About Putting Down Games

The best measure of a videogame is how you feel when you're done with it.

I finished Dead Space today, and though I'm glad that I don't need the tension/stress that it injected into my life, I'm quite sad that I'm done with the thing. I wish there were more, and I would replay it if I had time. I'll even continue to overlook the somewhat ambiguous ending. The very last bit of it, at least, fit perfectly with what the game is all about. Never mind the room that it leaves for a sequel.

I felt the same way about The World Ends With You--I didn't want it to be over.

With books I tend to feel satisfied and somewhat drained at the same time when I finish them, and I do get the same sort of feeling from very long RPGs, Final Fantasy VII in particular, but I'll ascribe that more to length and the time investment than anything else. But with games it's different; they're so delicious that I'm sad to leave the really good ones. Alas.

I should go try to beat Minesweeper on expert, see what that does for me emotionally.

About Mr. Laurence Perrine

Mr. Perrine would contend that there are certain absolutes to poetry, and while that may be true, his search for a standard by which to grade his students has proven detrimental to the breadth of his interpretation of poems. Take Dickinson's four line poem about ships and flowers and sunsets (perhaps). Mr. Perrine is correct in so far as the sunset interpretation is better than saying Dickinson is writing about a meadow. But the meadow interpretation dails only with a limited imagination--or, again, one stunted by the needs for absolute answers in a teaching environment. The meadow interpretation is not incorrect, but merely less complete than that of the sunset, and the only way to make a definite conclusion about what Dickinson is writing about rests on the inclusion by her editors of the title "Sunset" and other circumstantial evidence in other poems that she has written--evidence that exists outside of the body of the specific poem in question and which, therefore, should have no bearing whatsoever on the poem's interpreation; I agree wholeheartedly in Mr. Dods in his call to seal off the work under examination (whether we should be examining poetry in the first place is another matter entirely) from all unrelated information. So while one may argue that the poem itself is flawed if clarity is the standard by which one chooses to judge it, one cannot fairly say that the meadow interpretation is categorically false. To interpret the poem as being about Martians would be beyond the bounds of possibility as laid out by the poem, and therefore such an interpretation is ridiculous. Thus I do not entirely disagree with Mr. Perrine on the matter of poetic interpretation, but differ by degree in terminology and the setting of bounds within which to examine the poem. Now, regarding Melville's The Night March...Mr. Perrine' interpretation of the army as stars, set in order by an absent God is perfectly vaild, but what is incorrect in viewing the soldiers as merely soldiers whose commander is dead but who fight on for the same cause anyway? Their archaic arms do not disqualify them from actually being soldiers; Melville has just as much right to write about medieval soldiers as he does about earthworms or as I do about goings on at a bazaar in Morrocco (where I have never been). To throw out this interpretation is close-minded and unimaginitive in the extreme. Indeed, whether one believes that the soldiers are soldiers or the soldiers are stars, it is quite easy to approach the question of the presence or absence of God from either angle, which only speaks to Melville's skill as a poet. To allow (at least) two equally valid and clear paths of interpretation to lead to the same conclusion is impressive and stands as a strong argument for Melville's purpose in writing the poem.
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Now for something somewhat different...
Poetry, as has often been asserted, is about conveying an experience to the reader, and I do not agree with that, though I do believe that poetry can be much more than that. But to adhere merely to the realm of the conveyance of experience, I would like to delve a little deeper into the manner in which that experience is conveyed. Say I write a poem about being a bat, and forget all about tone and theme and meaning; maybe I like being a bat, maybe I don't, it's not important for what we're doing here. What is important is that I am not a bat, I cannot become a bat, nor will I ever be able to converse with a bat to find out what being a bat is like. Therefore, when I write a poem about being a bat, I am putting human feelings, senses, and whatnot onto the framework of what it is to be a bat. A bat, should it be able to understand English/the inner workings of the human mind (and not any human mind, but mine specifically), would not be able to make sense of what I have written because I made it all up. I came as close as I possibly could to being a bat in my imagination and then transformed that experience into a poem. But it was only imagination, and words can only partially capture experience, even fabricated, anyway. So the poem isn't about being a bat, it's about pretending to be a bat. It isn't a record of experience, but a very close (if I am succesful as a poet and have a good imagination and grasp of bat physiology) representation of the experience of being a bat. Poetry is not true experience, but the representation of experience, converted not just into human terms, but into the specific poet's terms. A skilled poet draws closer and closer to the truth of the experience (if there even is such a thing), and here I feel math allegories are relevant: think of limits to infinity. Never truly obtainable, but if your approximation is accurate enough, you can perform complex calculations and send probes whizzing past Pluto. Humans may have more in common than bats do, which facilitates some level of empathy between one another, but no human is exactly like another, and thus the lense through which we view the world is inherently different than everyone elses, thus interpretations of poems and songs and movies will vary, as do religious creeds and understandings of science and mathematics. But then the question arises--if poetry is a form (albeit a glorified, intensified form) of communication, then is all communication merely a close approximation of some greater or more true truth? Perhaps. To believe so would be very platonic, but I'm not particularly interested in pinning down whether such a thing as absolute truth exists or not. To be honest, I think it's pointless--an unproveable point, and one better decided on an individual basis. Perhaps I will rant about this later, but not at present.
Anyway, digressions aside, poetry, I'd like to think, strives to be an ever-more-perfect representation of experience (among other things), but should not be confused with things as they actually are. Indeed, it is critical to understand the distinction for any proper interpretation of poetry (should you want to descend into such a nasty past time); it is only with the acceptance of the fact that poetry is not real but rather true that we can begin to pick greater meaning out of the core experience. Poetry can, thus, never be about absolutes, or absolute interpretations, though I find myself dangerously close to making absolute pronouncements. Oh noes.
I may pick this up later and continue, we shall see.

