It's interesting to me how clearly delineated sexual roles are in kids' toys. I've been watching Nickelodeon all day, and if there's one thing toy commercials make clear, it's that sexuality comes up a lot in toys.
Consider the dolls targeted at little girls, which are, in large part, baby simulacra. These are dolls that not only train girls to nurture, but reinforce an expectation of future motherhood (I make this claim without looking up real data, but how many little girls profess a desire to be a mommy?). For somewhat older girls, dolls move towards simulacra of teenage girls and adult women. These dolls (Barbie, Bratz, etc.) focus a lot on fashion-consciousness and the socially normal form for relationships (what is Ken but an accessory for Barbie?). Again, it seems to me that doll-play for girls is deeply focused on preparation for attracting a mate, maintaining a relationship and caring for the eventual result of the relationship.
Boys toys are not innocent of sexual preparation, but they focus on a surprisingly different side of the relationship. Most of the toys targeted at boys are based on ideals of combat, construction, or control (e.g., G.I. Joe, Legos, and toy cars, respectively). In essence, they prepare boys for the long-standard masculine role as family bread winner, which is a way of teaching boys to attract and keep a mate and support offspring, since not being a deadbeat is an attractive trait to have.
I guess it shouldn't be surprising how prevalent the idea of sex is in children's toys: man is a sexual animal, which is a fine thing because it has let our species dominate thoroughly. As my brother once said, everyone with working genitals is a secret pervert. In this age of false unity, when the politically correct thing to do is often to pretend that men and women are the same, I'm glad that we still can't help but teach the next generation the real truth about genders. The roles that have so long shaped society did not persist for thousands of years because of some unfortunate sexist accident in the dim memory of mankind: these roles, to varying degrees, are inherent in our genders, defined by who knows what combination of physiology and genetics and sociology. The truly progressive thinker, in my opinion, must learn to accept the differences between humans. Equality between all groups can only come through understanding.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The Onanistic Problem
I missed last week. I was dancing (contra). It was a lot of fun! You get caught up in it. Having marching band experience helped, since I was already good at counting and walking at the same time.
Anyway, let's discuss Onan, shall we?
Onan was the son of Judah, who was the son of Jacob (called Israel), who was the son of Isaac, who was the son of Abraham in the Book of Genesis in the Bible. Onan is the inspiration for the word onanism, which means masturbation or coitus interruptus (it applies to both, apparently). His story seems to be the basis for the blanket ban of masturbation in most Christian sects. It appears in Genesis 38:1-11. It's not very long, so I've copied the important bit below.
The part of this that has always captured the attention of the Western world is the mention of Onan spilling his seed upon the ground. This, it's argued, is what so displeases God about Onan. The claim, as I understand it, is that sperm should not be wasted, as it's a gift from God meant to create life.
I don't agree.
Consider the story carefully: Judah's firstborn Er takes a wife (Tamar), but dies before she conceives any children. Judah commands his second-born son, Onan, to marry Tamar, to give her children for Er's sake. Essentially, it seems to me, it is a command to reproduce as a means of honoring Er. "Raise up seed to thy brother." Onan believes that Tamar's children should not be his (I guess because he felt it disrespectful. Moot point), so, while he's having sex with her ("when he went in unto his brother's wife"), he ejaculates upon the ground to avoid conception. God is wrathful at Onan for something in this series of events and slays him.
The thing is, Onan disobeys his father in the story. There is a clear command from Judah to go in unto Er's wife and raise up seed to Er. There is no two ways about it: Onan does not do this. The father is clearly important to God: the fifth commandment, of course, is "Honor thy father and thy mother," the father chooses spouses for his sons and daughters, the blessings and punishments that God places upon a father are usually inherited by his children, the genealogies of the Old Testament are patrilineal. The father is the key cornerstone of Biblical families, since polygamy often means there are multiple mother figures and way too many children. So disobeying a command from Judah was probably a big deal.
Besides that, Onan is the descendant of Abraham and Israel, both of whom were told by God directly that they would bring forth kingdoms and that they and their children should "be fruitful and multiply." God has given the family a sacred charge to reproduce! His refusal to bring forth children in the family line when he has a chance also seems like something God would not be pleased about.
So far, refusing a father's command and refusing God's charge could be important reasons for smiting Onan. But there's something more that gets me: if sperm is sacred and should not be wasted, then eggs should be the same way. They are, after all, both the haploid gametes of reproduction. But, women waste eggs on a monthly basis! Either there is a double standard, or women are supposed to remain pregnant from puberty to menopause non-stop, or it's not a sin to waste either. I don't see why there should be a double standard, and the second possibility is clearly not the case: older and very young mothers suffer an increased risk of injury and birth defects, and God does not build punishments into righteous acts. So, the third possibility must be the case.
To me, then, the only reasonable conclusion is that God was not mad at Onan for masturbating: he was mad at Onan for disobeying his father and his Lord. Like so much else in the Bible, the story has simply been twisted to fit the preconceptions of society. What's your view on it?
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Anyway, let's discuss Onan, shall we?
Onan was the son of Judah, who was the son of Jacob (called Israel), who was the son of Isaac, who was the son of Abraham in the Book of Genesis in the Bible. Onan is the inspiration for the word onanism, which means masturbation or coitus interruptus (it applies to both, apparently). His story seems to be the basis for the blanket ban of masturbation in most Christian sects. It appears in Genesis 38:1-11. It's not very long, so I've copied the important bit below.
6 And Judah took a wife for Er his firstborn, whose name was Tamar.7 And Er, Judah's firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord slew him.8 And Judah said unto Onan, Go in unto thy brother's wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brother.9 And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and it came to pass, when he went in unto his brother's wife, that he spilled it on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother.10 And the thing which he did displeased the Lord: wherefore he slew him also.
The part of this that has always captured the attention of the Western world is the mention of Onan spilling his seed upon the ground. This, it's argued, is what so displeases God about Onan. The claim, as I understand it, is that sperm should not be wasted, as it's a gift from God meant to create life.
I don't agree.
Consider the story carefully: Judah's firstborn Er takes a wife (Tamar), but dies before she conceives any children. Judah commands his second-born son, Onan, to marry Tamar, to give her children for Er's sake. Essentially, it seems to me, it is a command to reproduce as a means of honoring Er. "Raise up seed to thy brother." Onan believes that Tamar's children should not be his (I guess because he felt it disrespectful. Moot point), so, while he's having sex with her ("when he went in unto his brother's wife"), he ejaculates upon the ground to avoid conception. God is wrathful at Onan for something in this series of events and slays him.
The thing is, Onan disobeys his father in the story. There is a clear command from Judah to go in unto Er's wife and raise up seed to Er. There is no two ways about it: Onan does not do this. The father is clearly important to God: the fifth commandment, of course, is "Honor thy father and thy mother," the father chooses spouses for his sons and daughters, the blessings and punishments that God places upon a father are usually inherited by his children, the genealogies of the Old Testament are patrilineal. The father is the key cornerstone of Biblical families, since polygamy often means there are multiple mother figures and way too many children. So disobeying a command from Judah was probably a big deal.
Besides that, Onan is the descendant of Abraham and Israel, both of whom were told by God directly that they would bring forth kingdoms and that they and their children should "be fruitful and multiply." God has given the family a sacred charge to reproduce! His refusal to bring forth children in the family line when he has a chance also seems like something God would not be pleased about.
So far, refusing a father's command and refusing God's charge could be important reasons for smiting Onan. But there's something more that gets me: if sperm is sacred and should not be wasted, then eggs should be the same way. They are, after all, both the haploid gametes of reproduction. But, women waste eggs on a monthly basis! Either there is a double standard, or women are supposed to remain pregnant from puberty to menopause non-stop, or it's not a sin to waste either. I don't see why there should be a double standard, and the second possibility is clearly not the case: older and very young mothers suffer an increased risk of injury and birth defects, and God does not build punishments into righteous acts. So, the third possibility must be the case.
