Wednesday, July 22, 2015

One more reason to not to respond to attention whores.

     We've all been there, haven't we? You read an article, and you read it, and you finish reading it, and you go all the way to the bottom............. to the comment section. You look through them, to see what other ppl are thinking....

     ....... and then you see it. Some smartass who thinks he is changing the world with his hot OPINIONS. His comment is so stupid, so angering, so factually incorrect, SO MAKING YOU CLICK THAT REPLY BU-......... but no, you must stop! Do not reply!

     "But why? I must show that idiot that his position is wrong and he is factually incorrect!"

     Well, that is not the smartest course de actionsé. Arguing with an idiot who thinks he is fighting a war in the comment section, will only fuel the fire; it will only strengthen the idiot's believe that there is a war. Why wouldn't there be? But of course there is! You are right there, fighting a war with him, with your comment!

     Smartasses in comment sections think they are fighting a war against something BIG and evil. By replying, you reaffirm their belief that there is a force to be fought (your comment). By not replying, by ignoring the fuck out of them, there is a slight chance they might consider the possibility that they are fighting against nothing, that there is nothing to win, nobody to fight.

     By ignoring angry idiots you just might help them become slightly less idiotic.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

SIlent Hill for Pretentious Smartasses Part 2 (long awaited by nobody).

     Alrighty then, let's jump into it. If you haven't read part 1, go read that first before proceeding.

     Are the events of Silent Hill 1-3 real? Those who prefer to think that they aren't, are in for quite an offense. I'll start with the supporting characters.

     So, you think Silent Hill is all in youre heade? Okay. Explain the supporting characters then. How can the other people you interact with exist, if it's all in your mind? And you might be saying something like "oh, those people are just representations of [ blah blah Freudian Psychology 101 ]".

     Well, if all those people in Silent Hill 2 are somehow in the head of the protagonist, that raises certain questions:

     –How? How can people live inside your head? How can you have that? I personally never heard of anyone who has people living in his/her head. Yes, we all heard of insane people who have people living in their heads (or so they claim). Well, I never did, and so refuse to believe.

     –If SH supporting characters are really representations of protagonist's guilt, then what about those characters who do not represent fucking anything?? In the favorite game of the "in your head" proponents, Silent Hill 2, Laura does not represent shit. That contradicts the "all in your head" directly.

     –Supporting characters' backstory. In the much beloved SH2, Angela was raped. Eddie was abused for being fat. What does that have to do with James Fucking Sunderland?? Was James fat? Was James raepd? NO. What do those backstories represent symbolically (there is that word again) in relation to James? FUCKING NOTHING. How can these people be imaginary, if their backstories have nothing to do with James? The answer is, they cannot.

     –If everyone is imaginary, how can your imaginary characters know information you never learned? Eddie told James Laura's name. Angela told James about the monsters, before James ever saw one. Maria feels like she was meant to protect Laura, which reflects the feelings Mary had for the girl; James never knew they were friends. All those supporting characters in SH2, at least at one point, knew something James did not. That would indicate that they cannot be imaginary, and must be real people.

     Okay, I hope these are some convincing arguments to convince you that the events of Silent Hill 2 did not happen in James's head. If you are still not convinced, then wait for part 3!

Friday, July 3, 2015

In Defense of Sequels.

     if you go on the INTERNET, and look around, you will quickly find a sizable amount of humans united around the common goal of hating sequels. According to them, sequels are bad and need to stop.

     Well, why they say that is not hard to figure out. Sequels are produced only to make money, after the original did. Or at least that is the common belief. That is hard to argue with. The biggest makers of movies (hello, Hollywood) are run by Big Bad Corporations, which in turn are not run by artists, but by corporate people who do not care for quality storytelling. They will finance utter shit, as long as it makes money. From the corporate leaders' point of view, as long as there is profit, the movie can be fucking anything. Unfortunately for them, the actual movie audience doesn't give a damn about that point of view.

