Somos Robles

Opening Theme – Third Arc

“I could live like this.”

I have spoken of my time in Seattle as the Interlude, as an extended experience liberated from the otherwise grand narrative I am apparently compelled to make of my life. I define that year as somehow “discontinuous”, free-floating, as though it were lived by a person who has little in common with the one dominated by a sweeping philosophical project, who squares off against a yawning abyss with the passion and urgency that can only be inspired in the face of immanent destruction. There are several obvious ways in which this is not true. My acquiring of a driver's license and vehicle, for example, contributed much to being able to visit all of you, so that I might continue to reaffirm precious friendships. Yet I experienced the process of acquisition – lengthier than I would like to admit – as totally divorced from these more vital, human concerns, and there was little I could do to convince myself otherwise.

Even going through the storage unit from my old house, searching through all the evidence of my life as a child – being reduced to tears by a scrap of yellowed paper with my three-year-old's scrawl, for my mother a symbol of my imagined prodigal writing ability, that read with broken spelling, “Dear Mother, please remember this all your life: A child cannot do everything” – reading the first letter my father wrote to my infant self, the most honest words from him I have ever encountered – seemed abstracted from necessity. I read through boxes of legal proceedings between my parents because I knew that as long as they were there I could not turn my back on them and still be a man; yet so too I felt that had that they not been retained, I would not have lost anything. Maybe these would have been worthy tools earlier in my life, with which to lever myself further to adulthood. Not anymore. I'm past that, now.

I never needed to do those things. Not really.

So that's one reason. Going dancing alone to wild success, forging and renewing relationships that I am proud to hold close to my heart, coming to understand my hometown on its own merits and not as the vague and befogged stage upon which I lived a very small life: these were valuable experiences, but I participated in them seemingly free of any context other than my own tightly woven self, within a void that by nature would begin to fray that weave. And again, of course that is absurd; of course there was a context; there are always circumstances that allow and constrain; Seattle is not a void. But I did not experience them as such, and that is the only truth I am interested in: truth as it is experienced, truth as psychologically functional, truth as a human phenomenon, distinct from feeble correspondence.

Madness, maybe – solipsism, even – but distinct from narcissism.

The other reason I began to think of that year as the Interlude is precisely that I had so many meaningful experiences in Seattle that sustained me, thanks to my friends and the training – for being “well-adapted” means a lot when it refers to a guy with so much nonsense to adapt to – that I knew I would, indeed intended to in certain ways (and said so), rely upon during that year. I expected the former aspect of the Interlude. I did not expect that my highest hopes would be fulfilled, that I would actually somehow find philosophy teaching opportunities, that I would earn the respect and recommendation of my superiors, that without any graduate teaching credentials I could be paid (!). I expected that teaching at a public high school to non-honors students would be an incredible challenge; I did not expect that I would ace it. How can I describe this to you? Never once did I feel under threat of failure. Every situation, even the most difficult, even when that Mexican kid started playing the ukelele in class and through my frustration I empathized, I knew calling him out would alienate him and test the tenuous limits of my illusory authority and so I just talked, I orated and I engaged, until they stopped paying attention to him because the discussion actually was in fact more interesting, until I didn't even need to talk anymore, and after twenty minutes of teaching hell he put down the ukelele because he wanted to participate and as I engaged him too at last I knew that I was a king, that I had just punched a boulder to rubble with an unyielding fist. That was hard. That was damn hard. But – and know that I say this with surprise, not with pride – I never actually thought I would lose.

In the third edition of Dungeons and Dragons, the designers introduced a mechanic known as “taking 10” or “taking 20”. Because everything in the game relies on dice, there are sometimes occasions when a skilled character fumbles a mundane task due to a heinously low roll, and although explaining these lapses entertainingly is part of the fun of role-playing – much as in the TBF, when I get to explain why my character has blown some attack that, given the way we had previously described the situation, should have been a sure deal, when it was simply the vagaries of the computer at work – it can also get in the way of moving play along. With this new mechanic, however, rolling dice only needed to occur at critical junctures. If you “take 10”, your character spends an uninterrupted minute at his task and automatically “rolls a 10”, meaning that if his task had, say, a difficulty rating of 15 and he has +6 to his skill, he'll always succeed so long as he has a little time and is under little stress. Furthermore, given a very extended period of time, say ten minutes, he may even “take 20”, and assume a maximum value on his roll; though, of course, when it comes to adventures, it's rare that this is ever feasible.

I experienced many precious moments during the interlude – but I did not, or so I believe, encounter any challenges that couldn't be surmounted by taking 20.

I don't think I ever really had to roll.

And this is the paradox, the irony, and the crux, that not experiencing danger was precisely the danger, that not being under threat seemed the ultimate threat. I speak of “a void that by nature would begin to fray” my self, and I mean it. Unless I am confronting despair itself, unless I am my own savior, staving off the smallest apocalypse – unless I am fighting some great battle – I cannot even sustain myself. I am bound too close to madness, my nemesis, to love, my friend, twins that seek to scatter me like stars. Unless I face them, even if I might live, I could never be happy.

What a jackass!

