you such as
age, gender, and how long you linger in certain areas of the store. This interfaces with
facial recognition data to create a detailed portrait of your movements and
your potential buying habits. (Shudders). Victoria Ford read poems that
addressed our relationship to privacy and the natural world, Dennis Caswell
read a hilarious satire ad for a truly terrifying Google product, (I only pray
it remains in the realm of fiction), and one of my local favorites, Michael
Spence, a retired Metro driver, read several great poems culminating in one
that told the fascinating tale of an altercation between a driver and a passenger
that was caught on a bus camera. My poems addressed issues of when privacy
is taken from us, and when we give it away. Here for your reading enjoyment (or indifference, as the case may be), are two of the poems I read. (“The Suffering of
Others” was originally published by qarrtsiluni.)
True Story
When
I was child, I knew how to speak in tongues, but no one noticed. I was
terrified of losing control of my gift and exploding during Mass, my jaw
opening against my will; spewing forth a frantic, fiery rush of God. How
embarrassing, and how furious my mom would be. So on Sundays, I made up stomach
aches, and huddled alone on the porch, speaking in tongues to a ceramic snail.
He understood everything; in fact, he knew so much about me that eventually, he
had to be destroyed. I was heartbroken as I stomped on him with my clean white
Keds. I buried the shards underneath the porch, and the next day, when I went
to check on his remains, a blood red Devil’s Tongue had blossomed from his
grave.
The Suffering of Others
You
can protect yourself from the negative
energy
of a crowd by envisioning white
light
surrounding
your
entire body. Imagine this light
enveloping,
protecting you.
Imagine
this light
filtering
out the suffering of others, the pain
your
body is prone to absorb as its own.
Imagine
this light
as
your shield, your womb, your favored skin,
your
dearest armor,
your
police dog, your invisible
fence,
your power word, your safe house.
Imagine
this light
filling
you, traveling
from
the soles of your feet into
your
spine, through your
core,
and when grief
howls
in with a vengeance, when you are
bowled
over and
bewildered,
by the failure of this light,
after
the blow
of
betrayal, you might well say,
you
might well understand,
that
it was never Them at all.
It
was never feasible: no skin no light
no
prayers saves us for we have,
all
of us, swallowed
ourselves,
and contain
only
one another.
--Kristen McHenry
1 comment:
You're a master of imagery and metaphor, my dear. This post is a deep, sophisticated winner! I enjoyed reading it very much. You should be running the review department at The New York Times or The New Yorker and making sever figures a year. Your writing is simply top of the topnotch!
Post a Comment