Fatal Planetarium

"RRRAAAAWWWWRRRR!!!! RRRRAAWWWWRRR!!!! RRRAAWWWRRR!! RRAAWW RRAAWWW RRAAWWRRRRRrrrr...."

Got a call from my friendly neighborhood comic store that the latest issue of G-Fan was out and they were holding it for me! It'll be a sad day when the small brick & mortars are gone. This is the second issue I've bought in a row, so I'm now allowed to say that reading this magazine is a poignant experience. The letters to the editor: earnestly humorless and long-winded, as are the articles themselves. The tributes to recently departed kaiju-related filmmakers, cast, and crew who were B-movie pioneers and sex symbols in the 50's. (Funny how watching G-movies makes me feel young again but identifying with the fandom just makes me feel old.) The "analysis" that belabors the obvious, such as when an article spends time hammering home the argument that kaiju eiga is influenced by "Japanese Folklore" -- ya think? -- before finally getting into the really cool stuff: stories I've never heard before about Yokai and Obakemono, Umibozu and Yamabushi Tengu, serpentmen, giant centipedes, and Japanese mermaids. Oh and the typoes! Too depressing to get into... no, on second thought I will, because this makes me mad. How could "the magazine of giant movie monsters" include an error like "Godfzilla"? (Unless it's a joke, like OMFG?)

I wish so much that I lived in a world where an English-language Godzilla magazine could be (a) officially licensed by Toho (b) printed on glossy paper and in color like a magazine devoted to giant monster movies should, (c) free of the "original" serial comic about a towering creature bearing the execrable name of "G-Fantis," (d) include news about upcoming movies. Alas, the film series itself has been suspended pending the next reboot, so for now (and probably a couple years coming) this is all we got.

Still, it was interesting to find out that "Jungle Girl" Evelyne Kraft, star of Mighty Peking Man, had devoted her life to animal rights and fighting global poverty before she tragically passed away at a young age. It was cool to read the well-researched and thorough essays about Japanese folklore and Komodo dragons in pop culture. After reading the review of Monstrous: 20 Tales of Giant Creature Terror, I must confess I looked it up on Amazon. And the high point was reading the interview with Ishiro Honda's son and his memories of going to see three Western movies per day with his father, feeling the wind created by flapping wings of a ten-foot Mothra model, and crying when Rodan died. And with my newfound knowledge of folklore, I feel ready to see Takashi Miike's The Great Yokai War!

(Monster movie fanzines not grown-up enough for ya? Then this is kind of related though ultimately not: hypermasculinity, horror, and homophobia come out in
this essay about a short Cuban film that'll remind you of Denzel proclaiming "KING KONG AIN'T GOT NOTHIN' ON ME.")

Anywayze in an effort to start reading more and enlargify my attention span a little, I'm going to start following a few mags this year -- The New Yorker, Natural History,, Heavy Metal, and probably G-Fan too despite my gripes. I wanna always have something fun to read that's easy to pick up at home and that's printed on real paper, with "pages" I can turn and fold and scrape and smooth out with my fingers. If ya got any recommendations for other fun magazines, then feel free to reply and share!

I read this in four sittings, the last three separated by five hours of sleep last night and two hours this morning. Last night I dreamed of love and loss. This morning, of reaching the shore and staring at the blue sea.

"By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp" (32).

"He woke whimpering in the night and the man held him. Ssh, he said. Shh. It's okay.
I had a bad dream.
I know.
Should I tell you what it was?
If you want to.
I had this penguin that you wound up and it would waddle and flap its flippers. And we were in that house that we used to live in and it came around the corner but nobody had wound it up and it was really scary.
Okay.
It was a lot scarier in the dream.
I know. Dreams can be really scary.
Why did I have that scary dream?
I don't know. But it's okay now. I'm going to put some wood on the fire. You go to sleep.
The boy didnt answer. Then he said: The winder wasnt turning." (36-37)

