Sunday, 23 November 2008
Actual News About Actual Stuff Which Is Actually Interesting Rather Than The Stuff I Usually Post Which Is Actually A Bit Crap. Actually.
Sunday, 9 November 2008
I remember I started to make notes.
I remember making sure that I would not forget the game.
The name was never important. The characters were never really important. In the games we played our protagonists were all much the same. I was I was I was I. Strangely I was always injured. Strangely I was always captive.
At some point, some rainy, lonely afternoon, the whole thing seemed to slip away from me. I started making notes. I did not show those notes. I hid them from friends. I folded them into a space between my wardrobe and the wall. These notes were private games.
I remember I was playing games, my friends played Games. Rules. Systems. Tactic. Strategies. I kept making notes. Sometimes the notes were in sentences. Sometimes the sentences were connected together. And somewhere down the line, in some loud and crowded classroom, the game became more important.
“We can never give anything up.” Said Freud, and I think that perhaps he had a point. “We only exchange one thing for another… [when a child] stops playing he gives up nothing but the link with real objects, instead of playing, he now phantasises.”
I remember the toys becoming much less important. I remember them becoming unnecessary. I remember phantasies. I remember one sentence following another. I remember crossing the boundaries of that first page. I remember the fresh page, the sparkling white, the faded blue lines, and me starting it part way through an idea. Those pages flowed.
At age ten: eight pages is a mammoth task. At age ten: eight pages is an achievement unmatched throughout history. At age ten: eight pages is a release of something powerful. At age ten, at some point, someone will tell you to stop.
The content is unimportant, a story based on bluetac is an achievement I will only manage once and I wish I’d been able to keep a hold of the book. What is important is that I did not stop. What is important is that I wrote a game about a hedgehog. A game about a scientist. A game about a rock named George."
Proper mint no? Thank you for allowing me my self indulgence...
Plus: Disco Kettle is all packed.
I move into my new place at the end of the month. Got a bed ordered and everything. DK is muchos excited, he's even volunteered to do a photo shoot once he's in the new place. He's been posing and Fffssssttting for the last few day practicing. He's even been working on harmonising his Bing with the microwave. It's all very sweet.
Monday, 3 November 2008
But last weekend I've also been Dahn Saarf. Innit. Wiv me spoons an pearl suit an apples and pears and other fruit salad stuff.
And now I'm knackered.
I did get to go to a costume party though. And, horribly, it got me all wondering again...
It's this whole juggling thing again I think, different bits, extra arms, occasional shift in priorities. Gets confusing.
I am, generally, during the day a Professional and Caring Teacher - able to Educate and Inspire and to Look Very Busy when people arrive during my free lessons (much like now - the sound of typing is always convincing.)
Most evenings I play at Hugely Successful Author (at least in my head I do - it is generally a role characterised by glazed eyes and me staring into space...)
Two evenings a week I also get to play at Dedicated and Conscientious Student, with added bonus of a secret I'm Actually Already Getting Published superhero pants which I wear beneath my jeans.
I also get to play at Star Striker on a Friday night. At least during the first half. Second half I'm knackered so I play at Lumbering Defender instead.
Of course I have a favoured role I get to play, feels like my most natural I think - generally get to play it on a Weekend, sometimes on a Wednesday. It a Grinning Like A Tit role and is, most definitely, my favourite.
I'm sat on the Tube (dahn saarf), on a Saturday - please note, no longer Halloween, in a giant yellow duck suit. And too my left is a five foot nine baby. With beard. To my right is a four foot ten crack whore. Without beard. And I'm sat there, whilst a German tourist snaps pictures.
And I know exactly which roles I favour, and I only wish I could play them more often.
On the upside though - regardless of role, my wonderful hair remains the same. Largely due to the glue thats in it.