I thought – no, I hoped – that perhaps this was a self-indulgent ruse, that I confused the need for apocalypse – for something that would demand the salvation I pursue – with mere megalomania, that this was not my cherished madness but has indeed been narcissism all along. What if I'm just too used to this? What if it's the ethic that serves the aesthetic, not the other way around? What if I'm insincere? If I simply need to be the hero of my own story, and there never was any villain, then the answer is simple: stop being a jackass and help some children.

I watched the students leave my classroom, and I saw the look in the eyes of the teacher, and I thought, “I could live like this.”

And for now it is enough to say that if I was wrong, and I cannot, and nonetheless I cease my fascination with the absurdity of the epic and contain my need to confront my madness and choose a humbler and more decent path, then I am certain that although I will not know when the shadows steal over me, the death I experience will not be a small one.

You can see, it is hard to resist.

* * *

Time – O'Spada

Buenos Aires is a developed city in a developing nation. This is not a phenomenon I have encountered before, and I must also confess that I'm not yet prepared to define what exactly I mean by “developed” or “developing”, volatile and polluted but intuitively meaningful terms. Regardless, as a setting this city is extremely interesting – that's for sure – and offers both peace of mind and an undeniable urge to explore, a worthy combination that I, for one, greatly appreciate.

We are resisting the Easy Ex-Pat Conclusion: Buenos Aires is Europe Only Cheaper. This is not because we want to deny our status as comparatively wealthy foreigners living abroad but because we seek to understand it. The exchange rate is 3.8 pesos to the dollar, yet even now that their crisis of inflation is close to a decade behind them Argentinians must struggle with an influx of foreign currency, which reduces the value of their own, and prices that rise to match the spending power of people like, well, me. As I currently understand it (now that I am a seasoned veteran of one week in Argentina), while there is a sizable middle class (and correspondingly sizable beautiful neighborhoods) amongst the porteños, or residents of Buenos Aires, for those who live in the countryside a peso goes as far as a dollar in America, meaning that prices in BA are a nightmare: imagine twenty dollars for decent sandwich. But for me, hey, 20 pesos? What, like seven bucks? That's totally fair.

Whatever I may potentially represent – for I distinguish between accepting actual blame for these circumstances and taking personal responsibility for what I am – everyone is shockingly friendly, and the warnings were sneer-inducingly overblown. Buenos Aires is a metropolis of eighteen million people, the most stirring synthesis of city and sprawl I've ever experienced – tremendous space with formidable density, some of the profusion of Points of Interest of Manhattan without the stifling intensity, some of the rolling grandeur of LA with none of the “there is nothing here so why are you not driving to somewhere cooler right now” – and, like any big city, you should be aware of yourself and your surroundings. But Alec and I have agreed that the only real rule we've needed so far is the same rule that seems to serve you well in New York, LA, and indeed any concentration of people: don't be an idiot. Rules like, oh, I don't know, never carry your backpack around lest you be robbed-- it sounds like something a foreigner would write about New York.

And people really are nicer here. Even construction workers will put down their tools so we can pass unharried by dust and debris. “People will harass you constantly!” Yeah, whoever wrote that hasn't been to India. The first time someone walked up and tried to sell Alec and I something, I said “No, gracias”, and they bid us farewell and departed. We stared at each other in awe. What, that's it? You just say no? I should've left my sword-cane at home.

Look at me, the world traveler. When did that happen, am I right?

Notable points of my journey thus far:

* My Flight: On the plus side, Air Canada is a blessing. On my first flight from Seattle to Vancouver, unable to purchase lunch before embarking, I flinched when I heard that this was the only meal on my trip that would not be complimentary – and then promptly bought a Quiznos Barbeque Chicken Flatbread pizza for six bucks. Quiznos! In the air! For Quiznos prices! It was delicious.

But with a total of twenty-six hours in transit, my inability to sleep on planes made a poor bedfellow with the repeated security checkpoints I was forced to endure post-Christmas bombing attempt. I knew from the beginning my trip was a crazy one: from Seattle to Vancouver to Toronto through Santiago to Buenos Aires. What I did not know that I would be forced to go through security again to switch planes in Vancouver, and then again in Toronto, and what I especially did not know when I boarded the plane in Toronto and thought “Well, at least I don't have to switch planes again” was that upon my arrival in Santiago, having gone for almost 24 hours with three hours of sleep the previous night, we would all be forced to deplane, go through security again, and then all get back on the same plane.

And I had all my books as carry-on.

But I did get to watch Inglorious Bastards and Gran Turino on the way to Santiago, and they were both mind-blowing. Especially Gran Turino! I now know what to tell myself whenever I bemoan the total dearth of Asians in this country, whom I only ever see running markets and laundromats: “Well, you're not in Hmong anymore.”

* My Realtor:

“Alec, do you know why I trust our realtor?”

“Because he's gay?”

“You're close.”

“Okay, why?”

“Because he has a tramp stamp.”

FACT.

* Our Hostel: I wrote El Sol Hostel a five-star recommendation, and I believe Alec did too; Bushy only spent about half a day there (Alec and I, somewhat astonishingly, managed to meet our goal of rapidly finding a good apartment due to a relentless pace, Alec's ingenuity, and my moral support; more on this later), but I think it would have served him just as well. I've used hostels just often enough to know what a person needs from them and what to actually expect, and the cleanliness and security of the place combined with the genuine friendliness of the staff to make it more than hospitable. Of course, hostels have inherent problems for those who yearn to settle down – something I hadn't done in five months, or Alec in three – so we spent most of our time away. But had we strove to socialize instead, I am confident we would have had some fine interactions with some very sweet individuals, as evidenced by whatever conversation I was inundated with whenever I had to charge my Wind in the room with the universal power strip.