"What are we going to do?
Hold your hand in front of the flame. Don't let it go out.
He rose and took the pistol from his belt. This door looks like the other door, he said. But it's not. I know you're scared. That's okay. I think there may be things in there and we have to take a look. There's no place else to go. This is it. I want you to help me. If you dont want to hold the lamp you'll have to take the pistol.
I'll hold the lamp.
Okay. This is what the good guys do. They keep trying. They dont give up.
Okay." (136-137)

"One night the boy woke from a dream and would not tell him what it was.
You dont have to tell me, the man said. It's all right.
I'm scared.
It's all right.
No it's not.
It's just a dream.
I'm really scared.
I know.
The boy turned away. The man held him. Listen to me, he said.
What.
When your dreams are of some world that never was or of some world that never will be and you are happy again then you will have given up. Do you understand? And you cant give up. I wont let you." (189)

There are other passages I'm not sharing here. They're too private to talk about outside the text. If you've read the book, you know which ones those are for you. If you haven't, then you'll just have to find out.

Present present absent present late.
Present late absent present absent.
Late late absent present present.
Present present present late absent.
Present late late absent absent.

Absent late present late absent.
Present present late absent absent.
Present late absent late absent.
Late late absent present present
present present late absent present

present late late absent absent
absent late present late present
present late absent absent present
late late present absent absent
late present present present present

present late late absent
absent late late present present
prese-DAMMIT.

present late late absent absent
late late present present present
present present present present present
present present present present present
present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present
present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present
present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present present

PRESENT. PRESENT. PRESENT. PRESENT. PRESENT PRESENT PRESENT PRESENT PRESENTPRESENTPRESENTPRESENTPRESENTPRESENTPRESEN

Seven years ago today, June 10, 2002, was my first blog post on Livejournal. This is the longest writing "project" I've ever sustained in my life.

Recently I been interacting with people a lot more over Facebook, but elements of the blogging experience are still irreplaceable. For one thing, people actually respond to long posts out here, whereas my fellow Facebookers tend to pass those over and interact more with brief tweetlike status updates. So when I really feel like letting it all hang out in a long writing session I know I'm more likely to get a response on Livejournal.

(Or maybe it's that people are less likely to respond to long posts in both places, but a blog posting without feedback just looks less forlorn. After all there are some blogs where comments aren't even enabled -- the focus is completely on the author instead of the readers. On the other hand, if you write something on Facebook and NO ONE in your own entire social network cares to comment, did you really write it? Or worse, do you really have a social network?)

Another advantage to LJ is that the "communities" I've found there are more engaged, cohesive, and "alive" than anything I've joined on FB, where discussion groups seem to blossom and wither with the weather. Maybe it's because there are so many other things to do on FB, like games and sharing links and multimedia, that people have adapted to this fast-paced environment by evolving a shorter attention span. FB is more like a sparkling street bazaar, where people drift in and out of booths and take pictures and eventually move on without looking back, whereas LJ is more like a labyrinthine shop stuffed with magazines and personal zines about every conceivable topic where people hang out and become regulars and form little conversation circles.

A third thing is that FB is mostly populated by my "real-life" friends, which sometimes, ironically, makes it less interesting to read their stuff. It's not that they are implicitly less interesting as people, but I already "know" them in real life, so anything they think up to write about is unlikely to burn itself into my consciousness as deeply as my memories of adventuring with them out in the physical world. On top of this, not all of them are really that into writing. By contrast, my "friends" on LJ, as faceless bloggers, are simultaneously more mysterious and more gregariously sharing of their thoughts and feelings, at least within the constraints of this medium.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure I'll still be blogging well into a tenth year and beyond. Thanks everybody for reading my Livejournal and toiling away on your own blogs -- every one of your posts is an inspiration to me to keep writing!

May 30, afternoon

We went to Fatty Crab on the UWS and then Cafe Lalo's (expecting to see Meg Ryan sitting at her table with a rose and a copy of Pride and Prejudice) with the in-laws' fambly.