About Reunions

I wasn't extremely enthused about going to the reunion at Eleana's house; I was definitely more interested in sitting on my butt and playing Sins of a Solar Empire, but I went, and after the initially awkward I-don't-know-most-of-you-people bit it was fun. Apples to Apples is a wonderful icebreaker, though I do suck at it. Apparently handcuffs can't be as sensual as friction. Boo. Anyway, it was fun, and I'm glad that I went, and to some extent I'm sad that I didn't go to WCATY this summer, but I think I'm feeling more nostalgic about that because it's been so long since I actually was at WCATY, whereas Terra was still relatively recent. Nonetheless, there's something to be said for WCATY; mostly that WCATY was serious nerd camp, whereas EPGY (at least in Terra) people were intelligent, but not nerds in the traditional sense. Everyone was far, far to outgoing to really be a "nerd", properly speaking--not to say that's a bad thing. It's not even that surprising that all of the writers were the most sociable of everyone, and given how little contact we had with all of the other houses, I can't speak for the overall nerdiness of EPGY. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this post...
I guess what I'm trying to hit at is that when I think about the dorm at St. Norbert, I really, really miss it, in all of its shitty/scuzziness. Terra, not so much. I sorta feel bad, because we had so muc fun, and I think the more removed I am from it, the more I will remember it fondly, but still. That deep-seated ache isn't there. And it's not there for the first year that I was at WCATY either. I think that there was just something special, for me, about that second year, and I can't really say what it is, but I keep thinking about the courtyard and missing it pretty badly.

Hmm...

I'd write something intelligent here, if I were feeling intelligent, but alas, I am not.

I think I spent most of my effort and intellectual points on revising Videotape today when I perhaps should have been paying attention during AP Bio. Oh well. I'm at the point where I'm fighting with myself over specific word choice, which I figure is pretty good for a story; if it were poetry, we'd be in another area, but we're not, so this is good. The last big thing I've got to deal with is shifting verb tense. I don't want to go entirely present-tense with this, but all past seems a bit dull too. I slip into present naturally in a few areas, and then drop out of it again, so I'll have to zoom back a bit and assess the whole thing to see where I want to go with that. Good lord, the writing contest deadline is getting quite close.