“No, seriously, the steak here is delicious. That steak I had? It was better than mediocre sex. No, listen. If a 6 or a 7 had come up to me and said 'Come back to my place', I would've said no. No: I'm eating this steak.”

Nice, bro!

(Um, well, as for me, I immediately began to consider the fundamental problems inherent in paralleling the act of sex with a form of consumption, but-- if the first rule of cities is “Don't be an idiot”, the first rule of rhetoric, or even self-expression, is both/either “Know your audience” and/or “There's a time and a place.”

...Yeah.)

* Small Change and Big Government: Buenos Aires suffers from a chronic shortage of moneda, or coins, for two reasons: the metal that composes them is worth more than the value of the coins, and the otherwise exceptional bus system will accept nothing else. Coins that are spent on buses are presumably exchanged via banks by the bus companies, thus failing to circulate the coins back into the economy. The result is that convenience stores and other small businesses will literally refuse to sell you things if you do not have exact change. In a bizarre but all-too-real inversion, small change becomes more valuable than bills.

This is but one example of a malfunctioning government bureaucracy that apparently seeks to paralyze the nation at any opportunity. Literally the day after we arrived, a new crisis stormed onto the pages of Clarin and La Nacion: the president, Cristina Kirshner, who rode to power on a wave of populist sentiment (mainly from Buenos Aires; the farmers are not such big fans) that has since begun to abandon her, sought to regain her momentum by commemorating Argentina's 200^th anniversary with a fund to combat the country's debt, appropriating funds from the central bank to do so. The president of the central bank refused to do this (I forget why, but I believe it has to do with the belief, shared by most economists and no Tea Party members, that in a global recession stimulus is more important than anti-deficit measures, and we must choose between the two), whereupon President Kirshner convened a special session of her cabinet via executive order while Congress was on vacation (and thus could not intervene) and fired him, installing his more receptive subordinate.

Badass, but not as badass as the judge that the next day reversed the firing, declaring Kirshner's convening of her cabinet (and frankly sneaky attempt to bypass Congress) an unconstitutional violation of the limits on her executive power, thereby reinstalling the president of the central bank and offering Congress as the only method of, er, legislating what Kirshner wants, a terrain where she has a decidedly slimmer chance of success. The government is appealing the decision, of course, but in the meantime the vice-president, who belongs to the opposing party (oh, parliamentary democracy), has turned against the president (as have most people, so far as I can tell). Kirshner herself is claiming that the whole business is a conspiracy between the vice-president and Clarin, the sometimes-hysterical left-leaning newspaper, including the next day's dramatic event, where the judge that issued the ruling rebuked the government for placing a police car outside her house (“for protection”) and claimed it an act of intimidation, with which even the more Kirshner-sympathetic and right-leaning (we think?) La Nacion agrees with. And now a US judge has frozen the American assets of Argentina's central bank in case the result of this crisis is Argentina defaulting on its debt, and suddenly everyone in every branch of government seems to have gotten a lot more serious, which is a vaguely terrifying reminder of how much leverage my country has over, well, the world.

I was asked during our first apartment visit, to a much-too-posh abode in Recoleta, why I study philosophy, and despaired at articulating myself both intelligibly and meaningfully in Spanish. When Alec helpfully supplied that I focus on ethics and existentialism, however, the realtor answered her own question: “Well, we're definitely in need of more ethics here.” Lady, please, I didn't come to your country to marvel at how fucked up it is!

But the comment soon proved revealing, for no one here seems to react with apathy to their government's sordid affairs, and in the conversations I've had regarding it, similar frustration has been palpable. At least from what I can tell so far, most people seem to care about what's happening – or at least they are angry about it, and far from nihilistic. The only nihilism I've encountered has been from, well, ex-pats.

This basic level of engagement suggests itself as a reason for why there are

* No Hipsters

Have I discovered a pre-ironic civilization? What am I to do with myself! Where is my opponent!?

But seriously, there are no hipsters -- at least comparatively. Okay, maybe I've seen like two people that looked like Argentinian hipsters, but hey, they might have just been homosexuals with very eclectic taste. And when I joke about a “pre-ironic civilization” what I mean to suggest, of course, is that there is no reason for hipsters.

Yet.

Galactic Fun – Dam Funk

* My Neighborhood: Upon my Friday arrival and subsequent reuniting with our scout, Alec, he and I formed an advance guard and deployed ourselves to quickly secure a base of operations; not only did we succeed in our mission, but we did so with flying colors. Of the apartments we researched and visited, this one was far and above the best: by location, by price, and by its own merits, it offers us everything I think we need. We were drawn to the neighborhood, Las Cañitas (a little hard to say), for its distinctive character and because it borders on Palermo Hollywood, an even more vibrant segment of the vivacious tourist-magnet that is Palermo, giving us access to activity and opportunities without bombarding us with them, offering the possibility of both tranquility and dynamism-- the same prospect, I noted, that drew me to Berkeley. Only later did we discover it's, uh, probably the nicest neighborhood in the city (though the adjacent Belgrano is equivalently upper-middle class and more family oriented, and I still think nothing matches the old money of Recoleta), and ex-pats just haven't really started living here; they just visit.