May 31, evening

Saw Haniel and Nushie's new place, played with Phoebe, went to PJ Clark's for seafood (I had a softshell crab sammich), came back for chocolate cake, and scored two free Bollywood movie posters at the Imaginasian Theater. H&N got me a nice bottle of port. Mom got me a pen set to remind me to write, write, write. I asked wifey for a charger to replace the one we'd lost for my dad's old DS, and she found me a third party version that's compatible with my GBA too!

June 1, evening

About an hour before midnight, curled up on the couch with wifey and we watched V for Vendetta. Figured it was one of the few movies compelling enough to make me completely forget to check the time, and by golly it worked. When it ended two hours later I looked up and it was a fait accompli: I was now officially 40 years old and hadn't felt a thing when it happened, too focused on Evey and V and the unfolding of the gunpowder and treason plot to notice anything else. Went to bed and woke up the next morning with Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture booming in my mind.

June 2, morning

Woke up at 5:30, went to school, taught a class. Had ambitious plans of leaving school early and seeing Sam Raimi's latest Take Me to Hell, but ended up waiting to see a student whose paper had the grammar flu and was in critical condition. Meanwhile I just graded student final projects (including a sparkling satire of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde), fell asleep at my desk, and read my happy birthday wishes on Facebook and the BMMB.

Afternoon

On the train ride home, had a breakthrough on Final Fantasy V: the trick is to read a certain book, leave it open on the table, and then turn around and head back out through the same door you just used to come in. Suddenly you're in a fortress floating in the sky. Ran some errands and got caught in the rain without me parapluie.

Evening

Wifey's become a real foodie ever since she started watching Food Network. She trudged around to four different supermarkets (including two different Key Foods) and barred me from entering the kitchen when I got home. The bill of fare:

- Grilled portobello with a topping of tomato, corn, and red onion
- Two-bean salad with chick peas, black beans, mango, and herb dressing
- Potato crab cake, nuff said
- A crazy s'mores pre-dessert with chocolate graham crackers, chocolate chips, peanut butter chips, banana, melted marshymallowses, and a sauce made from pb and milk, and
- Another dessert, an apple tart that blew away the best I had last summer in Paris.
- For drinks, decaf Chocolate Hazelnut tea and a Young's Double Chocolate Stout.

After supper, we sat down for a long-awaited viewing of Hyung-rae Shim's Dragon Wars. The acting and script were a whole new level of bad, even for me. The second half was dazzling and inventive, but by then I was falling in and out of sleep every coupla minutes.

When the movie ended I felt strangely refreshed as if a great weight had lifted. We hopped the elevator down to bring mom salads and desserts, and to check in with dad.

I can't believe it's been six months already.

The last thing I did was play Xenosaga II. Got my party crushed two battles in a row (both times by a robed ghoul whose magical attacks turned the screen colors negative and who kept saying "I loathe your beauty," presumably addressing Shion) and said fuggit, then fell asleep on the couch and eventually made it to bed.

And that's how Sig spent his first day as a middle-aged person. I don't really feel any different constitutionally or philosophically. But maybe that's because I've already been changing, and haven't noticed.

"The Owl: A Dream," by David Curzon

There was commotion, pointing to a roof.
An owl was perched and looking at the grass
then plunged to what she saw; her claws went out
and she retrieved a piece of paper with

the photo of a mouse. We were amused.
And later on the people who’d been there
were in the bar-room when the owl came in.
She asked me: "Was it funny when I caught
something inanimate?" But I kept quiet.
The others sidled out. We were alone,
conversing, when she quoted from the psalm:

"Like an owl of the waste places I lie awake,
a lonely bird on the housetop; all the day
my enemies taunt me."
It seemed to comfort her.

From The Hours, by Michael Cunningham

"Hello, changelings," Virginia calls.
"We've found a bird," Angelica announces. "It's sick."
"So I understand," Virginia answers.
"It's alive," Quentin says with scholarly gravity. "I think we might be able to save it."
Vanessa squeezes Virginia's hand. Oh, thinks Virginia, just before tea, here's death. What, exactly, does one say to children, or to anybody?