Amusing Commentary

This is why I really enjoy Achewood. it really is unfortunate that I never take the time needed to catch up with the comic--a task that grows increasingly more daunting given its fucking ridiculous update pace--or even try to keep pace with it. Oh well. I'm also rather annoyed that somebody pulled down my Latin notecard, which I put this on. I might need to make another one of those and some point. I suppose we've got more important things to be worrying about at present. I hope Ms. Blinson is doing well.

Philosophizing, Part 1

[Cave: I like Camus and Fight Club too much for this to really count as original thought, but rather a re-examining of the sciences through glasses that others have constructed. I'd shudder to call it philosophy, but rather musing. And none of this is concrete belief, either, but merely the following of logic trains to their inevitable conclusion. The acceptance of that logic is another matter entirely.]
The fundamental reason that I don't like biology, especially cellular-tissue level biology is that i reduces human action to a mechanical string of reactions that fools itself into thinking that it is self-aware and self-determining. A cute trick, certainly, but a little disheartening. You kiss someone and think that you love them, but it's nothing more than a (theoretically) predictable and certainly uncontrollable string of chemical reactions in your brain that ramifies and feeds back to the other person. It even makes individiuality a moot point, since we trigger all of these back and forth reactions. What are our bodies and senses of individuality but arbitrary divisions, pieces of the greater biomass that think we're special just because we can't see how interwoven we are with everything else. It you have such a big impact on me, and I on you, but neither of s has much real control over "ourselves" or "each other", then why even make that separation? I have no control over the chemical reactions that compose me (more on that at a later date), but my reactions greatly affect yours and vis versa. Indeed, I could be said to have more control over you than you have over yourself, and vis versa, again. Unless you reject science wholesale, there can be no true, meaningful individuality. Not that that's a bad thing. Though it does make all of the nasty things we humans do to one another all the more grim.

From a biological perspective, the end goal of life is to beget more life. That's a sort-of purpose, and some hope can be derived from that. Humans can reconcile themselves to an endgame of that variety. Chemistry, on the other hand, seems much more pessimistic (or something like that). The chemist sees the universe without pourpose, but merely a trend toward ever-greater entrpy. Everything that we make and do will eventually be nothing but lonely atoms and ions drifting through space, increasingly more spread out and isolated in the infinite expanse of the universe. Even life, then, is merely a slowing of entropic growth, and the whole institution must eventually expire. Now you could go a step lower to the realm of physics and argue that maybe other universes tend toward order, but that's little comfort for us. You could also throw out the whole thing and go live in Alabama, but personally I'd miss hockey too much for that. So what then? Well, not much. You can take that half-step and accept the quantum mechanist's hope that the increasing disorder of our universe is vital to the maintenance of theoretical order in another theoretical universe that may or may not (theoretically) contain life. Or you can simply give up hope, embrace that hopelessness as liberation and exult in your present existence, stop worrying about a future that doesn't exist and which you cannot reach.

At some later point: free will.

