Full disclosure: the only cyberpunk stories I'm familiar with are Ghost in the Shell (all of it), Deus Ex (okay, I never finished Invisible War, but whatever) and E.Y.E.: Divine Cybermancy. I would add Matrix to this list, but that's more sci-fi/fantasy/wankery.
Also, everything I know about Memory Palaces I learned from the Taskmaster mini-series.
Two ideas which would only make sense against a cyberpunk background and which I've never seen used before:
1. Knowledge monopolies. If every person has to be connected to a global network at all times (civil registries, health monitors etc.), schools would presumably become obsolete. Information could be directly accessed and teaching would only be necessary to facilitate understanding rather than an actual passing on of knowledge. Private tutors on commission instead of mandatory school/learning.
Now, we already have sites which host scientific articles and require payment to access the information. Extend that concept through complacency and corruption and even basic knowledge could be stored on protected servers with a subscription fee. Essentially, rather than equalizing people of different financial spheres, this would increase social polarization by guaranteeing that the poor can't learn and the rich can't fail. Any attempts at teaching or spreading information beyond those secure networks would be met with lawsuits by the companies holding rights to the specific information.
This could seem like a very simple case of oppression of the poor by the rich, but that information is also withheld. In other words, the poor wouldn't know how much information is being withheld from them and the rich would be kept ignorant of the discrepancy. Access to information would be regulated by a (government?) group based on automatic payment (taxes?).
Eventually found out (details irrelevant) and information spread physically. Poor decide to acquire access through alternative means. First off, living in dumps: word re-appropriated. Many disconnect from main servers, lose human rights and basic privileges/functionality. Instead, pool resources to allow one person to have more money and thus more information. Dumper uploads info to local network to which the rest are connected. They dump money and get information. Not a popular practice and illegal, but preferred by some.
Some dumps could resemble churches functionally. Members try to convert people to join them, so the overall money pool will increase. Information as their 'God' and a fanatical drive to acquire more by both membership and theft/mugging. In trying to solidify this concept, an image appears in my head that makes me smile: combine Jehovahs witnesses with bandit groups, highwaymen and thieves chasing after an attainable approximation of divinity like drug addicts. The inevitable conclusion of people obsessed with a delusion of equality which translates to more power for them.
Sudden fall in population in short period of time due to disconnects. Explained to the rich as contagious sickness in poor areas. Further separates social spheres in reaction to contact between rich and poor leading to discovery of information segregation.
Less pleasant method: 'milking' rich people for information. Breaking and entering/threats/blackmail. Basically, whatever it takes to get them to share their data. Possible focal point of story as group milks important, rich person by breaking in and taking family hostage. Pro- and antagonist? Lack of villain/ global victimization/ lesser evil? Story could work out any which way, really.
Idea 2: Recycled brains.
Mostly related to Divine Cybermancy and most usefull for a videogame structure (which is to say: in first person and with interaction). Requires brains being fully mechanical or in some way accessible mechanically. Erasing the majority of memories, but not acquired skills, would allow for the same functioning person to be remade (in a new body, if necessary) after either severe damage, compromised security or unacceptable/rebellious behaviour.
Could lead to vague shreds of memories lingering from one round to the next. Lights/sounds/regocnition of objects and places. Over time, memories linked strongly to sensory input could carry over. Player character could find pieces of previous memory palaces (not sure if there's an actual term for the individual pieces, but I personally refer to them as "relics"), which would allow for varying information to be acquired based on what is recovered and in what order.
This one's hard to explain and really makes much more sense if one has played Divine Cybermancy. Player character perhaps problematic. Repeatedly finds out about recycled brains. Other characters could also have memories sparked by PC.
I think that's the basics. Well, back to work
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
So I've tried watching a bit of Pipkins after hearing about it on You Have Been Watching.
The rabbits voice bothered me right away, but I couldn't figure out immediately why. After about two minutes, it hit me: he sounds exactly like Salad Fingers.
Then there's the monkey. Notice how none of the other puppets have clearly visible sewing. The monkeys sewing, however, is clearly visible on the face. What's more, little bits of skin seem to extend past his face. I can only conclude that he is in fact wearing the skin of another monkey sewn onto his face.
So we have a human in a (pet?) store with Salad Hare teaching morality while the monkey, who probably eats the other monkeys before taking their faces, does whatever he wants. The whole thing just sounds a little bit Candle Cove to me. I can't help but think the human is like their prisoner.
Perhaps the pet store is really just a front and funding scam in order to acquire new monkeys legally for Cannibal-Monkey to devour and wear. What, then, do we find under the fake monkey face? How was the simple human to know, all those many years ago, that the sinewy curiosity his mother called a monster would so thoroughly destroy his life?
Unknowingly, he had entered a pact with a creature not fit for this world. The miserable days now pass as a grey blur occasionally interrupted by the sounds of monkeys desperately fighting for their lives as their organs are torn directly out of their bodies. He knows it has been too long and the horrors too many for any hope of a normal life. All he can do now is spare another this cage of terror by bearing it as he has for decades and likely will until his death. What is a human lifetime to this creature? Does time have the same value for it as for him? More? Less?
When the current face rots and tears, a new monkey must go and a new face must be attached with thread and needle. Nothing too permanent. As a child, it had seemed a game. Later in life, the act of sewing dead flesh onto skull and muscle filled him with dread. Now, nothing is left of the apprehension of saner times. It is simply the way of things.
Whenever a human does pass through the shop, it brightens Pipkins' day just a bit. If he has a pleasant conversation and the monkey doesn't bother him all day, he may even go to bed a happy man. This is a mistake quickly rectified by the Hare. In the night, Mr. Pipkins will awaken and see Hartley-Salad-Fingers-Hare above his bed with a knife; eyes burning with rage and a thundering voice:
"Did you have a nice day today? It seemed like you were smiling for a moment there. You know I HATE IT WHEN YOU SMILE!"
Soaked in sweat, Pipkins awakens unharmed, but knowing full well that he'll find a bloody knife on his nightstand. He looks up at the disembodied head of Marjorie from three blocks down and wipes the trickling blood from his face. The rabbit is like a warden; appearing only when the bars of the prison become less visible to remind Pipkins of his place. The knife is a reminder that he is, in a way, to blame for the murder.
He stumbles downstairs and finds the monkey playing with bits of bone. His face is torn and the grinning beast underneath becomes half visible. As if waiting for this cue, it rips the rest of its fake face off in one go and says:"I love the ones who put up a fight. They're so much tastier. Get the needle and thread, will you? Need a new face." Pipkins doesn't argue anymore. He heads into storage to get his tools.
He's considered it, ofcourse. Sewing on a new face for himself. Marjories is fresh right now, but he knows he couldn't go through with it. Removing the face would require a steadier hand and stronger stomach than he can manage. Still, maybe it would help. It wouldn't fool anybody, but the monkey might like him more and be less malicious. Or maybe the world would simply look less horrible through somebody elses eyes.
Lost in thought, he doesn't notice the monkey climbing onto his shoulder and whispering into his ear:"Get the slightly darker thread. This one got a bit sssssinged before removal." Thread in one hand, he grabs the needle with the other and checks the tip against the light. Suddenly, a new thought hits him:"Perhaps the world would look a bit brighter if I had beady, little monkey eyes."
.........
It used to be a pet shop quite some time ago. Now they only sell plush monkeys. The old man lost his eyes and couldn't look after the animals anymore, you see. The puppets look a bit odd, but the townsfolk felt bad for Mr. Pipkins and started buying them. Pretty soon, every house had one and tourists started assuming it was a local tradition, which increased their popularity greatly. He still has that one monkey he always had and the puppets seem to be modeled after him. Sometimes people will even see the monkey guide his hand while sewing. "It must have taken a lot of training to get him to do that," they say. "Indeed it did," thinks the monkey "but it was worth it."
As for the Hare? Nobody's seen him for a long time. And that, dear children, is called a pun. Good night.
Then there's the monkey. Notice how none of the other puppets have clearly visible sewing. The monkeys sewing, however, is clearly visible on the face. What's more, little bits of skin seem to extend past his face. I can only conclude that he is in fact wearing the skin of another monkey sewn onto his face.
So we have a human in a (pet?) store with Salad Hare teaching morality while the monkey, who probably eats the other monkeys before taking their faces, does whatever he wants. The whole thing just sounds a little bit Candle Cove to me. I can't help but think the human is like their prisoner.
Perhaps the pet store is really just a front and funding scam in order to acquire new monkeys legally for Cannibal-Monkey to devour and wear. What, then, do we find under the fake monkey face? How was the simple human to know, all those many years ago, that the sinewy curiosity his mother called a monster would so thoroughly destroy his life?