I fully intend to write a Bollywood musical to end all musicals about the life of MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT! This is gonna' be SO OFF THE HOOK! Jubilation! Despair! Titillating scandal and public controversy! Vicarious vindication! Not-so-subtle agitation for social reform! Suicide attempts and daring rescues! A sweeping historical backdrop of revolution and uneasy international relations! Totally starring SRK as the rakish Gilbert Imlay! Hrithik Roshan as the kind-hearted Mr. Godwin! A poignantly brief cameo by Rani Mukherjee as the tragic Fanny Blood! And the feisty, furious, fast-talking and ferocious KAJOL as The Big M. herself! Featuring an eclectic soundtrack with original collaborations by A.R. Rahman, Philip Glass, Ravi Shankar, and the original five members of Duran Duran! Dance choreography by Yuen Woo Ping. Somebody get me Danny Boyle on the phone!

EDIT: Sat Apr 11, 2009

I overestimated the distance! Turns out the trip is only 150 miles (75 each way). That means that between trips, one person would have to go 2 & 1/2 months without beef (based on my beef consumption which is low on average) or just 29 days as a vegetarian. That's totally doable from one trip to the next. And my wife pointed out that if she joined me in the regimen, it would cut the time in half! The real savings would be a little bit lower because she and I don't eat much meat to begin with, but it still seems like a worthwhile exercise.

============================
ORIGINAL POST

Using this site

http://michaelbluejay.com/electricity/carboncalculator.html

I calculated that to offset the greenhouses gases I'd produce by driving one roundtrip 200 mile car trip, I'd have to

eliminate my normal beef consumption (about a half a pound per week) for FIVE MONTHS

or

go completely vegetarian (not necessarily vegan though) for 56 days

I didn't calculate how much of those savings I lost just by googling the data and putting the needed values into an Excel spreadsheet, though

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry ‘ 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!’
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl'd like a lamb’s back, was shav'd: so I said
‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!—
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black.

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he open'd the coffins & set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father, & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm;
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

-- William Blake, 1789

Oh no This is so sad. It almost made me CRYYYY poor Jenny.

Examples of "ad hominem" and "cum hoc ergo propter hoc" show that even an argument which relies on "logical fallacies" can't always be dismissed just like that.

Well as recently as a week ago I was as skeptical as anybody about this. I went with my wife and my old friend Karl, neither of whom had read the book, and they both enjoyed it and had no trouble following the basic plot. I liked it too, very much.

The concessions to the box office -- the unsuitably short runtime and the digressions into hyperstylized martial arts fights -- were forgiveable. More of the novel was packed into these 163 minutes than I had expected, and the fight choreography was both elegant and full of bone-crunching impact. The most significant sensory addition made possible by film, the use of music, was a great opportunity for Snyder to shine, and he did not waste it. I was not as impressed by the Dylan opener as some, and playing Ride of the Valkyries during the Vietnam scenes came across as a little gimmicky, but bringing in Philip Glass over Dr. Manhattan's backstory was a stroke of genius. The music's evocation of languorous philosophic indifference broken up by bursts of postmodern sturm und drang captured the zeitgeist of the whole Watchmen universe perfectly, as did the implicit references to the apocalyptic vision of Koyaanisqatsi and the circular motion of time, history, and generations in The Hours. When I first read the graphic novel, around 1988, I had George Winston's somber Autumn on permanent loop as its soundtrack, but whenever I find my copy and read it again, it will probably be Glassworks.

One thing I had in mind was what Dave Gibbons had said at the Apple Store the weekend of last month's Comic Con -- that at one point Joel Silver had "envisioned" Arnold Schwarzenegger as Jon Osterman. In light of this fact Zach Snyder's literal approach to the material ought to be acknowledged as a gift from the gods. Still, some scenes were a little too faithful to the comic. I didn't really need to be reminded of every single one of Rorschach's silly punning taunts to Figure and his unbelievably incompetent goons in the prison, for instance. Other sequences were bungled or ended with a whimper instead a bang, such as Silk Specter II's abreaction, vastly superior in comic book form.