What I mean to say that is that we're set. No, I can't overstate it: we seriously kicked ass. It's a damn miracle, and it's thanks to Alec's tireless research, both online and on foot, and my, uh, emotional reserves and inspiring presence. I will say that, given a limited set of options and a basic sense of my own priorities (which I almost invariably have, with the notable and ever-frustrating exception of food and its eating), I'm good at coming to a decision with conviction, but precisely because of that tend to stop seeking out new options as soon as I find one I like. So I work well with Alec, who will gladly consume encyclopedic amounts of information but, even when he is fully aware of what is the most intelligent decision is, has difficulty taking the final step and settling on it, and just hearing me say what he already knows can often be enough.

We're two and a half blocks from the polo stadium and about five from the national fencing school and gymnasium, an enormous compound which I fully intend on joining so that I might continue to pursue boxing in Latin America – if you do not hear from me again, please assume I died in battle – but beyond that I would prefer to let pictures speak for themselves. Well, I don't have any yet. But when I do, you will be among the first to see them. Other things to take pictures of: a parking garage with an actual honest-to-goodness man-sized stone statue of a buddha above the opening and giant block letters that say “BUDDHA PARKING”; a store with a sign that says on top “Optometrist” and below “Veterinarian”, with in the middle a photograph of a white terrier wearing glasses, and when I peered in the door I saw the same dog sleeping in front – an undiscovered Argentine Bobby Gorgeous?

Note to self: Add “My dog has bad eyesight” to list of First World Problems.

* CasteJAno: I have improved my Spanish almost to its senior-year high school levels, barring some verb tenses, and while this is decidedly a golf-clap worthy achievement, I don't think I'll be able to resist succumbing to the pervasive Castellano accent here, in which case you may later hear me pronouncing La Jolla not as “La Hoya” but as “La Hoja”. All 'y' sounds become 'j', and when it comes to very common words like “yo” the frustration for a middling (at best) Spanish-speaker becomes intense. What am I supposed to do when you literally can't understand “frutilla” unless I say it as “frutija”? I can't avoid it.

Aiding me has been the Spanish flashcards program I downloaded, inspired by Miles's recommendations, and my efforts in expanding my vocabulary have procured some real winners. There's “arrasarse”, which was said to mean “to fill with tears”, as in to say things like “Te arraso” (“You fill me with tears”); I later discovered, completely by accident, that the non-reflexive “arrasar” means “to ravage”, in which case “arrasarse” literally means “to ravage oneself” (and “Te arraso” would mean “You ravage me”). “Llama” is not only the present-tense third-person conjugation of the verb “llamar”, to call, as we all know from “Me llamo [whatever]” (as in “I call myself [DJ B. Gorgeous]”), but can mean “fire (passion)”, which made it all the more awesome when I learned that to describe something as “striking”, as I often do, one says “llamativo”.

My personal favorite, however, was when I saw a definition for “strong man” on the English listing: “roble”, which means both that and “oak tree”. The word became all the more fantastic when I tapped the voice-over icon and realized the initial 'r' is rolled, making it all the more thrilling for Alec, who in his transition from French to Spanish may have been enjoying that linguistic phenomenon a little too much. I haven't had an opportunity to use it in conversation yet, but I intend to, and I did see a used book on the history of Argentinian soccer entitled “Robles de Futbol”. Bueno, voy a ser un roble de la filosofía!

And, Eugene, gleaned from the glossary of your kind gift: the Argentinian slang for spicy food, which they tragically do not eat much of, is “picachu”. I am sure you can guess how that would be pronounced. What will you do now, Colonel? Your love has become what you most despise!

As for the people who speak this language and the legends of their beauty, well: of the multitude I have seen, I have found precisely two physically attractive. Those familiar with my standards may well find this encouraging, and they likely should; the vast majority of them are physically fit, particularly the women, and they sometimes to the point of absurdity: I can no longer count the number I have seen with small children and still with outrageous college-girl figures. I'm pretty sure they're not nannies. But I was also pretty sure that, uh, wasn't possible. Well, you know what this means. Impossible standards: raised again!

Anyway, what I'm saying is that the porteños don't seem too studious. Yet I have my own encouragement: there is a profusion of bookstores in this city – one of which, El Ateneo, is literally a converted theater, and the result is, uh, llamativo – all of which have audaciously large philosophy sections. Alec, who has explored them more thoroughly than I, insists they are oft-perused by very attentive women, and I was about to say that he said they also often wear glasses but then remembered that he never said that and actually that was my fantasy.

Las minas de la filosofía? Bueno, bueno!

He also claims he saw a copy of Plato's Republic in a newsstand, and Bushy saw it too, but the only thing I see an unusual abundance of in newsstands here is gay porn.

Clearly, I have a lot more exploring to do.

…

Hmm.