     And the general public knows that. People know that sequels are only made to sell more tickets.

     BUT WAIT! That is not true!

     ... at least not entirely.

     Allow me to introduce you to the glorious World of Exceptions. World of Exceptions is visited 1643 times less than Disney World, and therefore is seldom known. But it does exist! And it contains some of the rarest pieces of knowledge, the stuff of legends, the stuff self-proclaimed wise men (and women) want to get. And one of the things you'll find in the World of Exceptions is that sometimes, SOMETIMES, movies are made because the filmmakers actually legitimately for realz want to.

     But why would a film maker want to make a sequel? Why not leave every movie self-contained?

     Well, I'll tell you why. Because sometimes there are more stories left to tell in the established universe. Because sometimes plot threads are unfinished. Ever heard of Shrek 2? Empire Strikes Back? Back to the Future 2? Sometimes the directors/writers want to keep going. Sometimes they want to make more, not because it'll make money; because it would be cool to make more. Because those sequels would be so great if we ever manage to make them!

     And if I still haven't gotten through to you, let me put it like this. Imagine movies as really long episodes of an ongoing series. Imagine movies and their sequels as serials. Imagine movies as long chapters of one book.

     And I am not saying all movies need sequels. Most movies had sequels forced upon them. However, some movies deserve sequels. Some movies need sequels, or else they would remain unfinished forever.

     I know you might be burned by Hollywood and its many clones around the world. I know you probably hate sequels. But please do not hate all of them! Please visit the World of Exceptions.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 9 & 10.

     The three were resting when an eerie stillness crept upon them from the east. The river calmed as though pressed by a large and powerful hand; it swept past them quickly, the current dizzying in its velocity, its surface no longer tongued by white water. It deepened past green to black, sucking all sound from the air. The wind died, the roaring of the river became a whisper, until they heard nothing but their own breathing and the solemn creak of firs and cedars shifting uncomfortably in the unearthly hush. They moved back from the river as darkness fell, seeking the harsh solidity of the trees' shelter.
     "Night comes early in these parts," Matthew said. Derin laughed nervously and pressed his back against the trunk of a fir. The air was grainy, as though it had taken the density of night, its muted weight. In that silence, each of them thought of the owl and the power of darkness. Derin looked up, expecting to see a vast black wingspread descend to them, talons tensed.
     He felt a surge of fear, and on his wrist a blue vein pulsed. He closed his eyes and tried to calm the racing of his heart. Vera crouched low between the two of them, her ears flattened against her head. She growled deep in her throat and her tail bristled. Her breathing, like Matthew's, was quick and shallow. As the darkness had come, so the day returned to them, moving from the east. First the wind's sighing resumed in the upper branches of the trees, and waves reared upon the river's surface. And then the grey light surrounded them, casting ashes on their faces.
     "What was it?" Derin asked.
     "I don't know," Matthew said. "I've never seen anything like it." They looked at Vera, half-expecting her to understand what had happened, but she shrugged and stared at the sky. "I thought we'd come to the end," she said. "I never expected to be grateful for this thin light. It only goes to show how little time is left. We should push on."

                                                   *                         *                        *

     As Vera had said, there was swamp on this side too. It stretched before them as they picked up their packs and headed west. Ice and water, moss-covered hillocks, the grooved trunks of cedars passed around them as in a dream. Derin had the feeling they'd gotten nowhere, but the river's thunder receded until its sound disappeared into the icy water. The fox, who was leading, turned, and Derin almost tripped over her. "It won't be long," she reassured them. "Don't worry."
     Matthew whistled strange fragmentary pieces of a song Derin hadn't heard before. A few notes rose into the air and hung stranded, waiting for others which never came. He seemed preoccupied, half-dazed, and the boy wondered if the wound on the satyr's forehead were more serious than it looked. Derin kept up with the fox, who wasted no time threading a passage through the water, but the satyr lagged behind. He dragged his hooves, splashing water before him, and the constant noise began to wear on the boy's nerves.
     He stopped and faced the satyr, waiting for him to catch up. "Are you all right, Matthew?" he asked, but Matthew didn't answer, splashed right past him, whistling.
     Derin took two quick steps, caught the satyr by the shoulder, and spun him around. "I asked if you were all right," he said. Matthew shrugged free. "I'm fine," he said. "Just thinking."
     Derin let him walk second, and he followed through the swamp, watching the rhythmic swing of the satyr's shoulders, listening to the occasional haunting notes without form or pattern. As he pulled his feet free of the mud, little whirlpools rushed to fill the emptiness. He thought of the say before, the declivity of silence he'd lain in. He glanced over his shoulder, suddenly afraid they were being followed, but he could see only the stately monotonous recession of cedars.
     He heard the fox call back to him and Matthew, telling them they were almost out of the swamp, and he began to notice the change. The water lapped below his knees, the mud had given way to something more solid, and ahead, dimly, the boy could see the air brighten. It was like coming to the end of a long evening. In the swamp the light was stolen by the cedars and water, but where the water ended, the grey light they'd become accustomed to resumed.
     Derin was beginning to breathe more easily, anxious to escape the walled-in closeness of the swamp, when he saw the eyes. They peered at him from a thicket of pepperbush some distance to the left. He grunted, as though he'd been struck in the stomach, and stopped short. They disappeared. He stood where he was, scarcely breathing, his arms arrested in midswing, and stared at the thicket, sure he'd imagined them. But they blinked at him once more, what seemed to him hundreds of gleaming eyes, read as coral, as amanitas, and then he heard a soft swishing, water rippling, as the frogs swam away.
     He yelled to Vera and Matthew, now climbing the steady slope out of the swamp, and began to run, thrashing through the water, drenching himself again.
     He fled from the water, past the two who stood waiting, and Matthew reached out and grabbed him, almost wrenching him off the ground.
     "Wait," the satyr said. "Hold on."
     "They're back there," Derin gasped, his eyes wide. "Let go of me." He pulled his arm loose, but the look on the satyr's face kept him from running again.
     "What did you see?" Matthew asked.
     "The frogs. There were hundreds of them. Let's get out of here."
     "Calm down," Matthew said. "Your mind's playing tricks on you."
     "I'm not so sure," Vera said. "We're in the Outer Lands, remember. I expect we'll be reported. You didn't think we'd sneak up on the owl without his knowing, did you?"
     "I didn't know what to expect," Matthew said.
     "You saw hundreds of frogs?" Vera asked. "What did they do?"
     "They were in a bush. I saw their eyes."
     "They didn't follow you?"
     "No," Derin said, calmer. "They swam off. To the south."
     "There's nothing to do but keep going," the fox said. "We'll have to be careful."
     The land beyond the swamp was low and marshy. Cattails, reeds, tall knife-edged grass grew from the ground. Derin walked between the others, and his eyes searched the reeds for the red eyes he was sure were watching them. They traveled more quickly now; even Vera was unnerved by the thoughts of animals out there recording their passage, unseen presences they could do nothing about. Matthew tried to whistle to break the tension, but he soon stopped. Low shrublike bushes, waist-high pines, manzanita, dotted the terrain. There were places for things to hide.
     "What else lives here?" Derin asked, and Vera answered without breaking stride, speaking into the hollow air before her. "I told you before," she said. "Snakes and scorpions. Some weasels. I've seen a wild boar or two, though not in years. Up ahead, when the ground becomes desert, there are fewer animals. Sand squirrels mostly and a few other clans who have learned to get along without much water."
     "Desert?" Matthew asked.
     "The Plain of Desiccation," Vera said. "We'll be there all too soon."

                                                  *                        *                        *

     I apologize for taking this long for completing a simple task of copying a few pages. If you want me to do this thing faster, just SAY it.