Even with the imperfections, though, there were, for me, more than a few great moments that captured the comic book panels perfectly, from Rorschach's uncomfortably funny psychiatric intake, to the shot of The Comedian flying backwards through shattering glass. This is also probably the first movie since Terminator II: Judgement Day (and before that, The Day After,) to so unapologetically and unself-consciously exploit the unique anxiety we felt during the 1980's about the prospect of nuclear war. But what really surprised me was that the movie actually enhanced my appreciation of the tones of the book in a couple of places.

One of these was related to Dr. Manhattan. Twenty years ago, I imagined him as a Nietszchean Superman with a booming, otherworldly voice, but Billy Crudup's deceptively soft-spoken performance here evoked a still-vulnerable ghost, one who is always conscious of the enormity of what he's lost, and vaguely mournful and resentful of the fact. Another was the chemistry between Nite Owl II and Silk Spectre II. I had remembered them, like so much of the book, as being just depressing and sad, but here they were also quite endearing. From the moment Daniel's eyes got all misty as Laurie came sauntering down the stairs in her ridiculous outfit, to the welcome visual joke at the end of the love scene, the performances gave the heroes a sense of the joy of life that maybe got a little overshadowed by the gloominess of the book.

I'm sure when I read the novel again I'll get mad about a million things that were left out, of course, but for me the "bottom line" is that this movie is more than good enough to inspire new readers and old readers alike to venture into its pages and wonder at its pleasures. An interesting moment for me was hearing Dr. Manhattan's great line -- "nothing ever ends" -- and realizing that was where I got the tagline for my livejournal, a vestige of unconscious memory. Zach Snyder's Watchmen so vividly, sensually brought back a book I hadn't opened in two decades that I felt like I was dreaming of a past life, very nearly forgotten.

Sigmund is

a) Going to his mom's place at 8 to observe the end of the second month, still not believing that so much time has passed

b) Looking forward to watching the first two episodes of The Clone Wars on TNT at 10

c) In utter shock and rage at the New York Post comic that Stafford and Ogochukwu posted about

d) All of the above

Rescuing Heavy Metal and Cube 2: Hypercube from the dollar used VHS section of Montague Street Video: $2

On a whim, asking the clerk if he had any movie posters for sale, and scoring four somewhat worn but big and beautiful posters of Beowulf, Cloverfield, Dragon Wars, and Once: $8

A scrumptuous supper for two at Five Guys' Burgers and Fries: $17.10

Drifting like a jellyfish up and down the aisles of St. Mark's Comics on Montague Street, quietly scanning toys, T-shirts, books and magazines while listening to Zeppelin on the sound system and four hardcore comic book geeks, one of 'em female, conversating spiritedly about anime and PS3 games in the front: Free

Bringing the burger bags home to tear apart with my sweetheart while watching the one where Stewie attempts to kill Lois and take over the world: Priceless

NASA reveals that Martian methane exhausts are seasonal and only occur at specific latitudes:

http://www.reuters.com/article/scienceNews/idUSTRE50E6TD20090115?pageNumber=1&virtualBrandChannel=0

In the last twenty years, less than the span of a single generation, we have uncovered a steady stream of unbelievable geological facts about four different worlds in our solar system alone: Titan, Enceladus, Europa, and Mars. We've also discovered exotic "extremophiles" right here on Earth that evolve and thrive without light, without oxygen, and despite conditions comparable in harshness to those found on any of the above worlds. The evidence is mounting faster. We are coming closer and closer to the day we will not only prove there's life in outer space, but even, begin to behold its secrets.

Compared to the discoveries waiting just ahead, all our international Moon-missions combined are gonna look like a few summer weekends spent combing the beach, now and then wading in the surf. Furthermore, all we have learned, and will learn, in the relatively brief moment before homo sapiens goes extinct, is the proverbial tip of the iceberg.