* * *

You may recall the track with which I opened. Please contrast it with the following:

Battle Theme – Masashi Hamauzu, Final Fantasy XIII Gamerip

This is the best battle theme I've ever heard, and I have shared it with – inflicted it upon? – some of you. The composer, Masashi Hamauzu, is one I have followed for some time, and for most of his career he has been relegated to B-list games like Square's Saga series, including the disaster that was Unlimited Saga, a game whose only redeeming quality was the soundtrack that is now responsible for several of the tunes that lurk within my playlist on Robin's iPod (he is by now all too familiar with my beloved “Battle Theme I”, though only recently became acquainted with the absolutely phenomenal piano version “Seven Travelers”, one of my all-time favorite tracks).

If you have read this far already, you likely have some patience with my eccentricities, in which case I ask still more of you: listen to the track at the top of the post again. This track, which as the bold text implies I have appropriated, is “Lightning's Theme”, the main character's personal theme song from the same game. It may take until the end, but you should be able to tell that – uh oh, the Nerd-Out meter is reading Hysteria –

It's the same damn track! He used the same motif for the main character's theme and the battle theme! Can you-- do you see what-- just-- it's the track you hear all the time, it's this totally rad track you're killing monsters to, and killing monsters is thus far the primary mode through which you experience being the main character, and but then suddenly there's some dramatic scene involving the main character and he springs this on you and suddenly you realize, really realize, that the same agent that is the medium for your rampant virtual violence is also an independent personality, and you can't help but be like holy shit because now you're totally immersed and he did it with background music.

No one, to my knowledge, has ever done this before.

So, um, I find that exciting. Exciting enough to acquire a partial gamerip (e.g. tracks hacked off the Japanese game CD, and therefore unarranged and disorganized and lower-quality) two weeks before the soundtrack for this game is released, and begin theorizing how the narrative will be constructed based on my interpretation of the music about four months before the game's American release.

Indulge me by enduring one more example:

Serah's Theme – Final Fantasy XIII

The Sunleth Waterscape – Final Fantasy XIII

This one is more obvious, of course, but the principle remains the same, although the presentation is distinct: from the gamerip I can tell that, unlike with the battle theme and the main character's theme, these two tracks come in succession, meaning that first this character is introduced to your party and immediately after you begin to traverse a dungeon as her. I'm guessing you may have even switched perspectives entirely for a moment, which is to say you are no longer primarily controlling Lightning, in which case this perpetuation of the new character's theme would gradually and smoothly re-engage you in your new circumstances (main character switching being the province mainly only of JRPGs, and that likely because they don't give a shit whether or not you enjoy it because you're just along for the ride, now hurry and push some buttons so you can watch this narrative unfold without your input).

I also like the second track's baseline.

For the most part Buenos Aires as yet requires no soundtrack, but later in the evenings, when I am depleted and heading home, imbuing it with the ambiance of the Sunleth Waterscape quickens my steps.

And I am glad Hamauzu is with me here, for he is a master of the second element of video game soundtracks (the first being its endemic looping, which I appreciate in all music to aid me in immersion): its proclivity, as with any soundtrack, for a sustained musical motif, one that can instill increasing emotional resonance in a continuous narrative. And with regard to music, it is the notion of a “motif” that most fascinates me: a theme, so to speak, that persists to a different beat.

This battle theme is well-composed, but when it comes to the track's true resonance, it is in fact the substance of the song that is superfluous. Only in its relation to its companion does it become significant; the function of its originality lies in how it is bound up with the circumstances of the mechanics – of narrative, of game – that it both supports and yet might seem artistically utterly divorced from. And even a term such as “originality”, I remain convinced, must be defined functionally.

I intend on pursuing “self as musical motif” as a possible mode of articulating my firmly-established views on personal identity, but somehow I suspect the philosophical establishment may not take well to examples grounded in video game soundtracks.

Then again, I've always gotten along well with establishments, even when – especially when, now that I think about it – I've opposed them.

And philosophers are pretty nuts as it is.

* * *

Hold On – Holy Ghost!

Our quests have only just begun. Beginning next week I will plow into the texts I have lugged here. Bushy has found he will have difficulty pursuing meaningful medical work until he becomes fluent in Spanish, so we have concluded our ideal option is to collectively hire a private tutor and refine all of our abilities. He is approaching the Red Cross in the meantime, roble that he is; for my part, though I was not going to pursue training in Spanish other than that which I would receive via immersion, I'm intrigued by the possibility that a rapid increase in my Spanish ability might open up an opportunity to make connections at the philosophy department at the University of Buenos Aires, apparently the finest such institution in Latin America. Alec's explorations are relentless, and while we are recuperating this weekend, I have no reason to doubt they will be fruitful, if only because I know he will not accept any less.

Once I arrange for more financial freedom, numerous side-quests demand my attention: boxing would assuredly regulate my appetite and sleeping schedule, both badly mangled by my change in environment and surrounding cultural attitudes (everything happens about three hours later here; don't even think about dinner until like 9:30, and a club doesn't start happening until at least 2:45). I mourn the loss of my loyal but aged PS2, which did not survive the journey, but refuse to accept that the damage to my PS3, which will turn on but produces hazy video output, is irreparable. (I hope you didn't think the guy that writes pages on game soundtracks could even begin to perceive the world without the medium of games to guide him. I concluded I'd be no more distracted without them, and that leaving them behind would have been like blinding one eye. ...I thought about this a lot.) I've seen a number of stores that explicitly say they specialize in console repair, so I'm going to do what I can to resolve this situation and thereby take responsibility for this tragedy having occurred under my watch. I mourn my failure as a general!

I will begin to make this space my own. I will go shopping, and find a tailor. I will go clubbing, and have conversations with studious people in the philosophy sections of bookstores. I will stumble into blessings, and all the while I will be devouring these books only to vomit forth the churned result through my pen, scrawling arcane and inscrutable designs until they are as the wallpaper to my world.

I will dance, madly dance.

In September, a conversation with Sarah Jeong strayed briefly to World of Warcraft only to launch into an animated discussion of the ever-present video game phenomenon of meters, meters for everything, and what our own most crucial meters would be. I cannot remember what we said, although I seem to recall Wrath was one of Sarah's. It was implied that, unlike say a Life meter, these meters began at minimal levels but would accumulate until expended, and then further implied that if they were not expended they would erupt forth with some dramatic and uncontrollable result upon overflowing, which while not a technique present in any game that I know certainly applies well to something like a Wrath meter. We joked about my having a Remembering To Eat meter, but other than that did not bother to get anywhere, and though I can't recall when exactly I was reminded of this – I think it was in the hostel, when it came back to me all at once, with my meter readings at that time decidedly haphazard – it was only here, later, that I, perhaps out of game-less desperation, applied myself to the task of writing yet another character sheet – and, of course, game mechanics to accompany it.

STAMINA: [=======----]

PASSION: [=========-]

TIME DISTORTION: [=====-------]

INTROVERSION: [=-------------]

Stamina: The basic statistic shared by all heroes, Stamina is required to take action and generates when no or trivial action is taken. The more satisfying a period of rest, the more Stamina builds, and upon Stamina's full accumulation, a hero is compelled to venture forth once more. While the possibility of Stamina overflow is thus the most fundamental demand upon a hero insofar as it precludes any extended unheroic apathy, sometimes their other meters are affected even by the simple acts that manage Stamina, meaning that spending Stamina to manage one meter can promptly throw another out of whack. The result: any hero worth their salt must know how to manage their Stamina, lest another meter overflow in the midst of their stress and exhaustion – with rarely pretty consequences.

Gain Stamina During: rest, low-stress socializing, a successful organizing process, video games

Reduce Stamina With: any act that manages other meters

Upon Overflow: some act that affects other meters, whether positively or negatively, must be taken

Currently I: am finally well-rested, thanks to some serious nesting, and expect to be conveniently maxed out by Monday morning

Passion: The most obviously productive of Devin's meters, Passion compels Devin toward emotional expression and meaningful engagement with others and his surroundings. While what he experiences as “meaningful engagement” with his surroundings may have little in common with a practical understanding of them – indeed, can at times undermine it – a satisfying communion with another individual demands empathy, eloquence, and a nuanced and tactical comprehension of his social circumstances, meaning that the acts Devin takes to manage his ever-rising Passion are often the most impressive he has to offer – and his failure to contain it his most real threat. (There is no Duty meter: duty is implicit in the successful managing of Passion.)

Gain Passion During: time spent in public not talking about feelings, time spent in private contemplation, time spent listening to video game soundtracks

Reduce Passion With: a successful monologue or conversation about feelings, journal-writing, danceportation

Upon Overflow: an explosive and uncontrolled expression of any of the above immediately occurs

Currently I: am writing all this, aren't I?

Time Distortion: The bane of Devin's existence, his seemingly total inability to experience time as linear – to grasp that one hour proceeds another, and that with this new hour may come new demands – both encourages him to engage in lengthy passionate pursuits and condemns him for doing so. His world is seen purely in terms of its significance, and thus can it be that allegedly practical matters are forsaken in favor of more fulfilling acts, or that an event ten years ago will be experienced more immediately than what now unfolds before him. The best that can be said of this meter is that his efforts to adapt to it and still function are primarily responsible for his very distinctive personal aesthetic and the sincere idiosyncrasies that festoon it; for the most part, it is a terrible inconvenience to those that lead him and his greatest challenge when he leads.

Gain Time Distortion During: all attempts to keep to a deadline or participate in any scheduled activity (including an implicitly scheduled activity such as eating at an appropriate time), any act that generates Stamina (e.g. rest), any act that reduces Passion (e.g. self-expression), private contemplation, tasks that make time pass quickly (usually fun, particularly TBFing)

Reduce Time Distortion With: group activity (including a scheduled group activity, such as eating at an appropriate time with friends, though in these cases more is gained than reduced), out-of-comfort-zone socializing, a successful organizing process, tasks that make time pass slowly (usually menial)

Upon Overflow: a catastrophic abstraction from immediate circumstances resulting in the loss of the better part of a day (likely reasons: getting humiliatingly lost, passing out from hunger, being ambushed by religious proselytizers, admiring own ass in front of mirror)

Currently I: am looking at the “Gain Time Distortion During” list and wondering how I've survived this long; am hoping all this crazy shit I am writing qualifies as a “sincere idiosyncrasy”

Introversion: The consequences of overflow in Passion or Time Distortion being so dramatic, Devin's urge toward Introversion is comparatively easier to miss, an undercurrent that acquaintances may easily fail to detect but friends cannot deny. While any healthy human being requires a balance between the time they spend in public and private space, the result of a lack of private space is normally simply lower Stamina, bringing with it an increasing likelihood of raised tensions, lower patience, and an inability to manage one's other meters. Rarely does the need for seclusion become so drastic that a person begins to flail like a caged beast; even more rarely would this happen to a person within mere days. Devin's need for solitude makes the balance between managing Passion and Time Distortion more convenient, sometimes, yet it is precisely the subtlety of this meter's own encroachments that makes it a formidable obstacle in its own right, impeding feats of heroism with seemingly sudden withdrawals.

Gain Introversion During: time spent in public not talking about feelings, group activity (including conversations about feelings, though less so), out-of-comfort-zone socializing, any other meter's overflow

Reduce Introversion With: Private contemplation, listening to video game soundtracks, journal-writing, TBFing

Upon Overflow: must flee the scene abruptly and with little explanation

Currently I: have depleted this meter almost into nothingness while writing this

I just reread what I wrote and, man, this game looks hard.

But upon some examination of the relative demands of these meters, we can begin to develop strategies for being Devin. Time Distortion is clearly the most likely to increase, particularly given that it does so whenever Stamina is recovered or Passion is managed (what a bitch!), so unless I'm to be a completely useless schmoo, we'll have to tire me out by taking me out of my comfort zone and with frequent personal organization (cleaning looks like a good one, since it's both organizing and menial, but we have to watch out for listening to soundtracks while cleaning). And we have to be careful not to burn too much Stamina doing that, not only because Passion will get out of control if we're too focused on keeping time but because we'll be too exhausted to manage Introversion, and it'll sneak up on us.

Yet activities good for managing Introversion, like private contemplation, run up costs on both Passion and Time Distortion. Other than repeated organization, occasional TBFing and listening to soundtracks while dancing seem like decently effective techniques, but I'll have to be careful not to abuse them to the point that my Passion overflows or Time is irrevocably Distorted. Although-- I have heard a rumor that on rare occasions, when my Time Distortion meter overflows, instead of losing a day I gain the power to CONTROL TIME. Unconfirmed.

Well, I know one thing for sure.

I can be a challenging character to play.

* * *

This Sweet Love (Prins Thomas Sneaky Edit) – James Yuill

What is madness?

Madness is humanity to a dangerous degree.

I went dancing yesterday.

“In love

There is no self

That is why

You don't understand”

I don't understand why I love to dance. I know only that I experience no such urge to draw, to paint, to sing, to write verse, that each of these is a struggle, that none naturally emerge. But I know also that I experience no urge to meditate or pray, that I need no special process through which to – even briefly – free myself of my self, and that it is dancing that so refreshes me. Dancing, and boxing-- yes, to me they are almost the same. I will command this space, and make it my own, and in so doing make it worthy of being offered up to you. Then we will share it. Then we will be complete.

As man is condemned to meaning, so am I condemned to dance.

Yes, perhaps that is what I need: a temple of dance, in which to meditate.

Crobar resembles a temple of dance. Having never danced in Europe, I may only imagine that the vast and sweeping venue here is much as it would be there. House music, all night long! What is fundamentally a single room, segmented but open, without a single door! This space was made for us. If my heart became a dance floor-- well-- I'd make it brighter and less smoky. The drinks would be cheaper, too. Not so much of the seating would be roped off. And I wouldn't charge cover.

I'd ask for donations.

You know what? Now that I think about it, I wonder if that was the problem. It's like Robin said about LovEvolution; either charge nothing or forty bucks, not ten. With nothing, you get the characters; with forty, you get the committed; with ten, you get the entitled, who see no reason to share.

Which is your prerogative, of course, but-- are you even happy? Well, so be it. But, now listen-- if you don't share the space with me, what am I to do?

I overflow.

How shall I parallel dancing and boxing? How shall I make that these experiences are equivalent intelligible even to myself? In boxing, I have an opponent, with whom I achieve a mutual recognition. In dance, I may have partners, but have no opponent. This difference is too fundamental; the presence of my adversary is the key to any value in combat. So what then: is there an opponent in dance? No-- no, I would say instead there is no opponent in boxing. So how now? How now can I claim there exists a meaningful clash of selves when I am failing to acknowledge there is another self that I am facing? Is this not nonsense? No, it is absurd-- because it is violent, it is sexual, it is rapturous faith.

Opponent, I do not experience you as an opponent. Partners, I do not experience you as partners. That is not because I am real and you are not. That is because, in the thrill of our battle, in the heat of our dance, I no longer experience myself as myself, because we are no longer distinct from one another. We have become one. In our fury, in our passion, we have closed the gap, transgressed our limits, and become one.

We didn't realize it, but-- that was the point.

That was the point of all of this.

And this is the paradox, this is the irony, this is the crux--

The ultimate recognition of the other is the forgetting of the distinction between the other and the self.

Solipsism?

“I need to walk in circles for a while.”

Narcissism!?

Heaving with ragged sobs, I regarded the stray dog that had continued to follow me. I knew I could not take him where I was going. I looked him in the eyes.

“Goodbye, dog.”

He turned and left.

Damn you! Damn you! For all of this!

What do you want me to say!?

“My love will sweep you away

It is a love that would destroy you all

Would gladly destroy you all

Destroy you completely”

You cannot begin to understand! You have not loved!

You love my dancing? Of course you do! I am an angel! You are enthralled!

I am a dancing angel.

An angel.

Now... now, now... okay... alright... okay.

The dance floor is a temple, and we are gathered to pray. Most of us are here to pray because we desire, because we hope, because we are afraid: bring me fortune, gods, bring me comfort and delights. What right has any man to shatter these prayers? Are these dreams not human? Yes, bring them, bring these people all that they crave and more. Drink to a thirst that cannot be quenched; you are alive, and you deserve to desire.

But there are those that come to pray and begin to tremble, to feel the weight of the heavens upon them. Frothing, spasming, speaking in tongues, they struggle to contain themselves, lest their flailing limbs strike another knelt at the altar, lest they tumble through the aisles. Perhaps some of these people are frauds; perhaps there is a pleasure in demonstrating this "higher" form of prayer; perhaps, obnoxious and arrogant, they scoff at the plebeian urges of those around them; perhaps they are hypocrites, who just yesterday prayed exactly as their neighbor did. But let us imagine, let us give one the benefit of the doubt and say he did not expect rapture to be thrust upon him, that he never knows when it may come, that last week he went to temple for tea and a friendly chat with the congregation and then this time, heaven knows why, he feels his body quake and his heart afire and he cannot explain but knows that he will die if he does not move.

“trust me

you have to trust me

trust me”

What will we say if he kicks over a pew? What will we see when he flails at his fellows like one lashing out at demons? What will we do if he crashes headlong into the candelabra? He had no right to disturb the prayer of others, and this -- almost by necessity, even -- he has done. But what is prayer for? What is its essence? If the essence of prayer is to commune with the divine, shall we punish those who even approximate success? Or have we then missed the point, and subjugated the sacred to the very profane world that – let us not forget – demanded it in the first place?

Why did we build this temple?

“I love your dancing!”

Do you remember when I wrote of the Taj Mahal? A monument to love, an absurd and all-too-human effort to represent the infinite with largeness, of size and of aesthetic feat. Do you remember what I was forced to conclude? That the wonders of the world must be worth the suffering that they require, not because the ends justify the means but because the pursuit of such ends is the most desperate and tragic and beautiful human element we possess, that such absurdity is so crucial, our childish gesturing at wonder so vital, it might as well be the heart of humanity.

Humanity, to a dangerous degree.

Yes, indeed, I understand that this conclusion is dangerous; I too am concerned. But this is not a question of elevating some elite at the expense of the masses, or even – and you must trust me – an attempt to decree that this temple was built for me. No, this is a matter of what we value about being human, and making sure we do not forget it. If in our desire to protect human beings we smother what makes them human -- we deny these painful glories -- we will abandon all meaning, and the happiness we thought to foster through compassion will become impossible.

Only then will we truly be condemned.

You may call me fanciful; with all my heart I disagree. More acutely, you may accuse me of knowing only the suffering of the soul and none of the body, that were I to experience real poverty I would change my tune. But I do not think so. While as a motive for action closely-held beliefs do not always trump the need for sustenance -- far from it -- as that which provides a will to live, even the most primal self-preservation instincts are a comparatively feeble force.

Which means only that our self-preservation instincts are smarter than we are, that we have a greater intuitive understanding of what the self actually consists in than we have consciously-- for, in the seemingly self-destructive acts of worship and sacrifice, it is that self we are preserving.

Enough of this. The worthiest impact is that suffering may become meaningful; the most dangerous impact is that meaning trumps suffering, implying that -- even with the most nuanced and potent understanding of the dignity of others, even with the ultimate respect for our fellows' autonomy -- we can conceivably be justified in bringing about meaningful suffering.

To suffer as an act of love-- no, to create suffering as an act of love--

This is madness.

But I still seek to make sense of her.

The true insight is not that the desirer must make way for the mystic but that the prayer of the mystic is not fundamentally any different than the prayer of the desirer; it is in fact the same act on a grander scale. The desirer prays for little things that will allow him to exceed his limits: wealth, status, influence, respect, power. He prays to become more than he is, to spread his wings and form new, wider boundaries. But the mystic, through his prayer, shatters these boundaries entirely. For the desirer is blind – for now – to his mortality, and death is the ultimate limit of the human self, the one none of his prayers will allow him to surpass. The mystic rebels against death by tearing his soul apart, casting it throughout the universe so that death cannot find it. He explodes his individuality, defying every instinct to keep it intact in order to obey a more profound truth. We defy death because we love life, not out of fear, and despair is the death of the soul. It is out of this love that he does more drastically what, at his most basic level, the desirer too is doing: pursue immortality.

The immortality of a now-unrecognizable soul – a soul without substance, a scattered constellation, merely a motif – an immortality that has nothing to do with living forever, and everything to do with living right now, as hard as one possibly can.

“I know now, without a doubt--”

I can't. There's no way.

“I could never live like that.”

Children, forgive me.

“I'm sorry”

Forgive me if I do not return.

“I have promises to keep.”

I found that I, upon the dance floor, was much better at rolling my 'r's.

"Somos rrrrrrrrrrobles!"

* * *

Special Track – Chronotorious

Ha ha ha. Who am I kidding?

We're heroes. All of us.

We won't lose.

I promise.

* * *

PASSION: [=--------------]