Unknowingly, he had entered a pact with a creature not fit for this world. The miserable days now pass as a grey blur occasionally interrupted by the sounds of monkeys desperately fighting for their lives as their organs are torn directly out of their bodies. He knows it has been too long and the horrors too many for any hope of a normal life. All he can do now is spare another this cage of terror by bearing it as he has for decades and likely will until his death. What is a human lifetime to this creature? Does time have the same value for it as for him? More? Less?
When the current face rots and tears, a new monkey must go and a new face must be attached with thread and needle. Nothing too permanent. As a child, it had seemed a game. Later in life, the act of sewing dead flesh onto skull and muscle filled him with dread. Now, nothing is left of the apprehension of saner times. It is simply the way of things.
Whenever a human does pass through the shop, it brightens Pipkins' day just a bit. If he has a pleasant conversation and the monkey doesn't bother him all day, he may even go to bed a happy man. This is a mistake quickly rectified by the Hare. In the night, Mr. Pipkins will awaken and see Hartley-Salad-Fingers-Hare above his bed with a knife; eyes burning with rage and a thundering voice:
"Did you have a nice day today? It seemed like you were smiling for a moment there. You know I HATE IT WHEN YOU SMILE!"
Soaked in sweat, Pipkins awakens unharmed, but knowing full well that he'll find a bloody knife on his nightstand. He looks up at the disembodied head of Marjorie from three blocks down and wipes the trickling blood from his face. The rabbit is like a warden; appearing only when the bars of the prison become less visible to remind Pipkins of his place. The knife is a reminder that he is, in a way, to blame for the murder.
He stumbles downstairs and finds the monkey playing with bits of bone. His face is torn and the grinning beast underneath becomes half visible. As if waiting for this cue, it rips the rest of its fake face off in one go and says:"I love the ones who put up a fight. They're so much tastier. Get the needle and thread, will you? Need a new face." Pipkins doesn't argue anymore. He heads into storage to get his tools.
He's considered it, ofcourse. Sewing on a new face for himself. Marjories is fresh right now, but he knows he couldn't go through with it. Removing the face would require a steadier hand and stronger stomach than he can manage. Still, maybe it would help. It wouldn't fool anybody, but the monkey might like him more and be less malicious. Or maybe the world would simply look less horrible through somebody elses eyes.
Lost in thought, he doesn't notice the monkey climbing onto his shoulder and whispering into his ear:"Get the slightly darker thread. This one got a bit sssssinged before removal." Thread in one hand, he grabs the needle with the other and checks the tip against the light. Suddenly, a new thought hits him:"Perhaps the world would look a bit brighter if I had beady, little monkey eyes."
.........
It used to be a pet shop quite some time ago. Now they only sell plush monkeys. The old man lost his eyes and couldn't look after the animals anymore, you see. The puppets look a bit odd, but the townsfolk felt bad for Mr. Pipkins and started buying them. Pretty soon, every house had one and tourists started assuming it was a local tradition, which increased their popularity greatly. He still has that one monkey he always had and the puppets seem to be modeled after him. Sometimes people will even see the monkey guide his hand while sewing. "It must have taken a lot of training to get him to do that," they say. "Indeed it did," thinks the monkey "but it was worth it."
As for the Hare? Nobody's seen him for a long time. And that, dear children, is called a pun. Good night.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Scene
This works best if you read it as Fry and Laurie. Fry obviously being Howard.
Howard: Morning, Basil.
Basil: Morning, Howard. How are you this fine day?
H: Oh, resplendent.
B: Really? May I inquire as to why you're in such a chipper mood?
H: Certainly. I'm having an existential crisis, you see.
B: Oh, you lucky dog.
H: I know, I know. It's a good one too.
B: Gotten any cards yet?
H: And chocolates and flowers.
B: How delightfull. I'm afraid I haven't had an existential crisis since that near-death experience five years ago.
H: Ah, but that was a two-for-one. You have to value quality alongside quantity.
B: I know. Still, five years of the same outlook on life and existence. It gets a bit tedious, you know.
H: Well, have you tried having an existential crisis about the fact that you're not having any existential crises?
B: I did, but it resolved itself instantly.
H: Oh. Yes, I suppose it would.
B: But never mind that. What is your most recent introspective calamity about?
H: Well, it's to do with the multiverse, you see.
B: Oh, I don't go for that sort of thing.
H: I know you don't. Hence the contextual preface before the explanation.
B: Much appreciated. I'll get you one of those multiverse specific cards that says something witty like:"Get well next universe." Anyway, carry on.
H: Well, I've found myself wondering whether or not my other selves are still alive. In itself not particularly important, but then the following occurred to me: if we assume that all things must happen at all times, does that not mean my continued survival necessitated the death of myself many times over? Have I not, merely by existing, doomed myself millions of times without sparing so much as a thought for the poor sods who have reached their end before mine?
B: Blimey. That's a good one.
H: It is, isn't it?
B: I mean, what do you do about it? There's no direct reason to feel guilty.
H: Precisely. And yet, the seed of guilt is there.
B: Very true. But what if you kill yourself to atone?
H: Ah, but then another me will not have killed himself and all I'll be doing is adding to his burden through my death. And yet if I don't, then I know he did and I carry that burden.
B: All the worse because you're aware of it.
H: Precisely.
Howard: Morning, Basil.
Basil: Morning, Howard. How are you this fine day?
H: Oh, resplendent.
B: Really? May I inquire as to why you're in such a chipper mood?
H: Certainly. I'm having an existential crisis, you see.
B: Oh, you lucky dog.
H: I know, I know. It's a good one too.
B: Gotten any cards yet?
H: And chocolates and flowers.
B: How delightfull. I'm afraid I haven't had an existential crisis since that near-death experience five years ago.
H: Ah, but that was a two-for-one. You have to value quality alongside quantity.
B: I know. Still, five years of the same outlook on life and existence. It gets a bit tedious, you know.
H: Well, have you tried having an existential crisis about the fact that you're not having any existential crises?
B: I did, but it resolved itself instantly.
H: Oh. Yes, I suppose it would.
B: But never mind that. What is your most recent introspective calamity about?
H: Well, it's to do with the multiverse, you see.
B: Oh, I don't go for that sort of thing.
H: I know you don't. Hence the contextual preface before the explanation.
B: Much appreciated. I'll get you one of those multiverse specific cards that says something witty like:"Get well next universe." Anyway, carry on.
H: Well, I've found myself wondering whether or not my other selves are still alive. In itself not particularly important, but then the following occurred to me: if we assume that all things must happen at all times, does that not mean my continued survival necessitated the death of myself many times over? Have I not, merely by existing, doomed myself millions of times without sparing so much as a thought for the poor sods who have reached their end before mine?
B: Blimey. That's a good one.
H: It is, isn't it?
B: I mean, what do you do about it? There's no direct reason to feel guilty.
H: Precisely. And yet, the seed of guilt is there.
B: Very true. But what if you kill yourself to atone?
H: Ah, but then another me will not have killed himself and all I'll be doing is adding to his burden through my death. And yet if I don't, then I know he did and I carry that burden.
B: All the worse because you're aware of it.
H: Precisely.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Random bits of dialogue and exposition for the idea from the previous post
RomCom:
Instead of an accident, the dead couple are killed in a fake protest. The necrophiliacs, pretending to be protesters and revolutionaries, walk into the mall with ski masks and start shouting for random freeing of things, such as "Free:
Tibet, China, taco tuesday, air, refills, milkshake with purchase of a happy meal and the coupon from this sundays paper, Willy (pointing out that he means his penis), lemons from their merengue prisons, hugs."
Upon reaching the couple, one shouts "free eyeballs" and licks the womans eye (held open with his fingers) and slits her throat. Male freaks out and n2 stabs him in the back saying "free love" and jiggles the blade spastically. Security/cops (whatever) arrive, n1 shouts:"Free freedom!"; officer points out:"That's not how it works!" They run. End prologue, essentially. Funeral irrelevant and only necessary to establish correct grave.
As time carries on, the necrophiliacs become increasingly paranoid as the corpses seem to talk back and disapprove regularly. Culminates in a breakfast scene where they're clearly on one side of the table and the bones (by this point) on the other.
n1: Look at them. Not even eating. What are they up to?
n2: They've been plotting against us, you know. You can tell from the body language. I don't know what's going to happen, but we need to strike first.
n1: Agreed. What do we do?
n2: Simple. We kill us before they manage to kill us. We can't lose.
n1: Brilliant! Proper precautions must be made, however. Guns?
n2: Guns, certainly. Outside too. Let's not leave a mess behind.
n1: Ofcourse. We're necrophiliacs; not savages. Now?
n2: Now.
They get up to leave. N1 attempts to kiss one skeleton, stops and mutters: "Frigid bitch." as they head to their car. N2 just goes for the forceful full skull-kiss. After they leave, the bones talk to each other:
b1: Can you believe those assholes?
b2: I know. Didn't even give me time to put on lipstick.
b1: What? How is that your main concern?
b2: Hey! Till death do us part, yeah? Face it, we're over.
b1: I can't believe I'm hearing this. Mother was right about you.
b2: Again with your mother! Is she dead too?
b1: No, but not for lack of trying on your part.
b2: So what would she know about being dead? And her sweaters were hide- Wait, what's that sound?
b1: Sounds like animals.
b1&2: WILD DOGS!
N1+2 return to find some scattered bones.
n1: What the fuck happened here?
n2: Looks like wild dogs. Don't worry about it. There's plenty left for one.
n1: I'll get to work on the note, then. Do what you can. Toolkit's in the bathroom.
They use rope, bolts and assorted chiquanery to attach all the remaining bones into a sort-of-human skeleton with bits of the spine missing, the broken jaw directly on the ribcage and the third foot replacing the left hand. Add wear and breakage to taste.
Scene: front porch
n1: Good a time as any, I suppose.
n2: Yeah. Ready to die?
n1: Suppose so... Hang on. Weren't we killing ourselves to beat them to it?
n2: Yeah. Can't let the grinning bastards have the satisfaction.
n1: Yeah. Right. But they're all to pieces now, so what's it matter?
n2: Right, but this way we can make them pay in the afterlife.
n1: I'm not sure I follow.
n2: Then lead. *shoots n1 and then self*
Instead of an accident, the dead couple are killed in a fake protest. The necrophiliacs, pretending to be protesters and revolutionaries, walk into the mall with ski masks and start shouting for random freeing of things, such as "Free:
Tibet, China, taco tuesday, air, refills, milkshake with purchase of a happy meal and the coupon from this sundays paper, Willy (pointing out that he means his penis), lemons from their merengue prisons, hugs."
Upon reaching the couple, one shouts "free eyeballs" and licks the womans eye (held open with his fingers) and slits her throat. Male freaks out and n2 stabs him in the back saying "free love" and jiggles the blade spastically. Security/cops (whatever) arrive, n1 shouts:"Free freedom!"; officer points out:"That's not how it works!" They run. End prologue, essentially. Funeral irrelevant and only necessary to establish correct grave.
As time carries on, the necrophiliacs become increasingly paranoid as the corpses seem to talk back and disapprove regularly. Culminates in a breakfast scene where they're clearly on one side of the table and the bones (by this point) on the other.
n1: Look at them. Not even eating. What are they up to?
n2: They've been plotting against us, you know. You can tell from the body language. I don't know what's going to happen, but we need to strike first.
n1: Agreed. What do we do?
n2: Simple. We kill us before they manage to kill us. We can't lose.
n1: Brilliant! Proper precautions must be made, however. Guns?
n2: Guns, certainly. Outside too. Let's not leave a mess behind.
n1: Ofcourse. We're necrophiliacs; not savages. Now?
n2: Now.
They get up to leave. N1 attempts to kiss one skeleton, stops and mutters: "Frigid bitch." as they head to their car. N2 just goes for the forceful full skull-kiss. After they leave, the bones talk to each other:
b1: Can you believe those assholes?
b2: I know. Didn't even give me time to put on lipstick.
b1: What? How is that your main concern?
b2: Hey! Till death do us part, yeah? Face it, we're over.
b1: I can't believe I'm hearing this. Mother was right about you.
b2: Again with your mother! Is she dead too?
b1: No, but not for lack of trying on your part.
b2: So what would she know about being dead? And her sweaters were hide- Wait, what's that sound?
b1: Sounds like animals.
b1&2: WILD DOGS!
N1+2 return to find some scattered bones.
n1: What the fuck happened here?
n2: Looks like wild dogs. Don't worry about it. There's plenty left for one.
n1: I'll get to work on the note, then. Do what you can. Toolkit's in the bathroom.
They use rope, bolts and assorted chiquanery to attach all the remaining bones into a sort-of-human skeleton with bits of the spine missing, the broken jaw directly on the ribcage and the third foot replacing the left hand. Add wear and breakage to taste.
Scene: front porch
n1: Good a time as any, I suppose.
n2: Yeah. Ready to die?
n1: Suppose so... Hang on. Weren't we killing ourselves to beat them to it?
n2: Yeah. Can't let the grinning bastards have the satisfaction.
n1: Yeah. Right. But they're all to pieces now, so what's it matter?
n2: Right, but this way we can make them pay in the afterlife.
n1: I'm not sure I follow.
n2: Then lead. *shoots n1 and then self*
Saturday, July 30, 2011
I probably shouldn't post this, but I've had the necessary amount of caffeine and alcohol.
So a twist on the idea of a romantic story, with or without comedy, best suited, visually speaking, for a comic book style.
Page 1 introduces two lead characters with swaths of text giving a quick description of each and a short history of their relationship. Some sappy gibberish about problems overcome, trials and tribulations and the remaining rot copyable wholesale from almost any movie. Then, on page 2, they die a swift-yet-not-too-disfiguring death and are buried together.
The remainder of the comic follows two necrophiliacs who dig up the corpses, drag them back to their shared apartment and continue to have sexual relations with said corpses (after, ofcourse, neatly reburying the graves. They're necrophiliacs; not savages. In fact, that should be their motto).
The tricky bit is that they've done quite a bit of research on these people pre-death and actually have 'conversations' with the corpses on account of not being of the soundest mental health. It is later established that they had in fact chosen these two after stalking them and finding out whatever they could about them. In fact, they actively created the 'accident' that killed the fake protagonists and it's made clear this isn't the first time.
Several romantic dinners, nights of cuddling and entirely fictional arguments with corpses in various states of putrefaction later, the necrophiliacs decide to kill themselves to join their dearly beloved in the afterlife. They, ofcourse, make sure to kill themselves in a neat and orderly fashion, but only after having left a letter explaining the matter in its entirety to whomever comes upon the scene. After all, they are, as has been established, necrophiliacs; not savages.
It then ends with an image of necro1+2 having intercourse of the unpleasant variety with their victims in the bowels of hell. The bottom of the page reads:"The End and Fuck You." Flipping it over, the very last page and back cover are used for a splash page representing a nightmare I once had:
Background: A giant tiger/man/horse with visible sewing, mutilation and rotting bits. 17 Eyes attached to the limbs. Vomiting a sea of hair.
Foreground: The giant, metallic face of Hitler chewing on infant corpses while a naked Japanese man runs circles shouting:"Me no fucky ducky!"
That's about as romantic as I get.
Page 1 introduces two lead characters with swaths of text giving a quick description of each and a short history of their relationship. Some sappy gibberish about problems overcome, trials and tribulations and the remaining rot copyable wholesale from almost any movie. Then, on page 2, they die a swift-yet-not-too-disfiguring death and are buried together.
The remainder of the comic follows two necrophiliacs who dig up the corpses, drag them back to their shared apartment and continue to have sexual relations with said corpses (after, ofcourse, neatly reburying the graves. They're necrophiliacs; not savages. In fact, that should be their motto).
The tricky bit is that they've done quite a bit of research on these people pre-death and actually have 'conversations' with the corpses on account of not being of the soundest mental health. It is later established that they had in fact chosen these two after stalking them and finding out whatever they could about them. In fact, they actively created the 'accident' that killed the fake protagonists and it's made clear this isn't the first time.
Several romantic dinners, nights of cuddling and entirely fictional arguments with corpses in various states of putrefaction later, the necrophiliacs decide to kill themselves to join their dearly beloved in the afterlife. They, ofcourse, make sure to kill themselves in a neat and orderly fashion, but only after having left a letter explaining the matter in its entirety to whomever comes upon the scene. After all, they are, as has been established, necrophiliacs; not savages.
It then ends with an image of necro1+2 having intercourse of the unpleasant variety with their victims in the bowels of hell. The bottom of the page reads:"The End and Fuck You." Flipping it over, the very last page and back cover are used for a splash page representing a nightmare I once had:
Background: A giant tiger/man/horse with visible sewing, mutilation and rotting bits. 17 Eyes attached to the limbs. Vomiting a sea of hair.
Foreground: The giant, metallic face of Hitler chewing on infant corpses while a naked Japanese man runs circles shouting:"Me no fucky ducky!"
That's about as romantic as I get.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Ideas had before and during work.
Waiting for the bus to work, I looked at the sign advertising a phone by way of showing people on vacation. Smiling white girls in trendy clothing next to a miserable looking old man holding a freshly caught fish. It occurred to me that vacations are basically rich people giving their money to poor people for overpriced accommodations and trinkets. Essentially, going on vacation is an unexpectedly socialist undertaking for being such a capitalist luxury.
As a believer in determinism, all human behaviour seems to fit in the natural order of survival of the fittest. A common mistake of people who believe in free will is to assume that determinism would only go into effect from the moment one begins to believe it, whereas everything up to that point just magically appeared outside of the natural order. Frequently heard is the counter-argument: “if people are going to do what they’re supposed to do, shouldn’t we get rid of our legal system?” This would only apply if this legal system hadn’t developed as a way for our species to regulate itself in accordance with the wishes of the majority. It is, as all things, simply a part of the current natural order. As such, judges serve as the ones who determine whether someone is sufficiently fit to be permitted continued membership of the human race.
Intending to use these together for a short play.
The point of it all.
In creating this blog, I am essentially replacing all the notebooks that have been filling up for a decade now. Most of the things I've written over the years would make me cringe if I attempted to read them today, but I'm not one to learn from my mistakes, so I've decided to start archiving my embarrassing ramblings on the internet.
As for my intentions, I have decided I shall post whatever thoughts pop into my head that I deem even somewhat interesting and shall express them in the manner most comfortable and understandable for myself. In other words, if you disapprove of my literary mannerisms and word usage: too fucking bad. I write as I think and I have no intention of translating my, perhaps excessively, verbose thoughts into common speech. Not only would doing so affect my own pleasure in writing, but it would force a translation of meaning into an essentially unfamiliar thought pattern. I may, at times, write in varying styles for any number of reasons; especially in the case of fictional pieces. Put simply: I can't make any stylistic guarantees.
As for actual content, I intend to write not only the eventual worked out versions of ideas, but also the primary thoughts and explorations thereof. This is as much for my own benefit as yours. With any luck, you'll enjoy reading the various steps from a simple idea to an actual story or more fleshed out theory. For my part, I will have a clearer overview of how I came to a conclusion. This is something I found problematically lacking in older writings, where a final product was frequently presented without much in the way of context or inspiration. I find it quite vexing to read my own older work and think:"What the hell was the point of this again?" only to realize there are no indications in the text itself and nowhere in the crumbling caverns of my memory do I even recall writing the piece.
Furthermore, I don't intend to limit this blog to either particular types of writings nor even internal consistency. I may use posts as nothing more than a way for myself to work out ideas for parts of other works I have on my pc or laptop or as depositories for the rambling theories that occupy my mind. Random chunks of stories without explanations or introductions to the characters may appear, but will probably be easily distinguishable by their titles and/or a preface stating as much. There may be opinions expressed which are my own, but it's equally possible that an opinion seems to me to fit the character or simply makes for a good excuse to write.
I think that covers the basics.
As for my intentions, I have decided I shall post whatever thoughts pop into my head that I deem even somewhat interesting and shall express them in the manner most comfortable and understandable for myself. In other words, if you disapprove of my literary mannerisms and word usage: too fucking bad. I write as I think and I have no intention of translating my, perhaps excessively, verbose thoughts into common speech. Not only would doing so affect my own pleasure in writing, but it would force a translation of meaning into an essentially unfamiliar thought pattern. I may, at times, write in varying styles for any number of reasons; especially in the case of fictional pieces. Put simply: I can't make any stylistic guarantees.
As for actual content, I intend to write not only the eventual worked out versions of ideas, but also the primary thoughts and explorations thereof. This is as much for my own benefit as yours. With any luck, you'll enjoy reading the various steps from a simple idea to an actual story or more fleshed out theory. For my part, I will have a clearer overview of how I came to a conclusion. This is something I found problematically lacking in older writings, where a final product was frequently presented without much in the way of context or inspiration. I find it quite vexing to read my own older work and think:"What the hell was the point of this again?" only to realize there are no indications in the text itself and nowhere in the crumbling caverns of my memory do I even recall writing the piece.
Furthermore, I don't intend to limit this blog to either particular types of writings nor even internal consistency. I may use posts as nothing more than a way for myself to work out ideas for parts of other works I have on my pc or laptop or as depositories for the rambling theories that occupy my mind. Random chunks of stories without explanations or introductions to the characters may appear, but will probably be easily distinguishable by their titles and/or a preface stating as much. There may be opinions expressed which are my own, but it's equally possible that an opinion seems to me to fit the character or simply makes for a good excuse to write.
I think that covers the basics.
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