That's because when you sit down and ponder the colossal number of variables and cosmic span of time involved, it just doesn't seem very likely that there could exist a life-bloom like the one we Earthlings currently have, from the Amazon rain forests, to the Galapagos Islands, to the Great Barrier Reef, on more than one planet in the same solar system, and at exactly the same millenium. Even if and when we find a few microbes or more, that faint snapshot will be nothing compared to all that has already lived in the past four and a half billion years, all that is living now in other solar systems, and all that is yet to be born. As a species, we are just beginning to open our eyes.

2005 post about methane rain on Titan:

http://fateplan.livejournal.com/34317.html

About ten years ago, I wrote a review on my webpage of Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla, and swiftly veered off-topic in the following high strung tangent about scary ape costumes and my dad’s weird tastes in science fiction:

“Thirdly, and this is my last gripe, I really don't like those ape-aliens. They scared me when I was a kid and they scare me now. [...] I grew up loving science fiction, but I was always freaked out by the SF my dad used to watch. Namely Star Trek and Planet of the Apes. [...] I still remember him trying to get me to wear his Star Trek snowball hat in the wintertime so I wouldn't come home sick from school. Whatever. The point is, all those Klingons and talking gorillas and things traumatized me when I was a kid. [...] When they first started running the TV commercials for Star Wars in 1977, and that big hairy thing roared at me, it sounded like a threat when dad said ‘And that's what I'm taking you to see for your birthday!’ Of course, I ended up loving Chewbacca and the rest of the gang and he ended up getting bored (‘It's just a circus in space!’ he said, the crank) but that's another story.

“And you don't think The Planet of the Apes is scary? I will never forget the one where that Ape-couple travels back in time to tell the humans about the future. I saw it when I was about six so I don't remember the title, but I still remember the ending. On a pier, these bad men gun down both the couple and their ape-baby. Ya know how traumatizing that is for a kid to watch? This was back in the 70's when machine guns were still like something out of a nightmare. And the movie ends with a lone gorilla in a zoo jumping up and down and saying ‘Mama, mama.’ Freaky shit for a little kid to be watching all alone! [...] Can anybody tell me the title, by the way?”

. . . Well, a year or so after I posted that, some random dude emailed to tell me the name of the movie! It was Escape from the Planet of the Apes. A little more time passed and one day I spied the used VHS in a neighborhood shop. It then collected dust in two different apartments until yesterday, when we saw Julie’s status update that Ricardo Montalban had passed away. So not having a copy of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan on hand like normal SF geeks, I plucked Escape out of my decade-long personal queue and inserted it into the VCR.

Although I remembered close to nothing of the story, seeing Cornelius and Zira was as instantly familiar and comfortable as receiving a surprise visit from old friends after a long absence. It came back to me how Zira used to remind me of my grandma’s wry smile and the way her face was framed by her sleek black hair, tied tightly back and shining. Milo the baby chimp was heartbreakingly adorable, and even more heartbreaking was the fact that his god-sister's name was "Salome" -- a direct etymological descendant of the Hebrew and Arabic words for peace. Speaking of the two babies, S guessed this really cool plot twist that must have gone over my head at age six and has now utterly transfigured my scary memories of both the bad men with guns and the "gorilla" at the end saying “Mama.”

As for the plot, themes, and satire, all confirmed a feeling I had after watching DJ Namsung’s copy of Watermelon Man: in the 60’s and 70’s, people were filming stories about race and politics that they could never get away with now. And they were doing it well. Nowadays, you can hardly say anything about race, but what little you do say has to be so loud for some reason. Back then, they were saying so much more, in a perfectly normal tone of voice.

And Mr. Ricardo Montalban? Well he didn’t show up for a while but when he did, he was completely charming. He also had the best lines:

"I did it because I like chimpanzees best of all apes, and you the best of all chimpanzees. I did it because I hate those who try to alter Destiny, which is the unalterable will of God. If it is Man's destiny one day to be dominated, then please God let him be dominated by such as you. Dear friends, before the police come and the audience gathers, you and your pretty baby must go. […] All I can now do to help you is give you this — for the child. It is a medal of St. Francis of Assisi. […] He was ... a holy man who loved and cared for all animals.”