To me, then, the only reasonable conclusion is that God was not mad at Onan for masturbating: he was mad at Onan for disobeying his father and his Lord. Like so much else in the Bible, the story has simply been twisted to fit the preconceptions of society. What's your view on it?
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Saturday, September 19, 2009
The Tower of Babel: A Lesson for Greatness
If I have to apply a religious label to myself, it's Methodist. Quoth the Wikipedia, "The [Methodist] movement focused on Bible study and a methodical approach to scriptures and Christian living." That is, the Methodist moniker denotes a devotion to examination of the Bible and life to determine religious doctrine. I've heard it called "faith through reason," which is as good of a description of my spiritual beliefs as I've ever heard. It is a bit hard to pigeonhole me: doctrinally, I differ significantly from the traditional Methodist dogma. And in the modern Christian world, it's largely a moot point: the key difference between the Methodist churches and the Presbyterian churches I've attended is whether they say "sins" or "debts" during the Lord's Prayer.
(As an aside, the Lord's Prayer is one of my favorite things from Jesus. Here we have Christ telling people, "Listen, don't stress out so much about prayer. If you're so worried about it, just follow this script and you'll be fine." It is short, simple, and humble. In Matthew 6, when he teaches the Lord's Prayer, Jesus says not to pray boastfully or noticeably or even particularly fervently, and provides the perfect, eternally acceptable prayer. God doesn't need specific requests: simply that you willingly ask for help)
When you read the Bible critically, it is easy to become confused, disillusioned or lost. It is a dangerous and lovely document. It is self-contradictory, it presents God as unnecessarily cruel, it includes stories that seem completely meaningless. Genesis contains two fairly different accounts of creation, a story in which God plays favorites (Cain and Abel), a story in which a supposedly-perfect God has to destroy his own work due to its imperfection (the Great Flood), a story in which a man's entire descendant bloodline is cursed because his father saw his grandfather naked (Noah's son, Ham, sees him in a drunken stupor. Noah curses Canaan, Ham's son. God, apparently, is okay with this. Genesis 9), and, of course, the Tower of Babel. This last is an exceptionally odd story, one of the ones liable to make me close the book in disgust with the God described, who cannot be the God I worship.
To recap the story: mankind begins to make bricks and build a city. They say to each other, "Let us build a tower to the sky," and they set to work. God sees that they are working well together, that they are not fighting, that they are working productively to better their station because they have one tongue. And God says, "Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech."
This blew my mind when I first read it critically (that is, as an adult). Here, it seems, God causes strife among his children on purpose, so that they can't work together anymore. It is odd, offensive, running contrary to the image of a loving God held by Christians. But that is not the whole story.
When encountering a story like this, one must consider the quality of the truth it contains. It is clear that the Bible is not entirely and literally true. In Genesis 1, mankind is the last creation on the sixth day, after the beasts and birds and fish. In Genesis 2, the beasts and birds are created to be help meets for Adam, after Adam was created. It is contradictory and thus impossible for mankind to have been created both before and after the other animals.
But stories don't have to be literally true to be true. The purpose of the story of the Tower of Babel is not a historical account: it is a lesson for all of mankind, something that applies to every creed and color and religion or lack thereof. It is the story of what makes work admirable, of the value of effort in our lives.
As the Tower of Babel starts to rise, mankind is working with ease. A great structure is being built through mutual cooperation. Quite literally, mankind is reaching for the sky. It seems impressive.
It's not.
You see, the construction of the Tower was effortless, and nothing easy can be great. Consider the ancient wonders of the world: could we be impressed with the pyramids at Giza if they were built with bulldozers and cranes? The Hanging Gardens would be nothing more than a rather nice building using modern technology. Or consider those whose names we remember so long after their deaths: Leonardo da Vinci, Isaac Newton, Picasso, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Mozart, Martin Luther King, Jr., Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Harriet Tubman, Helen Keller, Emily Bronte and Charlotte Bronte (man, it's hard to think of more women before the 20th century, sorry). They were not people content with a settled and easy life, but who strove to press forward, to expand the bounds of the world through their efforts.
This, I think, is something more than a perception effect. Difficulty really does make an action more worthy, regardless of whether it makes it more memorable. A man who makes $50k a year and donates $10k to charity is more courageous and heroic than someone who makes $100k and donates $10k, even though the effect of their actions is the same.
So the Tower of Babel is the story of an effort doomed to mediocrity because of its ease. What's more, it's a lesson in the destiny of mankind. When God sees the Tower, he says "now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do." This is a supremely sad statement: never will their accomplishments be great, for nothing is out of their reach. God fixes this by artificially making life hard.
Here's the thing: the story probably never happened. Languages evolved in the anthropologically-accepted way: slowly, due to geographic isolation. That has nothing to do with the truth of the story, though. The Tower of Babel is a lesson in our destiny. We are a species who must strive to overcome difficulty, to seek greatness. When God confounds the tongues of man, he does so because without effort, we are nothing. The tale is a parable: for Christians, the lesson is that God wants us to have to work for our goals; for everyone, the lesson is that we do have to work for our goals. And the implicit conclusion is that we should glory in the effort, that the strife we face should be something we take pride in. Without it, we are worthless.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
(As an aside, the Lord's Prayer is one of my favorite things from Jesus. Here we have Christ telling people, "Listen, don't stress out so much about prayer. If you're so worried about it, just follow this script and you'll be fine." It is short, simple, and humble. In Matthew 6, when he teaches the Lord's Prayer, Jesus says not to pray boastfully or noticeably or even particularly fervently, and provides the perfect, eternally acceptable prayer. God doesn't need specific requests: simply that you willingly ask for help)
When you read the Bible critically, it is easy to become confused, disillusioned or lost. It is a dangerous and lovely document. It is self-contradictory, it presents God as unnecessarily cruel, it includes stories that seem completely meaningless. Genesis contains two fairly different accounts of creation, a story in which God plays favorites (Cain and Abel), a story in which a supposedly-perfect God has to destroy his own work due to its imperfection (the Great Flood), a story in which a man's entire descendant bloodline is cursed because his father saw his grandfather naked (Noah's son, Ham, sees him in a drunken stupor. Noah curses Canaan, Ham's son. God, apparently, is okay with this. Genesis 9), and, of course, the Tower of Babel. This last is an exceptionally odd story, one of the ones liable to make me close the book in disgust with the God described, who cannot be the God I worship.
To recap the story: mankind begins to make bricks and build a city. They say to each other, "Let us build a tower to the sky," and they set to work. God sees that they are working well together, that they are not fighting, that they are working productively to better their station because they have one tongue. And God says, "Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech."
This blew my mind when I first read it critically (that is, as an adult). Here, it seems, God causes strife among his children on purpose, so that they can't work together anymore. It is odd, offensive, running contrary to the image of a loving God held by Christians. But that is not the whole story.
When encountering a story like this, one must consider the quality of the truth it contains. It is clear that the Bible is not entirely and literally true. In Genesis 1, mankind is the last creation on the sixth day, after the beasts and birds and fish. In Genesis 2, the beasts and birds are created to be help meets for Adam, after Adam was created. It is contradictory and thus impossible for mankind to have been created both before and after the other animals.
But stories don't have to be literally true to be true. The purpose of the story of the Tower of Babel is not a historical account: it is a lesson for all of mankind, something that applies to every creed and color and religion or lack thereof. It is the story of what makes work admirable, of the value of effort in our lives.
As the Tower of Babel starts to rise, mankind is working with ease. A great structure is being built through mutual cooperation. Quite literally, mankind is reaching for the sky. It seems impressive.
It's not.
You see, the construction of the Tower was effortless, and nothing easy can be great. Consider the ancient wonders of the world: could we be impressed with the pyramids at Giza if they were built with bulldozers and cranes? The Hanging Gardens would be nothing more than a rather nice building using modern technology. Or consider those whose names we remember so long after their deaths: Leonardo da Vinci, Isaac Newton, Picasso, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Mozart, Martin Luther King, Jr., Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Harriet Tubman, Helen Keller, Emily Bronte and Charlotte Bronte (man, it's hard to think of more women before the 20th century, sorry). They were not people content with a settled and easy life, but who strove to press forward, to expand the bounds of the world through their efforts.
This, I think, is something more than a perception effect. Difficulty really does make an action more worthy, regardless of whether it makes it more memorable. A man who makes $50k a year and donates $10k to charity is more courageous and heroic than someone who makes $100k and donates $10k, even though the effect of their actions is the same.
So the Tower of Babel is the story of an effort doomed to mediocrity because of its ease. What's more, it's a lesson in the destiny of mankind. When God sees the Tower, he says "now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do." This is a supremely sad statement: never will their accomplishments be great, for nothing is out of their reach. God fixes this by artificially making life hard.
Here's the thing: the story probably never happened. Languages evolved in the anthropologically-accepted way: slowly, due to geographic isolation. That has nothing to do with the truth of the story, though. The Tower of Babel is a lesson in our destiny. We are a species who must strive to overcome difficulty, to seek greatness. When God confounds the tongues of man, he does so because without effort, we are nothing. The tale is a parable: for Christians, the lesson is that God wants us to have to work for our goals; for everyone, the lesson is that we do have to work for our goals. And the implicit conclusion is that we should glory in the effort, that the strife we face should be something we take pride in. Without it, we are worthless.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Still and Sacred Morning
I wake up early (pre-6) these days to get to work. After a good night's sleep, that first hour casts a stillness over the yet-dark world that settles over my mind in a blanket of peace. I desire, I have to admit, to relish it, to simply let it soak through me. It is the only time I ever want to sit for a while and pray, or meditate, or even slip outside and do some quiet manual labor.
On good mornings, I can see the appeal of the farmer's life: to step out in solitude before the cock crows and smell the quiet scent of morning on the fields. And I understand what is most succinctly called Sabbath: a break, a "sanctuary from time" when the rushing world slips by, felt but unheeded for once. This is where the magic of sunrise comes from for me.
I remember on camping trips in the Scouts that I would get up early on most mornings. Part of this is that I've always been restless in sleeping bags, but it gave me an opportunity for quiet contemplation. As the first few wakers rose (mostly adults), there was very little conversation. I would stoke up a morning fire, maybe make some coffee or start in on breakfast, but mostly I'd sit quietly and think on the world, listening to the stirring of the birds above. The wan light of morning is a gauzy magic.
I think I'm going to start waking early on weekends. Weekdays are, of course, no time for stillness: I'm always running late. I wonder if I can get my fill on those days when I would normally sleep in.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
On good mornings, I can see the appeal of the farmer's life: to step out in solitude before the cock crows and smell the quiet scent of morning on the fields. And I understand what is most succinctly called Sabbath: a break, a "sanctuary from time" when the rushing world slips by, felt but unheeded for once. This is where the magic of sunrise comes from for me.
I remember on camping trips in the Scouts that I would get up early on most mornings. Part of this is that I've always been restless in sleeping bags, but it gave me an opportunity for quiet contemplation. As the first few wakers rose (mostly adults), there was very little conversation. I would stoke up a morning fire, maybe make some coffee or start in on breakfast, but mostly I'd sit quietly and think on the world, listening to the stirring of the birds above. The wan light of morning is a gauzy magic.
I think I'm going to start waking early on weekends. Weekdays are, of course, no time for stillness: I'm always running late. I wonder if I can get my fill on those days when I would normally sleep in.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Monday, September 7, 2009
Cycles
I go in weird cycles where I end up revisiting my favorite games of years gone by. I've played through The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past maybe five or six times now, and this is my third time playing Final Fantasy V. Viewtiful Joe, We <3 Katamari, several of the Mario games, and SSX 3. And a couple more (lots more on PC), I guess. DragonRealms, of course.
I don't know what it is: I know the stories, and I've sought ought most of the secrets. The mechanics of these games still linger in my consciousness, examples, I suppose, of what a game should be. They're sort of the archetypes, to me, of genres: epic action-adventure, JRPG, brawler, dunno what to call Katamari, platformer, snowboard game, text-based RPG.
We all have these sort of past joys that we tend to revisit, I think. Rereading the books you loved the first time is fun after a few years; Lolita is infinitely re-readable, for instance, even when one has the tale practically memorized (yo). I recently re-read the Harry Potter series. It was as fun the second time as it was the first. I wonder sometimes if I truly revisit these things because I still like them, or simply because I used to love them. I'm curious as to whether the nostalgia of youth casts a rosy light on otherwise normal things: certainly LoZ:ALTTP is an excellent game, but why do I count it better than Ocarina of Time? Why is Perfect Dark higher on my list than Goldeneye? Why does FFV beat FFVII (actually, VII wasn't that great)?
It doesn't really matter. I still enjoy them again on this go-round, and that's all that counts. Still, I wonder...
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
I don't know what it is: I know the stories, and I've sought ought most of the secrets. The mechanics of these games still linger in my consciousness, examples, I suppose, of what a game should be. They're sort of the archetypes, to me, of genres: epic action-adventure, JRPG, brawler, dunno what to call Katamari, platformer, snowboard game, text-based RPG.
We all have these sort of past joys that we tend to revisit, I think. Rereading the books you loved the first time is fun after a few years; Lolita is infinitely re-readable, for instance, even when one has the tale practically memorized (yo). I recently re-read the Harry Potter series. It was as fun the second time as it was the first. I wonder sometimes if I truly revisit these things because I still like them, or simply because I used to love them. I'm curious as to whether the nostalgia of youth casts a rosy light on otherwise normal things: certainly LoZ:ALTTP is an excellent game, but why do I count it better than Ocarina of Time? Why is Perfect Dark higher on my list than Goldeneye? Why does FFV beat FFVII (actually, VII wasn't that great)?
It doesn't really matter. I still enjoy them again on this go-round, and that's all that counts. Still, I wonder...
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Cultural Infidel
I've been trying (again) to learn Japanese. I have some wonderful audiobook language tapes (Pimsleur) that are really effective. It's hard to keep at it sometimes, so I'm trying to set aside a time every weekday to practice, a bit like how I've decided to post something every Saturday.
My worst retention is for the pair of kana writing systems used in Japanese. Like David Sedaris once said, the hiragana alphabet isn't something you just sort of pick up: you have to sit down and cram it in your brain. I learned them all at one point (using a My Japanese Coach for the DS, which is much better at teaching writing than the Pimsleur audiobooks are), but when I started back on the whole learning thing, I discovered that they'd completely slipped away.
Oh, well. Time to cram it back in again.
I think I started wanting to learn Japanese because I was thinking last year about the effect Japanese culture has had on me. Anime, video games, manga, sushi and otaku culture in general all swirl about my personal cultural heritage, touching on the ways I view the world and what I choose to experience in my free time. I would like to be able to watch anime and play import games in the native tongue, eventually.
It stands to reason, I think, that Japan should be so important to me. I am a gamer: have been since I was five or so, always will be. It's hard to deny that the nature of modern video gaming is predominantly a result of Japanese efforts and has been profoundly shaped by Japanese culture. Until a few years ago, when Microsoft released the XBox, all of the important consoles were Japanese. It was simply a Japanese industry until very recently.
It's neat to learn a language known by so few people in America. My friend Schuyler is learning Japanese as well, which gives the language almost a secret vibe for me, granting a sort of retreat that is gibberish to almost everyone that might be listening, even though nothing we talk about needs hiding anyway, and neither of us is fluent enough to carry on a serious conversation anyway.
There is one sticking point: it's hard to practice. If one is learning Spanish, one may pepper his language with Spanish words, and a lot of people will understand it, because a lot of people have taken at least one Spanish class. I think this keeps the language in the forefront of your mind, which makes it easier to learn, because you end up reflecting on it all day. Not so, in general, with Japanese.
It's kind of funny watching anime now. Random words pop up (choto, konban, tabemasu, osake, etc.) that I know, but I don't know enough to put them in context. At least I manage to hear them, I guess.
Anyway, until next time, さようなら (sayounara).
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
My worst retention is for the pair of kana writing systems used in Japanese. Like David Sedaris once said, the hiragana alphabet isn't something you just sort of pick up: you have to sit down and cram it in your brain. I learned them all at one point (using a My Japanese Coach for the DS, which is much better at teaching writing than the Pimsleur audiobooks are), but when I started back on the whole learning thing, I discovered that they'd completely slipped away.
Oh, well. Time to cram it back in again.
I think I started wanting to learn Japanese because I was thinking last year about the effect Japanese culture has had on me. Anime, video games, manga, sushi and otaku culture in general all swirl about my personal cultural heritage, touching on the ways I view the world and what I choose to experience in my free time. I would like to be able to watch anime and play import games in the native tongue, eventually.
It stands to reason, I think, that Japan should be so important to me. I am a gamer: have been since I was five or so, always will be. It's hard to deny that the nature of modern video gaming is predominantly a result of Japanese efforts and has been profoundly shaped by Japanese culture. Until a few years ago, when Microsoft released the XBox, all of the important consoles were Japanese. It was simply a Japanese industry until very recently.
It's neat to learn a language known by so few people in America. My friend Schuyler is learning Japanese as well, which gives the language almost a secret vibe for me, granting a sort of retreat that is gibberish to almost everyone that might be listening, even though nothing we talk about needs hiding anyway, and neither of us is fluent enough to carry on a serious conversation anyway.
There is one sticking point: it's hard to practice. If one is learning Spanish, one may pepper his language with Spanish words, and a lot of people will understand it, because a lot of people have taken at least one Spanish class. I think this keeps the language in the forefront of your mind, which makes it easier to learn, because you end up reflecting on it all day. Not so, in general, with Japanese.
It's kind of funny watching anime now. Random words pop up (choto, konban, tabemasu, osake, etc.) that I know, but I don't know enough to put them in context. At least I manage to hear them, I guess.
Anyway, until next time, さようなら (sayounara).
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Nellehseran, Chapter Three
(Check the Nellehseran tag for the other chapters)
In the broken stillness of the evening, malevolent eyes glared at Kilrik and Nellehseran from the dark cowl of a brown-cloaked man. He stood, pulsing with rage in the failing light, his impressive size seeming to grow in the sight of the surprised travelers. "Father!" Nellehseran whispered in shock. The man cuffed her sharply across the face, and she fell sideways. With startling agility, he swept upon Kilrik, grasping his throat and lifting him effortlessly off the ground.
He stood taller than Kilrik's appreciable height and held the armored traveller helpless in front of him. Kilrik grasped at his neck, futilely trying to prise off the strong grip. The bulky man pulled him closer, baring his teeth with a sibilant hiss.
Staring into Kilrik's panicked eyes, he roared, "You petty soldier! You thought to take my daughter, to steal my prize? You have interfered with powers beyond your ken, boy!" Kilrik kicked wildly, gasping against the man's tightening grip. Shaking Rik violently, Nell's father continued darkly, "Struggle as you wish; you cannot hope to save that disloyal sorcerous! I am Antrohk Cameron, High Wizard of the Throne of Halreln! I have risen beyond the fold of mortal men! She will be Subdued!"
With the calloused hands holding him like a vice, Kilrik felt the world turning dark about him. His mind filled with the sound of his ragged gasps as he struggled for air. Gathering his discipline to stave off his panic, Kilrik looked about the clearing for some means of salvation, blinking as sharp lights punctuated his vision. Nell lay groaning on the ground behind Antrohk, regaining her senses. A few feet away by the still-burning campfire, the pile of fuelwood was crowned with a long, heavy log. Kilrik stared at Nellehseran, willing her to look up. Finally, as Kilrik felt the last fibers of his strength slipping, Nell slowly sat up, grasping her forehead and gazing at Kilrik. Kilrik looked between the log and the girl, gesturing wildly with his eyes.
As Nellehseran snuck toward the log, Kilrik locked eyes with Antrohk. The wizard's grin was vile. "You should be proud, boy. You are about to be killed by the most powerful man in the entire Empire of-"
Nellehseran struck a powerful blow, swinging the long branch in a wide arc against the wizard's skull. Dazed, Antrohk loosened his grip on Kilrik. The armored man fell to the ground, coughing and gasping as Antrohk turned against his daughter. Reaching into a large pouch on his belt, he withdrew a clump of a white mineral, clenching the stone in his fist. His eyes flickered as he cast the rock at Nellehseran. With a resounding blast, she flew back, striking a tree and slumping to the ground. "Fool!" Antrohk spat. "It's a shame I can't kill you."
Behind the wizard, Kilrik had risen weakly to his feet. Seeing Antrohk's assault on Nellehseran, Kilrik felt his resolve grow. He steadied himself, drawing his sword and wielding the Provincial Guard's shield. Standing at his full height, he stepped toward the wizard, shouting in challenge, "Antrohk! Turn and face my blade!"
The High Wizard smirked incredulously as he faced Kilrik. "You wish to wield a knife in battle with a mage?" he cackled mockingly. "Even your whitesteel will be of no use to you!" Antrohk slipped his hand into his pouch once again, withdrawing a small pool of liquid, which sloshed oddly about in his palm as if contained within a spherical glass orb. Kilrik breathed deeply, crouched against his back leg, and sprang forward silently, sprinting intently toward the wizard. As he raised his longsword high, the wizard twisted sideways and flung the liquid forward, as if lobbing a grenade. The orb swelled in the air, sloshing wetly in front of him where Kilrik had been running. Kilrik, however, spun sideways and down, ducking the orb and the wizard's outstretched arm, slipping around and behind him to stand in front of Nell defensively. The wet sphere fell to the ground with a thud.
The wizard turned to face them, his jowly face a mask of rage. Rik reached behind himself for Nellehseran, pulling her up. She wobbled on her feet. "Stay behind me! Use me to stay upright, if you have to!" Kilrik commanded her, his voice terse and energetic. She stumbled forward to hold his shoulders, her face pressed against the back of his armor. In the silence, as the wizard coldly regarded Kilrik, the strange liquid sphere crackled and snapped, boring a deep hole in the earth where it lay.
Finally Antrohk turned and walked slowly toward a nearby oak while his eyes remained locked on Kilrik, who held his shield and sword high. Pressing his hand against the trunk of the tree, Antrohk grunted, the muscles along his arm suddenly bulging as he tore out a handful of wood, the splinters shearing away with a crunch. He held the mass of wood at arm's length in front of his eyes. The chunk quivered and seemed to melt, wobbling and dripping in on itself as the beige color of the wood drained away. Soon, the wizard was staring intently at a white mass which glowed slightly in his hand.
Kilrik looked on in awe. The wizard inhaled sharply, a supreme focus of will playing through his eyes. Slowly, reverently, he intoned, "I Deem thee flame."
A flash of orange sprang in the center of the mass, which now seemed to exude a quiet power. Suddenly, the mass split open with a crack! In the expanse of a breath, a circle of singed grass swept outward from the High Wizard's hand as a swift wall of heat caused a haze between Kilrik and Antrohk. The clearing was bathed in a dense red glow, the color of the hot embers of a large fire. Kilrik closed his eyes and flinched, steeling himself for the flame.
In the darkness of his mind, though, he found a strange calm. A warm glow seemed to suffuse through him, trickling from his spine to his legs and up into his skull. He pictured it as a blue light tracing his very bones, spreading outward and growing in strength. He sighed, letting himself fall into the warmth, so comfortable, so safe, releasing his cares and caution.
"Stay strong," a voice whispered to him, "for Us." He became suddenly alert and obedient. The voice was so like Nellehseran's, and yet so complex, so wrong.
"What is this? Who is that? Nell?" he asked himself.
"We are Us. We are, because We have been Bound," the voice responded, hearing his silent thought.
This time, a voice that was quite clearly Nellehseran's spoke, as unlike the mysterious voice as Kilrik's own voice. "Bound?" she asked. "I don't understand. Rik, is that you?"
The voice responded before Kilrik could. "We are, and We are you as well. We have been born of the intertwining of the Sorceress and her Guardian. We have been Bound."
"But why," Kilrik began, "do you sound like-"
The answer came to him before he could resist. A tide of images flooded through him, and he was certain what they meant. Flashes of his past, traces of his soul spun along streams of what he knew was Nell at her very core. The boundary between the souls coruscated, sparkling golden between the mahogany of his own soul and the cerulean of Nell's soul.
The voice spoke again. "You must fight, Kilrik. We are with you. You must stand for Us. You are Our body and We shall be your strength."
Kilrik's eyes snapped open. He sucked a great gasp of air and, his mouth open in wonder, leveled his gaze at the wizard. Antrohk stared at him, his jaw set. As the great flame had passed over Kilrik, he had stilled for an instant as if frozen, Nell pressed close behind him. Slowly, Nell's feet had barely left the ground, hovering slightly as she grasped Rik's shoulders. Now, as he looked on, Antrohk's vision seemed to contort and shimmer until all he could see in his rage were Kilrik's eyes. The once sad, brown eyes were a cold, icy blue, the color of an Arctic sky.
Fury bubbled along the wizard's features. "No," he grunted quietly. Then, flinging his arms into his pouch, he shouted in rage, "No!" Whipping strange objects at Rik with abandon, Antrohk filled the air with streaks of energy that began to coalesce into boulders and flames and stony serpents before silently tearing and slipping like vapor into Kilrik's shield. Kilrik looked down at this, and watched as a blue glow seemed to suffuse the shield, each wayward spell reinforcing the soft light. He felt a rage building through him with the sundered spells, thrumming like a cord strung through his chest.
Antrohk relented his assault, yelling again at Kilrik, his face contorting and his body shaking in his wrath, "How did you break her? She is mine to break!"
Kilrik stared at the wizard, a great certainty of purpose filling his mind. He felt the energy trapped within his shield raging against him, fighting like an animal to break free. Rik shifted his will: it felt like he was opening a dam. The energy shot through his chest, searing a painful path as it went, a torrent of fire and hate that fled into his sword arm and up the hilt of his longsword. The energy suffused into the great whitesteel blade, which began to glow an eerie yellow. Flashes of the same golden light that entwined Kilrik's and Nellehseran's souls seemed to dance about the sword.
Kilrik strode forward with purpose, Nell hovering effortlessly behind him. The wizard backed slowly away, tossing more objects at Kilrik, his eyes betraying anger, then shock, and, finally, fear. The stones and acorns and feathers and bones each silently transmuted, briefly swelling to a tower of cascading mud and a dense cluster of wooden spears and a swarm of ravens and a dreadful skeletal ram before slipping into a vapor, drawn, now, to the whitesteel sword.
Kilrik no longer felt any rage; the energy no longer tore at him. All of the force and emotion he had felt through the shield seemed contained within the luminescent glow of the pristine metal. As Antrohk backed against a tree trunk, still throwing spells at the knight and the girl, Kilrik stopped and closed his eyes. He could still see the image of the clearing on his eyelids, the wizard standing terrified against the towering black oak. Quietly, with a gentle motion, he tossed the sword forward and opened his eyes. The blade spun in the air for a moment, its tip pointed at the wizard, crackling and hissing, shining golden against the red glow. The yellow light rippled once along the sword, bulging like a wave moving from tip to hilt. The blade darted forward, speeding toward the High Wizard. Antrohk whipped his arm before him, conjuring a shield which glistened like a soap bubble. The blade tore through it, unhindered, and pierced the wizard, shuddering into the tree with a mighty thump. Antrohk gurgled, the glint in his eyes fading to a matte darkness, and his arm fell limp by his side.
As Kilrik walked toward the dead mage, he felt the power flushing through him ebb away. Already his heart began to beat faster as his mind wondered excitedly at the ordeal he had just faced. He pulled the sword from the corpse, the blade coming out clean and unblemished as the wizard's blood spilled across the ground. The last vestiges of the blue glow he had felt so strongly slipped away like a dream. He felt Nellehseran slip down his back, her legs collapsing under her as she hit the ground. He turned quickly and caught her about the waist, pulling her close to him. She lay against him, letting Rik support her as she sobbed uncontrollably into the loose hair that draped his neck. He pulled off his helm and tossed it aside, embracing her. Nell pressed her face against his, her body heaving as she cried.
Kilrik comforted her, whispering, "It's okay, we're fine. Let's leave so you don't have to see him any more. It must be hard."
Nellehseran nuzzled against him a little, and responded quaveringly. "It's not that. There was something... I couldn't control it, Rik; I'm so sorry you had to fight him. You were amazing! Thank you. Thank you." With this, she brushed her face across his cheek until their mouths met; they kissed, eagerly.
Kilrik held her close, shutting his eyes as her soft lips swept across his again and again. Nell reached up, stroking the back of his neck as she craned her neck upward, pressing hungrily to kiss him a little harder. His heart pounded fiercely; he imagined he could feel her heartbeat through his breastplate. Together they stood for some time, feeling a wild relief and release, an odd security in the embrace, like nothing could hope to spoil the moment.
Finally, they relented, panting, gazing into each other's eyes. Rik turned his head first, and Nell followed his gaze, looking down upon the corpse of her father, laying against the oak. "Let's go," Nellehseran said with quiet vehemence. Kilrik stooped to pick up his helm, slipping it back on his head. They turned toward the road, but Nell only stumbled, her legs unsupportive.
"Here," Kilrik said, smiling softly. He picked her up, carrying her easily, like a child in his arms. She smiled up at him, exhausted, her teeth barely flashing into view, and relaxed against him, closing her eyes. He carried her back to the road, heading again eastward, and felt a great and unfamiliar tenderness filling him. All he could think about was protecting her, being there for Nellehseran. After crossing the bridge over the stream, he walked a few paces and turned into the woods, leaving the sight of the road. He lay Nell down in the soft underbrush, and, in his exhaustion, decided not to take up a watch. He curled up beside her, holding her tight against him, and they slept.
Back in the clearing, a rush of wind rent the air. A great gray column traced a thin line through the night sky and spiraled down next to Antrohk's corpse. A shadowy form, tall and lean, coalesced out of the cloudy column, looking down upon the late wizard.
"You have failed me, Antrohk," the figure's voice rumbled, coming from all directions at once. "You were to leave the girl for me, and you let her get suspicious. I expect you tried to Subdue her yourself, didn't you? But no matter." The figure stooped low, its gray hand resting on Antrohk's shoulder. "I needn't worry about your disobedience anymore, hmm?" The figure chuckled quietly, a ringing, bright laugh. Looking down again, the shadowy form seemed to solidify briefly, exuding a force of will that made the nearby air stifling and oppressive. "My careless friend, I Deem thee Antrohk Cameron, Wizard of the Shade."
The corpse flushed briefly with a white glow. As the light faded, Antrohk's body seemed less solid, the ground visible slightly through him. Suddenly, his eyes sprang open and he clambered to his feet, his great bulk seeming even less of a hindrance to his motions now. His face blank, he stared ahead, unblinking, at nothing.
The shadowy stranger sighed, a wry smile playing across his ephemeral lips. "I shall have to retrain you, I think, my old friend," he said, "but your powers will still be useful to me. You shall have your chance to redeem yourself. Come." The shadow reached out and grabbed Antrohk's hand. The column of cloud reformed around them both, swirling and retreating upward, erasing as it went the same line it had earlier traced.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
In the broken stillness of the evening, malevolent eyes glared at Kilrik and Nellehseran from the dark cowl of a brown-cloaked man. He stood, pulsing with rage in the failing light, his impressive size seeming to grow in the sight of the surprised travelers. "Father!" Nellehseran whispered in shock. The man cuffed her sharply across the face, and she fell sideways. With startling agility, he swept upon Kilrik, grasping his throat and lifting him effortlessly off the ground.
He stood taller than Kilrik's appreciable height and held the armored traveller helpless in front of him. Kilrik grasped at his neck, futilely trying to prise off the strong grip. The bulky man pulled him closer, baring his teeth with a sibilant hiss.
Staring into Kilrik's panicked eyes, he roared, "You petty soldier! You thought to take my daughter, to steal my prize? You have interfered with powers beyond your ken, boy!" Kilrik kicked wildly, gasping against the man's tightening grip. Shaking Rik violently, Nell's father continued darkly, "Struggle as you wish; you cannot hope to save that disloyal sorcerous! I am Antrohk Cameron, High Wizard of the Throne of Halreln! I have risen beyond the fold of mortal men! She will be Subdued!"
With the calloused hands holding him like a vice, Kilrik felt the world turning dark about him. His mind filled with the sound of his ragged gasps as he struggled for air. Gathering his discipline to stave off his panic, Kilrik looked about the clearing for some means of salvation, blinking as sharp lights punctuated his vision. Nell lay groaning on the ground behind Antrohk, regaining her senses. A few feet away by the still-burning campfire, the pile of fuelwood was crowned with a long, heavy log. Kilrik stared at Nellehseran, willing her to look up. Finally, as Kilrik felt the last fibers of his strength slipping, Nell slowly sat up, grasping her forehead and gazing at Kilrik. Kilrik looked between the log and the girl, gesturing wildly with his eyes.
As Nellehseran snuck toward the log, Kilrik locked eyes with Antrohk. The wizard's grin was vile. "You should be proud, boy. You are about to be killed by the most powerful man in the entire Empire of-"
Nellehseran struck a powerful blow, swinging the long branch in a wide arc against the wizard's skull. Dazed, Antrohk loosened his grip on Kilrik. The armored man fell to the ground, coughing and gasping as Antrohk turned against his daughter. Reaching into a large pouch on his belt, he withdrew a clump of a white mineral, clenching the stone in his fist. His eyes flickered as he cast the rock at Nellehseran. With a resounding blast, she flew back, striking a tree and slumping to the ground. "Fool!" Antrohk spat. "It's a shame I can't kill you."
Behind the wizard, Kilrik had risen weakly to his feet. Seeing Antrohk's assault on Nellehseran, Kilrik felt his resolve grow. He steadied himself, drawing his sword and wielding the Provincial Guard's shield. Standing at his full height, he stepped toward the wizard, shouting in challenge, "Antrohk! Turn and face my blade!"
The High Wizard smirked incredulously as he faced Kilrik. "You wish to wield a knife in battle with a mage?" he cackled mockingly. "Even your whitesteel will be of no use to you!" Antrohk slipped his hand into his pouch once again, withdrawing a small pool of liquid, which sloshed oddly about in his palm as if contained within a spherical glass orb. Kilrik breathed deeply, crouched against his back leg, and sprang forward silently, sprinting intently toward the wizard. As he raised his longsword high, the wizard twisted sideways and flung the liquid forward, as if lobbing a grenade. The orb swelled in the air, sloshing wetly in front of him where Kilrik had been running. Kilrik, however, spun sideways and down, ducking the orb and the wizard's outstretched arm, slipping around and behind him to stand in front of Nell defensively. The wet sphere fell to the ground with a thud.
The wizard turned to face them, his jowly face a mask of rage. Rik reached behind himself for Nellehseran, pulling her up. She wobbled on her feet. "Stay behind me! Use me to stay upright, if you have to!" Kilrik commanded her, his voice terse and energetic. She stumbled forward to hold his shoulders, her face pressed against the back of his armor. In the silence, as the wizard coldly regarded Kilrik, the strange liquid sphere crackled and snapped, boring a deep hole in the earth where it lay.
Finally Antrohk turned and walked slowly toward a nearby oak while his eyes remained locked on Kilrik, who held his shield and sword high. Pressing his hand against the trunk of the tree, Antrohk grunted, the muscles along his arm suddenly bulging as he tore out a handful of wood, the splinters shearing away with a crunch. He held the mass of wood at arm's length in front of his eyes. The chunk quivered and seemed to melt, wobbling and dripping in on itself as the beige color of the wood drained away. Soon, the wizard was staring intently at a white mass which glowed slightly in his hand.
Kilrik looked on in awe. The wizard inhaled sharply, a supreme focus of will playing through his eyes. Slowly, reverently, he intoned, "I Deem thee flame."
A flash of orange sprang in the center of the mass, which now seemed to exude a quiet power. Suddenly, the mass split open with a crack! In the expanse of a breath, a circle of singed grass swept outward from the High Wizard's hand as a swift wall of heat caused a haze between Kilrik and Antrohk. The clearing was bathed in a dense red glow, the color of the hot embers of a large fire. Kilrik closed his eyes and flinched, steeling himself for the flame.
In the darkness of his mind, though, he found a strange calm. A warm glow seemed to suffuse through him, trickling from his spine to his legs and up into his skull. He pictured it as a blue light tracing his very bones, spreading outward and growing in strength. He sighed, letting himself fall into the warmth, so comfortable, so safe, releasing his cares and caution.
"Stay strong," a voice whispered to him, "for Us." He became suddenly alert and obedient. The voice was so like Nellehseran's, and yet so complex, so wrong.
"What is this? Who is that? Nell?" he asked himself.
"We are Us. We are, because We have been Bound," the voice responded, hearing his silent thought.
This time, a voice that was quite clearly Nellehseran's spoke, as unlike the mysterious voice as Kilrik's own voice. "Bound?" she asked. "I don't understand. Rik, is that you?"
The voice responded before Kilrik could. "We are, and We are you as well. We have been born of the intertwining of the Sorceress and her Guardian. We have been Bound."
"But why," Kilrik began, "do you sound like-"
The answer came to him before he could resist. A tide of images flooded through him, and he was certain what they meant. Flashes of his past, traces of his soul spun along streams of what he knew was Nell at her very core. The boundary between the souls coruscated, sparkling golden between the mahogany of his own soul and the cerulean of Nell's soul.
The voice spoke again. "You must fight, Kilrik. We are with you. You must stand for Us. You are Our body and We shall be your strength."
Kilrik's eyes snapped open. He sucked a great gasp of air and, his mouth open in wonder, leveled his gaze at the wizard. Antrohk stared at him, his jaw set. As the great flame had passed over Kilrik, he had stilled for an instant as if frozen, Nell pressed close behind him. Slowly, Nell's feet had barely left the ground, hovering slightly as she grasped Rik's shoulders. Now, as he looked on, Antrohk's vision seemed to contort and shimmer until all he could see in his rage were Kilrik's eyes. The once sad, brown eyes were a cold, icy blue, the color of an Arctic sky.
Fury bubbled along the wizard's features. "No," he grunted quietly. Then, flinging his arms into his pouch, he shouted in rage, "No!" Whipping strange objects at Rik with abandon, Antrohk filled the air with streaks of energy that began to coalesce into boulders and flames and stony serpents before silently tearing and slipping like vapor into Kilrik's shield. Kilrik looked down at this, and watched as a blue glow seemed to suffuse the shield, each wayward spell reinforcing the soft light. He felt a rage building through him with the sundered spells, thrumming like a cord strung through his chest.
Antrohk relented his assault, yelling again at Kilrik, his face contorting and his body shaking in his wrath, "How did you break her? She is mine to break!"
Kilrik stared at the wizard, a great certainty of purpose filling his mind. He felt the energy trapped within his shield raging against him, fighting like an animal to break free. Rik shifted his will: it felt like he was opening a dam. The energy shot through his chest, searing a painful path as it went, a torrent of fire and hate that fled into his sword arm and up the hilt of his longsword. The energy suffused into the great whitesteel blade, which began to glow an eerie yellow. Flashes of the same golden light that entwined Kilrik's and Nellehseran's souls seemed to dance about the sword.
Kilrik strode forward with purpose, Nell hovering effortlessly behind him. The wizard backed slowly away, tossing more objects at Kilrik, his eyes betraying anger, then shock, and, finally, fear. The stones and acorns and feathers and bones each silently transmuted, briefly swelling to a tower of cascading mud and a dense cluster of wooden spears and a swarm of ravens and a dreadful skeletal ram before slipping into a vapor, drawn, now, to the whitesteel sword.
Kilrik no longer felt any rage; the energy no longer tore at him. All of the force and emotion he had felt through the shield seemed contained within the luminescent glow of the pristine metal. As Antrohk backed against a tree trunk, still throwing spells at the knight and the girl, Kilrik stopped and closed his eyes. He could still see the image of the clearing on his eyelids, the wizard standing terrified against the towering black oak. Quietly, with a gentle motion, he tossed the sword forward and opened his eyes. The blade spun in the air for a moment, its tip pointed at the wizard, crackling and hissing, shining golden against the red glow. The yellow light rippled once along the sword, bulging like a wave moving from tip to hilt. The blade darted forward, speeding toward the High Wizard. Antrohk whipped his arm before him, conjuring a shield which glistened like a soap bubble. The blade tore through it, unhindered, and pierced the wizard, shuddering into the tree with a mighty thump. Antrohk gurgled, the glint in his eyes fading to a matte darkness, and his arm fell limp by his side.
As Kilrik walked toward the dead mage, he felt the power flushing through him ebb away. Already his heart began to beat faster as his mind wondered excitedly at the ordeal he had just faced. He pulled the sword from the corpse, the blade coming out clean and unblemished as the wizard's blood spilled across the ground. The last vestiges of the blue glow he had felt so strongly slipped away like a dream. He felt Nellehseran slip down his back, her legs collapsing under her as she hit the ground. He turned quickly and caught her about the waist, pulling her close to him. She lay against him, letting Rik support her as she sobbed uncontrollably into the loose hair that draped his neck. He pulled off his helm and tossed it aside, embracing her. Nell pressed her face against his, her body heaving as she cried.
Kilrik comforted her, whispering, "It's okay, we're fine. Let's leave so you don't have to see him any more. It must be hard."
Nellehseran nuzzled against him a little, and responded quaveringly. "It's not that. There was something... I couldn't control it, Rik; I'm so sorry you had to fight him. You were amazing! Thank you. Thank you." With this, she brushed her face across his cheek until their mouths met; they kissed, eagerly.
Kilrik held her close, shutting his eyes as her soft lips swept across his again and again. Nell reached up, stroking the back of his neck as she craned her neck upward, pressing hungrily to kiss him a little harder. His heart pounded fiercely; he imagined he could feel her heartbeat through his breastplate. Together they stood for some time, feeling a wild relief and release, an odd security in the embrace, like nothing could hope to spoil the moment.
Finally, they relented, panting, gazing into each other's eyes. Rik turned his head first, and Nell followed his gaze, looking down upon the corpse of her father, laying against the oak. "Let's go," Nellehseran said with quiet vehemence. Kilrik stooped to pick up his helm, slipping it back on his head. They turned toward the road, but Nell only stumbled, her legs unsupportive.
"Here," Kilrik said, smiling softly. He picked her up, carrying her easily, like a child in his arms. She smiled up at him, exhausted, her teeth barely flashing into view, and relaxed against him, closing her eyes. He carried her back to the road, heading again eastward, and felt a great and unfamiliar tenderness filling him. All he could think about was protecting her, being there for Nellehseran. After crossing the bridge over the stream, he walked a few paces and turned into the woods, leaving the sight of the road. He lay Nell down in the soft underbrush, and, in his exhaustion, decided not to take up a watch. He curled up beside her, holding her tight against him, and they slept.
Back in the clearing, a rush of wind rent the air. A great gray column traced a thin line through the night sky and spiraled down next to Antrohk's corpse. A shadowy form, tall and lean, coalesced out of the cloudy column, looking down upon the late wizard.
"You have failed me, Antrohk," the figure's voice rumbled, coming from all directions at once. "You were to leave the girl for me, and you let her get suspicious. I expect you tried to Subdue her yourself, didn't you? But no matter." The figure stooped low, its gray hand resting on Antrohk's shoulder. "I needn't worry about your disobedience anymore, hmm?" The figure chuckled quietly, a ringing, bright laugh. Looking down again, the shadowy form seemed to solidify briefly, exuding a force of will that made the nearby air stifling and oppressive. "My careless friend, I Deem thee Antrohk Cameron, Wizard of the Shade."
The corpse flushed briefly with a white glow. As the light faded, Antrohk's body seemed less solid, the ground visible slightly through him. Suddenly, his eyes sprang open and he clambered to his feet, his great bulk seeming even less of a hindrance to his motions now. His face blank, he stared ahead, unblinking, at nothing.
The shadowy stranger sighed, a wry smile playing across his ephemeral lips. "I shall have to retrain you, I think, my old friend," he said, "but your powers will still be useful to me. You shall have your chance to redeem yourself. Come." The shadow reached out and grabbed Antrohk's hand. The column of cloud reformed around them both, swirling and retreating upward, erasing as it went the same line it had earlier traced.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Tonight's Update Tomorrow
I JUST finished chapter three of Nellehseran, but I want to let it cool off before I post it. I'll reread it early-ish tomorrow, fix up whatever phrasing I don't like, and send it irrevocably into the world.
Since the spirit of this Saturday thing is to get me to work on writing every week, I think this counts, since I wrote for nigh-on two hours.
By my hand, as always,
~Michael Akerman
Since the spirit of this Saturday thing is to get me to work on writing every week, I think this counts, since I wrote for nigh-on two hours.
By my hand, as always,
~Michael Akerman
Saturday, August 22, 2009
A Force of Habit
The other day I was in my apartment (effectively) alone. Scott (my brother and roommate) was either out or asleep, I don't recall which. I slipped into the restroom, closed the door, and locked it.
I stopped for a moment, bemused. There was really no reason to lock the door: I had no fear of intrusion from my brother, and it's not as if I expected villains or scoundrels to come barging in and head for the restroom. It was simply the force of habit that made me lock the door. The long ages of repeating the same series of motions (open the door, step in, grab the knob with my left hand, turn slightly, pull the door closed, turn the lock) had hardwired something that wasn't quite a muscle memory and wasn't quite conditioning. I don't perform the same motion on other doors, so it's not something my arm does of its own accord. I have never been rewarded for it, nor have I been punished for not locking the door, so it can't be conditioning.
The action just follows seamlessly, as if the most logical sequence in the world were "close bathroom door, lock bathroom door," an unquestionable truth that would be foolish to stand against.
It's funny how solidly we can work our habits into our selves. We sit down in the car and reach for the seat belt. We intend to turn and activate the turn signal (some of us). We feel like sneezing and cover our mouths. We take the wizz and wash our hands, even though, at least for the male set, we might not have touched anything warranting hand-washing (ladies: it's relatively easy to urinate in urinals without particularly directing the stream). Take out food, shut the fridge; come home, check the mail; stand up, push the chair in. All of these little routines that build up into an unconscious set of undirected actions.
It is appropriate that it is called a "force" of habit. How little we can do to stop it! We are forced, indeed! But, there's something more. Habit, I think, is also a societal force, binding us together in little ways that make life in the herd all the easier. Habit is the gravity of society.
When these actions become automatic, they are not forgotten when they are important, even if normally they don't matter and sometimes they seem silly. Locking the bathroom door prevents embarrassment and a possible argument (why didn't you knock?). Buckling your seat belt reduces the cost to all parties should there be a major accident. Covering our mouths when we sneeze and washing out hands in the restroom prevent the spread of germs. Shutting the fridge prevents waste, checking the mail ensures a rapid response to urgent mailings, pushing in your chair prevents people from tripping on it or simply being annoyed.
Small things, certainly, but they add up. The turn signal thing, for instance, is blindingly noticeable to me, being, as I am, not psychic. If you waver about and finally slide into my lane an inch in front of my car without warning me, I might get a little ticked off. If you slow to turn without signalling, you might get rear-ended by an inattentive driver, which wastes both parties time and money. Yet, it's not something we should have to think about every time we turn: driving is complicated enough without a monologue saying, "Okay, now I should move this lever up, because I'm turning left." That's why new drivers are so bad: lack of habits.
Habits are important, then. Like so much in life, they're a little absurd, but necessary, and a little irrational, but perfectly reasonable. The human animal turns out to be like that a lot.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
I stopped for a moment, bemused. There was really no reason to lock the door: I had no fear of intrusion from my brother, and it's not as if I expected villains or scoundrels to come barging in and head for the restroom. It was simply the force of habit that made me lock the door. The long ages of repeating the same series of motions (open the door, step in, grab the knob with my left hand, turn slightly, pull the door closed, turn the lock) had hardwired something that wasn't quite a muscle memory and wasn't quite conditioning. I don't perform the same motion on other doors, so it's not something my arm does of its own accord. I have never been rewarded for it, nor have I been punished for not locking the door, so it can't be conditioning.
The action just follows seamlessly, as if the most logical sequence in the world were "close bathroom door, lock bathroom door," an unquestionable truth that would be foolish to stand against.
It's funny how solidly we can work our habits into our selves. We sit down in the car and reach for the seat belt. We intend to turn and activate the turn signal (some of us). We feel like sneezing and cover our mouths. We take the wizz and wash our hands, even though, at least for the male set, we might not have touched anything warranting hand-washing (ladies: it's relatively easy to urinate in urinals without particularly directing the stream). Take out food, shut the fridge; come home, check the mail; stand up, push the chair in. All of these little routines that build up into an unconscious set of undirected actions.
It is appropriate that it is called a "force" of habit. How little we can do to stop it! We are forced, indeed! But, there's something more. Habit, I think, is also a societal force, binding us together in little ways that make life in the herd all the easier. Habit is the gravity of society.
When these actions become automatic, they are not forgotten when they are important, even if normally they don't matter and sometimes they seem silly. Locking the bathroom door prevents embarrassment and a possible argument (why didn't you knock?). Buckling your seat belt reduces the cost to all parties should there be a major accident. Covering our mouths when we sneeze and washing out hands in the restroom prevent the spread of germs. Shutting the fridge prevents waste, checking the mail ensures a rapid response to urgent mailings, pushing in your chair prevents people from tripping on it or simply being annoyed.
Small things, certainly, but they add up. The turn signal thing, for instance, is blindingly noticeable to me, being, as I am, not psychic. If you waver about and finally slide into my lane an inch in front of my car without warning me, I might get a little ticked off. If you slow to turn without signalling, you might get rear-ended by an inattentive driver, which wastes both parties time and money. Yet, it's not something we should have to think about every time we turn: driving is complicated enough without a monologue saying, "Okay, now I should move this lever up, because I'm turning left." That's why new drivers are so bad: lack of habits.
Habits are important, then. Like so much in life, they're a little absurd, but necessary, and a little irrational, but perfectly reasonable. The human animal turns out to be like that a lot.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Writing
I was reading my old work the other day. I really like chapter one of Nellehseran and Angel Arisen (I would like to rewrite chapter two of the former, I think). Reading that stuff makes me want to write more, but I come home from work, flop down on the couch, eat some dinner, and play video games.
It's easy to justify a lack of productivity when you're working all day. I've all but stopped exercising, I don't write, I don't post to this blog (and you, gentle reader, don't get to enjoy my pedantic peramblings). To my conscience, to the world, I say, "Lay off me, I've been working all day."
That's unacceptable, though. I know that I want to write, I know that I want to think. The easy road is to cheat myself, to skip the arduous ardors of the writer's craft, to lay aside the deep and difficult thoughts that nestle within philosophy, to give pass to tiring physical exertion. But I am the master of my mind, and the rewards for fulfilling my desires are far greater than the rewards for fulfilling my wants (I use interchangeable words, but I think context and connotation make that sentence clear).
So, I need to master my mastery. I can not live a life of dull mediocrity, a perpetual comfortable rut leading only to the hope of a painless retirement. The man of thought, and I immodestly consider myself one, must seek, in the words of David Foster Wallace, "...to keep from going through [his] comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to [his] head and to [his] natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out."
So, I'm promising something to myself and to the internet: every Saturday, I will have posted something worth posting during the previous week. That is to say, by Saturday at 11:59 P.M., I will have published some bit of work with substance. Everything I post will be accessible from this blog, so you don't have to work too hard if you don't want to.
Onward, then, and let's hope I can actually maintain this for once!
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
It's easy to justify a lack of productivity when you're working all day. I've all but stopped exercising, I don't write, I don't post to this blog (and you, gentle reader, don't get to enjoy my pedantic peramblings). To my conscience, to the world, I say, "Lay off me, I've been working all day."
That's unacceptable, though. I know that I want to write, I know that I want to think. The easy road is to cheat myself, to skip the arduous ardors of the writer's craft, to lay aside the deep and difficult thoughts that nestle within philosophy, to give pass to tiring physical exertion. But I am the master of my mind, and the rewards for fulfilling my desires are far greater than the rewards for fulfilling my wants (I use interchangeable words, but I think context and connotation make that sentence clear).
So, I need to master my mastery. I can not live a life of dull mediocrity, a perpetual comfortable rut leading only to the hope of a painless retirement. The man of thought, and I immodestly consider myself one, must seek, in the words of David Foster Wallace, "...to keep from going through [his] comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to [his] head and to [his] natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out."
So, I'm promising something to myself and to the internet: every Saturday, I will have posted something worth posting during the previous week. That is to say, by Saturday at 11:59 P.M., I will have published some bit of work with substance. Everything I post will be accessible from this blog, so you don't have to work too hard if you don't want to.
Onward, then, and let's hope I can actually maintain this for once!
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
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