A Manifesto of Some Variety

Twenty minutes ago I walked through airport security with chapstick in my pocket. Last I checked, that constituted a gl and an immediate threat to national security that could only be resolved with the 3-1-1 plastic bag policy. More worrying, the guy ahead of me was stopped and had his bag searched because he had a GameBoy in it; nobody noticed the lighter he had tossed on top of his coat as it rolled down the x-ray conveyor belt. I suppose the illusion of safety is nice, but when we can’t even maintain that illusion, something is wrong with the system. Or is there?
Almost every aspect of air travel is absurd. My iPod will in no way ever endanger the operation of the plane, emergency exit procedures are more or less a joke. That airlines keep up the pretense that flying as an isolated act of enjoyment is hilarious. But it’s not air travel, not as a singular system; the absurdity is endemic. Why on earth is TV littered with ads that I don’t process, let alone acknowledge the existence of? More worryingly, why do enough people pay attention to ads to make them worthwhile? Why do we as a country spend more money fighting terrorism when far, far more people die in traffic accidents every year? The whole world is utterly absurd, illogical (and who would’ve thought my favorite subject would be an attempt to systematize the fundamental chaos of the universe? Yeah, I love chem. And if you want more ammo for te absurdity argument--well, there you go).
Okay, so we’ve established that nothing really makes sense, but why? Surely we could regulate and modulate every aspect of human reality. Take love, for example; so messy and awkward, so many false starts, ruined reputations, hurt feelings--all for the sake of making babies. Come on, we could build factories to do that. Of course there’s more to love than that--but that’s all gravy from an efficiency/evolutionary standpoint. Dead weight, really. Absurdity, if you will. But it’s more fun that way. Why be grumpy about what is intrinsic to your very existence? No, I prefer to just chuckle quietly at the absurdity o this nonsensical construct we call society and reality. I pretend that I take airport security as seriously as the guy operating the x-ray machine so vigilantly while he also reads Candide. On the inside, I’m amused, but I play along and pretend not to see anything. And occasionally, I’m rewarded and run into someone with a similar outlook. As we strapped ourselves in and got ready to take off (as I began this essay, in fact), our flight attendent announces: “In the unlikely even that we land in the Arctic Ocean instead of Omaha, your seat cushion may be used as a floatation device. After you have paddled to shore, you may keep them, compliments of Midwest Express, the best care in the air.” Or something like that.

Standing on the Edge

There's a pervasive, skin-wriggling awareness that it's Election Day, that something monumental, something completely expected and anticipated is going to come to fruition today. I'm not speaking entirely for myself, though I am entirely swept up in it. Indeed, before today, I was just glad that this two year long circus will finally come to an end, and yet I can see that this trial--of the media, the candidates, and the American Public--has been vital in grinding down the possibilities to the very best available options. It is unfortunate, really, that something like this didn't happen four years ago (not that it would have made much of a difference economically speaking--that die was cast by one Ronald Reagan and his compatriots). In any case, there is now the expectation that this is not an election, but a coronation, that what was meant to be for so long has finally come to pass and we are merely going through the motions. Though there is still anticipation, anxious worry that some disaster may occur, and God forbid it should; there would be riots, perhaps--certainly something far greater than the outcry after 2000. I would almost be concerned, if I really felt that there were any possibility that some disaster may occur. But my usual blitheness has kicked in, and now I am merely enjoying the moments as we move closer to kicking out one circus animal and blocking the path of another pack of them before they do any considerable damage.

More Frustrated Than Anything

Well, I was going to be writing about writing and some of my thoughts on the process, as influenced recently by reading Neal Stephenson's Anathem, but I've more pressing things to vent about, and will have to return to my thoughts on writing theory at some later point.

The gist of my story is as follows: I talked to Pantano, and he has my letter of recommendation completed, but has yet to submit it and was unsure as to whether I wanted a copy to mail, or if he should submit it electronically. So I was a little miffed that he had forgotten that we decided to send it electronically, but the vast majority of the fault is mine. Just how I thought I could get away with not telling him my exact due date is beyond me, but I suppose that when he told me he would have it done by last Wednesday, I assumed that he would send it. Bad assumption. I've been making far, far too many of those lately, especially with such a complicated and important process as this. This is all coming off as rather dry, but I really am quite upset with myself. At first, I somewhat feebly tried to defend myself, and the fact that Mother Dearest went on the full offensive only made me more prickly, and for a while I managed to convince myself that if the recommendation were a few days late, it would not be a big deal. But after poking around the Stanford site, I'm absolutely terrified that something awful will happen. That I won't be in the Early Action consideration pool, that I won't get my application bumped to the Regular Decision pool. Something. God damn it, I've been working on this for three and a half years, and to see it jeopardized by one (admittedly large) screw-up on my part seems unfair. Of course it's unfair--it's happening to me and by default must be unfair, in my mind. In short, I'm very frustrated with myself, and this has more or less ruined my entire night. Joy. I would try to write some, but I ought to call Jane shortly. Maybe after that. We'll see. I'm sure she'll find some way to cheer me up, being fantastic and all, but this is going to be hanging over my head for a long time.