If I get over this cold quick enough to catch up on my work, I’ll try to rent The Wrath of Khan this weekend. Meanwhile, I'll conclude this post by saying thank you, Dad, for teaching me not to be afraid of the unknown. And thank you, Señor Montalban, for using your rich voice, wonderful smile, and spacious heart to bring the unknown to unforgettable life.

(Her and Me are sitting on the couch watching Yet Another Crime Show on TNT when a commercial for Jurassic Park III comes on)

Me: That movie SUCKED.

(Commercial for Independence Day comes on)

Me: Yohhhhh. That movie was AWESOME.

Her: I've never seen it.

Me: I know. Now that we got the LCD, one year we'll watch it on July 4th.

Her: What? Isn't that a little cruel?

Me: Why? It's Independence Day!

Her: Yeah, but doesn't the world blow up or something?

Me: No, just a few cities.

Her: . . . What are you, dead inside??

Late last night, I stared out the window at the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, far across Brooklyn to the south and a few blocks past my mother's quiet apartment.

Point of clarity. I didn't "see" the actual, steel structure of the bridge itself. What I was seeing was the bridge's absence, the thin sleek lines and sweeping curves slitting the night with fine strokes of dark, surrounding ambient light swallowed up, unreflected, unresponding. Against that negative image, I was also "seeing" the bridge's phantom silhouette, its high vaults and rolling slopes outlined with geometric precision not by the cables themselves but by the glowing succession of green lights along them, twinkling like stars from a faint far-off galaxy against the hazy maroon, purple, and grey clouds suspended in the still winter night.

The bridge is a path during the day but a beacon at night. So much of what we see, what we love, what drives us forth into the dark is not light but black, not presence but absence, not matter but energy. The wordless gesture, the unfulfilled wish, the unknown end.

Between Queensborough Plaza and 33rd Street Rawson, ran into trouble. Faris, Lenna, Krile, and Sigmund were at the staircase to the 24th floor of a dark, claustrophobic tower when a nasty popped out of the wall and knocked Lenna out cold with a bolt of pure energy. Somehow even without the aid of their healer they managed to take out the nasty. They ran up the stairs carrying Lenna's body and found themselves in the open air, standing at the top of the 25-story tower overlooking the vast land below. Perched there waiting for them was Hiryu, Lenna's pet Wind Dragon, who if I remember right was supposed to be injured and resting back at the castle. He must have followed them here to see if he could help.

Hiryu healed Lenna's wounds, I guess by sacrificing the last of his chi. He must have wanted to fly them all back to the castle then because he stepped off the edge of the roof, beating his wings frantically, but after flying all the way from the castle he was obviously weaker than he'd thought, and plummeted down the side of the tower to the steppe far below.

Lenna woke up and she was five or so and at her mother's deathbed again. "What do you mean there's nothing you can do?" The king told her that the doctor had done everything he could but nothing but a Wind Dragon's tongue could cure her mother's illness. Without a word the princess grabbed her dagger and ran to the roof of the castle where her pet dragon was. Maid Jenica ran upstairs after her and reminded the child of what she already knew: that Hiryu was the last Wind Dragon, that if he died his race would go extinct, and that her mother, the queen, had always loved him.

Cut out Hiryu's tongue? Yes / No

All things considered I was a little surprised at how easy it was to choose, but looking back it couldn't have made a difference story-wise because obviously Hiryu was still alive for years after the princess lost her mother. We were back at the tower and the party was engulfed in a warm glow. The spirit of Hiryu, last of the Wind Dragons, infused itself into Lenna's body, granting her the healer's ultimate power: the ability to summon Phoenix and bring her fallen comrades back to life in the heat of battle.

I heard a voice call my name and looked up and it was Tim, who must have gotten off the same train I was on. I was sitting alone on a bench on the 7 train platform and the train was gone and I looked past Tim to the grey sky because it was swirling with snowflakes. It was the first snow of the year.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas