First, yes, not everyone downloads everything on their iPads®™and consumes entertainment that way. Some people actually buy real books, and real CDs. And Blu-Rays.
Second, you are probably reading this on your iPad. OH THE IRONY.
Third, let's begin.
Today, children, I would like to dedicate a few medium sized paragraphs to the appeal of used things. The things that are no longer new. The things that were owned by somebody else for years. Old used fabric will be worn out and faded and full of holes. When we are dealing with electronics, we have to be extra cautious: anything
with moving parts wears out fairly quickly with constant use, and
anything with lights, lasers, and built-in batteries wears out even faster. An Apple laptop that was used every day for a year might have its super-duper-long-lasting-battery already almost dead. Speaking of non-electronic electric-based technology, a light bulb under constant use dies within a few months.
However, when we are dealing with used media, things start looking less grim. Having no moving parts, media ages really well. A book will live a life longer than of a human, providing it is not read daily, and is kept somewhere where it does not suck to be a book. A comic, being a book, is the same fucking thing. An old used vinyl record, providing it wasn't played often, will sound good, and plastic degrades extremely slowly. An old used optical disk (hint - that's what a CD or a Blu-Ray is) will live a long and prosperous life providing it was pressed well in the first place, didn't receive too many scratches, and was kept somewhere not too hot not too cold not too moist.
Used media has more appeal though, in addition to often being cheaper. It is a testament to its strength. if a book or a disk managed to live for 20 years or longer, without losing its ability to function, it speaks to the high level of manufacturing. With books, if you have something 40 years or older, still intact, and still readable, it was really made well, and the book is really high quality. A piece of old media still functioning after all the years is like a skilled warrior who went through many battles and survived; must be a damn good warrior then!
Magnetic tapes are easy to wear out with constant use, and even without use are easy to damage, and damage permanently. These little demon spawns are an exception to what I am trying to get across here. . .
. . . and what I am trying to get across here is:
DO NOT BE AFRAID TO BUY USED.
. . . if it's media.
But be careful with cassettes. They are tricky.
That's it, really.
. . . except there will be a sequel.
Friday, October 2, 2015
Friday, September 11, 2015
Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 11 & 12.
The weasels saw them coming and ducked out of sight. They slithered through the underbrush, bellies flat to the ground. They'd seen foxes before, but the other two creatures were unfamiliar to them. Through the network of reeds and rushes, the weasels watched the three pass, the strange white fox, the slim hairless one, the last with the hindquarters of a goat. They looked at one another, uncertain what to do, and crept toward the swamp.
On its bank, they stopped and stared across the watery waste, searching the thickets for a glimpse of red eyes, the surface for a ripple. One of them crouched low and snarled, a rough invasion of the stillness, like wood cracking.
They saw them before they could hear them. The swamp was disturbed by a low wave and then the eyes shone, reflected in the opaque water, doubling their number. The frogs looked like slowly moving scraps of log worn down by the ravages of weather, bulbous, dark, water streaming from their backs. They stopped several feet from the bank, but the wave continued until it lapped at the weasels' feet and washed back again.
Silently they contemplated the shore, their underbellies pulsing like little hearts. "Have you seen them? The intruders?" one of the weasels whispered and the frogs shut their eyes once, together, so they glared out the water with fierce affirmation when they opened again.
"What should we do?" the weasel whined. The frogs stared at them and the weasels shivered deep inside their coats. They knew the frogs would not harm them, but the vision of these specters filled even them with dread. The frogs felt nothing, no fear, no hurry, no anger. They glided undisturbed through the water of the swamp.
"Should we tell the owl?"
As before, the frogs blinked their eyes, once, red as freshly drawn blood. The weasels got out of there. They had tracks to make.
* * *
It was a formidable sight. The sand stretched before them, level as calm water. In the distance, a slight undulation was visible, rolling sand hills broken only by an occasional tuft of sharp grass. Behind them, the cattails and reeds, the low shrubs fell away until there was nothing but desert. It slithered up over Derin's feet, around Matthew's hooves as Vera padded along on top of it.
"Was it always like this?" Matthew wanted to know.
"No," Vera said. "At one time the river spilled over the marsh and onto these plains in spring, and there were lakes and ponds like the ones in the meadowlands. But that was many years ago, before the owl. The animals who lived here have been taken west. It's desert almost all the way to the mountains."
"And how far is that?" Derin asked.
"We'll reach them tomorrow."
Matthew groaned. "I hate the sand," he said. "I can hardly walk." He struggled along behind the others, stopping to dislodge the grains which wedged in the cleft of his hooves.
For Derin, the walking was not much easier. The sand dragged him down. With each step, his feet disappeared, sinking into the desert, and his calves soon ached with the effort. "Can we stop soon?" he asked. "I've had it."
"At least we can see who's watching us," Vera said. "There's nowhere to hide."
"How much further are we going?" Derin asked again.
"Just a little," Vera said. "I have something to show you."
Matthew said nothing, but he silently agreed with the boy. He, too, was exhausted, and his head throbbed from the blow he'd taken in the river.
Just when Derin thought he couldn't go any further, he heard the fox say, "Up ahead. Can you see it?"
In the dim light of the failing day, the boy thought he could pick out something rising off the plain before him. It looked like a grove of trees, maybe a pond? Derin imagined fresh fruit bursting from the trees, a place to swim, a clear sky, the moon and stars hanging in equilibrium in the dark field of night. But as they drew closer, none of them speaking, he saw that what stood before them were rocks, not trees, irregular boulders arranged in an awkward circle. They looked like the bodies of large animals hunkered down on the plain, sleeping.
After trudging through the flat, dimensionless sand, the boulders were a shock. Something mysterious about the place stopped Derin from asking questions. The stones had been placed here, that was clear, but by whom and for what reason? The tension between their monstrous shapes and their careful placement awed him.
"It's the grave of the ancestors," Vera said. "When the wind took the animals from the meadowlands, it whirled them up in a large black funnel. But over the river it lost its center, and as it crossed the plain, animals rained from the sky, thousands of them. From the river to here and beyond, the ground was choked with bodies."
"How do you know this?" Derin asked, in wonder.
"All the animals west of the river know of the grave," Vera said. "Every snow fox who was taken by the whirlwind died. My children are buried here."
"I'm sorry," the boy said. "I didn't know."
"It can't be helped," the fox said. "It was years ago." She paused and looked west across the sand as if she could see over the mountains and into the Forest. "I hate him," she said. "I lost a brother and sister as well."
What could they say after that? Matthew and Derin stood silent, waiting for Vera to speak again.
"The owl did not take our sorrow into account," she said. "The animals who survived were of no use to him. The Deadwood Forest was filled with their keening. Not an animal was taken who did not lose some of her family. There was nothing he could do. And so he allowed those who wished to return to this place to bury the dead. None crossed the river; that was forbidden. They came, mourning, to this spot, and gathered the bones of our families and buried them here."
"Deirdre told me of the wind," the boy said, "but nothing about this place."
"The raven," Vera said absently, her mind elsewhere.
"Yes," Matthew said. For the first time that day he thought of their frantic friend. He hoped she was getting some rest.
"What I don't understand," the satyr said, "is why the owl was not destroyed long ago. If there was such sorrow, such anger, why do the animals follow him?"
"An interesting question," Vera said. "One I wondered about for years." She looked older suddenly, as though this place aged and saddened her. "He's very powerful, you must never forget that. He caused the win to blow to bring them west. And they were so broken down. They had no families to retreat to. Most had no friends. Each was isolated from the others of his kind.
"And the owl promised a new world where all would live peacefully together. They believed him. Perhaps they had no choice. There were confrontations, but the instigators disappeared and were never heard of again. Over the years, most of the animals taken by the wind died, of old age, disease, of grief. And the children seem to have forgotten. The owl and the Deadwood Forest are all they've ever known."
Derin cleared his throat, and Vera and Matthew looked at him. He stared at his feet, and he kicked the sand so it sprayed in front of him.
"I wondered. . . ." he said, and cleared his throat again.
"What, Derin?" Matthew asked.
"Are any of my family buried here?"
The fox looked away from them toward the west. Matthew's eyes suddenly burned. "No," he said.
"I just wondered," Derin said.
The three of them were silent, and the night came on. It was different on the Plain, sudden and swift., like the advent of a storm. There was no intermediary between earth and sky, no trees or rocks or water. And so it seemed to Derin, as he stood in the deepening chill, that one minute there had been light, and the next minute none.
"Are we sleeping here tonight?" he asked.
"Tomorrow night," Matthew said. "Tonight we're sleeping with the frogs in the swamp."
"Very funny."
"I can hear them croaking," the satyr said. "They're calling your name."
Vera crouched by one of the largest rocks. She was silent and motionless, like a stone herself. The boy shrugged, took off his pack, and sat down. The air was cold, but still, the silence was immerse. The earth rose up to the sky, and the sky reached down so that Derin felt enfolded by enormous arms. Around him, in the dark, the thought he saw thousands of animals gather. In this magic circle of friends, they would be safe.
* * *
More = later! Reminder once again to tell me if you want me to work faster.
On its bank, they stopped and stared across the watery waste, searching the thickets for a glimpse of red eyes, the surface for a ripple. One of them crouched low and snarled, a rough invasion of the stillness, like wood cracking.
They saw them before they could hear them. The swamp was disturbed by a low wave and then the eyes shone, reflected in the opaque water, doubling their number. The frogs looked like slowly moving scraps of log worn down by the ravages of weather, bulbous, dark, water streaming from their backs. They stopped several feet from the bank, but the wave continued until it lapped at the weasels' feet and washed back again.
Silently they contemplated the shore, their underbellies pulsing like little hearts. "Have you seen them? The intruders?" one of the weasels whispered and the frogs shut their eyes once, together, so they glared out the water with fierce affirmation when they opened again.
"What should we do?" the weasel whined. The frogs stared at them and the weasels shivered deep inside their coats. They knew the frogs would not harm them, but the vision of these specters filled even them with dread. The frogs felt nothing, no fear, no hurry, no anger. They glided undisturbed through the water of the swamp.
"Should we tell the owl?"
As before, the frogs blinked their eyes, once, red as freshly drawn blood. The weasels got out of there. They had tracks to make.
* * *
It was a formidable sight. The sand stretched before them, level as calm water. In the distance, a slight undulation was visible, rolling sand hills broken only by an occasional tuft of sharp grass. Behind them, the cattails and reeds, the low shrubs fell away until there was nothing but desert. It slithered up over Derin's feet, around Matthew's hooves as Vera padded along on top of it.
"Was it always like this?" Matthew wanted to know.
"No," Vera said. "At one time the river spilled over the marsh and onto these plains in spring, and there were lakes and ponds like the ones in the meadowlands. But that was many years ago, before the owl. The animals who lived here have been taken west. It's desert almost all the way to the mountains."
"And how far is that?" Derin asked.
"We'll reach them tomorrow."
Matthew groaned. "I hate the sand," he said. "I can hardly walk." He struggled along behind the others, stopping to dislodge the grains which wedged in the cleft of his hooves.
For Derin, the walking was not much easier. The sand dragged him down. With each step, his feet disappeared, sinking into the desert, and his calves soon ached with the effort. "Can we stop soon?" he asked. "I've had it."
"At least we can see who's watching us," Vera said. "There's nowhere to hide."
"How much further are we going?" Derin asked again.
"Just a little," Vera said. "I have something to show you."
Matthew said nothing, but he silently agreed with the boy. He, too, was exhausted, and his head throbbed from the blow he'd taken in the river.
Just when Derin thought he couldn't go any further, he heard the fox say, "Up ahead. Can you see it?"
In the dim light of the failing day, the boy thought he could pick out something rising off the plain before him. It looked like a grove of trees, maybe a pond? Derin imagined fresh fruit bursting from the trees, a place to swim, a clear sky, the moon and stars hanging in equilibrium in the dark field of night. But as they drew closer, none of them speaking, he saw that what stood before them were rocks, not trees, irregular boulders arranged in an awkward circle. They looked like the bodies of large animals hunkered down on the plain, sleeping.
After trudging through the flat, dimensionless sand, the boulders were a shock. Something mysterious about the place stopped Derin from asking questions. The stones had been placed here, that was clear, but by whom and for what reason? The tension between their monstrous shapes and their careful placement awed him.
"It's the grave of the ancestors," Vera said. "When the wind took the animals from the meadowlands, it whirled them up in a large black funnel. But over the river it lost its center, and as it crossed the plain, animals rained from the sky, thousands of them. From the river to here and beyond, the ground was choked with bodies."
"How do you know this?" Derin asked, in wonder.
"All the animals west of the river know of the grave," Vera said. "Every snow fox who was taken by the whirlwind died. My children are buried here."
"I'm sorry," the boy said. "I didn't know."
"It can't be helped," the fox said. "It was years ago." She paused and looked west across the sand as if she could see over the mountains and into the Forest. "I hate him," she said. "I lost a brother and sister as well."
What could they say after that? Matthew and Derin stood silent, waiting for Vera to speak again.
"The owl did not take our sorrow into account," she said. "The animals who survived were of no use to him. The Deadwood Forest was filled with their keening. Not an animal was taken who did not lose some of her family. There was nothing he could do. And so he allowed those who wished to return to this place to bury the dead. None crossed the river; that was forbidden. They came, mourning, to this spot, and gathered the bones of our families and buried them here."
"Deirdre told me of the wind," the boy said, "but nothing about this place."
"The raven," Vera said absently, her mind elsewhere.
"Yes," Matthew said. For the first time that day he thought of their frantic friend. He hoped she was getting some rest.
"What I don't understand," the satyr said, "is why the owl was not destroyed long ago. If there was such sorrow, such anger, why do the animals follow him?"
"An interesting question," Vera said. "One I wondered about for years." She looked older suddenly, as though this place aged and saddened her. "He's very powerful, you must never forget that. He caused the win to blow to bring them west. And they were so broken down. They had no families to retreat to. Most had no friends. Each was isolated from the others of his kind.
"And the owl promised a new world where all would live peacefully together. They believed him. Perhaps they had no choice. There were confrontations, but the instigators disappeared and were never heard of again. Over the years, most of the animals taken by the wind died, of old age, disease, of grief. And the children seem to have forgotten. The owl and the Deadwood Forest are all they've ever known."
Derin cleared his throat, and Vera and Matthew looked at him. He stared at his feet, and he kicked the sand so it sprayed in front of him.
"I wondered. . . ." he said, and cleared his throat again.
"What, Derin?" Matthew asked.
"Are any of my family buried here?"
The fox looked away from them toward the west. Matthew's eyes suddenly burned. "No," he said.
"I just wondered," Derin said.
The three of them were silent, and the night came on. It was different on the Plain, sudden and swift., like the advent of a storm. There was no intermediary between earth and sky, no trees or rocks or water. And so it seemed to Derin, as he stood in the deepening chill, that one minute there had been light, and the next minute none.
"Are we sleeping here tonight?" he asked.
"Tomorrow night," Matthew said. "Tonight we're sleeping with the frogs in the swamp."
"Very funny."
"I can hear them croaking," the satyr said. "They're calling your name."
Vera crouched by one of the largest rocks. She was silent and motionless, like a stone herself. The boy shrugged, took off his pack, and sat down. The air was cold, but still, the silence was immerse. The earth rose up to the sky, and the sky reached down so that Derin felt enfolded by enormous arms. Around him, in the dark, the thought he saw thousands of animals gather. In this magic circle of friends, they would be safe.
* * *
More = later! Reminder once again to tell me if you want me to work faster.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Time >>> money.
You heard the "time is money" phrase, right? If you took it seriously, then you probably assume that one is just as valuable as the other... right?
Well, I am here to prove that wrong. I am here to prove that time is more valuable than money.
Don't worry, I'll do it short. No walls of text today.
1) Money can be regained. Time is lost forever. Therefore, time is more precious.
2) It takes time to acquire a skill. No amount of money will be a substitute for time when it comes to learning and practice.
I hope I proved that time is more important than money with those 2 simple points.
Well, I am here to prove that wrong. I am here to prove that time is more valuable than money.
Don't worry, I'll do it short. No walls of text today.
1) Money can be regained. Time is lost forever. Therefore, time is more precious.
2) It takes time to acquire a skill. No amount of money will be a substitute for time when it comes to learning and practice.
I hope I proved that time is more important than money with those 2 simple points.
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.
....... 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!
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.
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.
"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.
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