The Fossil Project, Part III: Frotz and Zork

I was hoping to use the Fossil to play some interactive fiction, but I pretty much put it on the back burner until I watched Jason Scott's Get Lamp and remembered, Oh yeah, they used to run these things off floppy disks and tapes back in the day. How hard can this be?

For starters, it's not like I can actually get floppy disks or tapes for this stuff without paying lots of money on eBay, at which point I would likely wait anxiously for its arrival only to discover it doesn't work with FreeBSD.

I figured there must be some way to get floppy disk images for Unix, or some other means of playing it directly. I didn't really have hope I'd get a general interpreter for z-code files, but I also didn't know where I'd find a plain old regular program-version of Zork or anything else. And I really, really wanted to play Zork.

I posted a question on the intfiction.org forums that probably revealed my great ignorance of what I was doing. First I got a hint towards my Internet-connecting problem - it basically gives me hope that one of the other old computers lying around here might have a compatible network card, or that I'll be able to find one somewhere that's compatible - and then the great Zarf, Andrew Plotkin himself, answered (how sad is it that I still haven't played Shade?).

Ah, that reminded me I could just Google "FreeBSD Frotz" and see if anything useful came up - anything precompiled. I managed to find a section on the FreeBSD site full of ports of various applications and this horrifying thing appeared when I clicked on the Frotz one:

Either something was missing or I didn't (don't) understand makefiles, and I didn't really feel like installing the entire ports tree (even though it's rather lightweight and looks quite easy).   It was apparent I had to give Zarf's link a shot after all.

I unpacked the tarball file on my Mac and looked at the install instructions. Unix with an ANSI C compiler? Check. POSIX-compliant version of make? Um. I hope so. SYSV-derived curses library? No idea what that means but it's not completely necessary ("Maybe you'd like to experience what it's like to play Adventure on a teletype" = true) so I just half-hoped FreeBSD had a sufficient curses library and moved on. I looked this up later, by the way, and it's got nothing to do with swearing at the parser.

The install instructions then informed me that precompiled Frotz for FreeBSD is available in the ports tree. I already knew that, obviously, but it made me toy once again with just installing all the ports.

But hey, I figured this tarball thing sounded reasonable enough to work, so I burned the tarball to a CD to transfer it to the Fossil (literally the fastest way I have to transfer data to it…no offense meant to floppies and tapes).

I had to learn about mounting CDs in FreeBSD, and edit my first makefile (in vi!). I was feeling quite out of my depth, but when I held my breath and typed "make" in the proper directory, everything went fine. I then installed it, and again, nothing broke.

Now to deal with Zorkifying my Frotz.

I found a download of all the Infocom games in ZCode format, which I am not linking because the copyright for these games might yet be held by Activision. That aside, I'm definitely looking forward to trying A Mind Forever Voyaging, Hitchhiker's Guide, Planetfall, and all the Zork iterations.

There was some more CD-burning and some very tedious copying of games to the Fossil, but before too long (and after some command-line "hunt the verb," a favorite game of every IF player and Unix-terminal newbie), my dear Fossil was telling me I was standing in an open field outside a white house. I played several turns and saved it and so far everything looks totally functional. And I am all kinds of psyched.

My thanks to Zarf and everyone else who posted in that original thread (RealNC, simvig, UnwashedMass, frotz, and ThomasDickey). The interactive fiction crowd is one of the most helpful (and friendly) online communities I've ever seen.

True Free Will Chooses God's Way

I think that the only way to have true free will is to know everything and to know everything objectively.  What we have instead is a partial picture of all things - partial knowledge, partial understanding, incomplete ability to place value correctly - and too many influences,  in the form of people and experiences and tastes, not to mention God and Satan, whom I do believe exist (in fact, this post is directed primarily at Believers, though I welcome anyone else to read and discuss it as you wish).  If we could live without bias and understand all of the premises and all of the possible conclusions - know all of the possible effects of the weather and the spinning of planets and the growth of plants and the rise and fall of businesses and empires and the unions of people to create new people in the world - we would at last have a free choice.  As it is we are blown about by the wind and still think we have full control over our choices, so long as "nature" or "God" or "other people" don't get in the way.

And if we had true free will, in this manner, but still had our other human qualities, I believe most of us would choose God's way unquestioningly because it would obviously be the best way to do things.  As it is, we see so little of the picture and we're telling the only Person who can see everything, and who has our good at heart (for all things are done for the good of those who love God, and for His glory), that we know better where to go and what to do.  It's no wonder we regularly fall into pits the moment he lets us try our own way for a little while.  We can't actually see almost anything.

I'd like to develop this thought further, but for now I'd like to put it out there as it is and see what discussion occurs in the comments.

The Fossil Project, Part II: Choosing and Installing FreeBSD

I decided to install a variation of Unix on the Fossil (if this means nothing to you, read this post first), and I decided I didn't want it to have a GUI because I wanted to learn Unix commands with nothing to lean on.  I also have this great copy of Unix for Dummies (4th edition! copyright 1998! bizarre and fantastic gift from someone) that assumes no GUI, so it seemed like a good route to take.  After all, why do a project like this if it's not more difficult than necessary?

The book, however, assumes that you've been saddled with Unix by someone at your office and just have to figure out how to use it, so the choosing and installing of the new OS was up to me.  I did what anyone else would do - I took the question to the Unix/Linux node of the StackExchange network.  I put in my requirements and the specs of the machine as far as I knew, and posed my very simple question:

I got quite a lot of answers.  Some were more helpful than others, of course, and somehow the one that got the most upvotes was entirely based on how I really could have a GUI if I wanted.

I've seen more of this than makes sense to me, this thing with people assuming I secretly want a GUI but just don't believe in my machine enough.  I commented on the post pretty quickly that I specifically asked for no GUI, but it still got a bunch of upvotes.

Of course, I get to accept whatever answer I like, and so I started with the one that looked most painless - a suggestion of FreeBSD.  I figured if it didn't work I'd try ArchLinux next, if my machine could handle it, or Gentoo, or whatever else was suggested by the fine and helpful people of the StackExchange (which is a thousand times better than a forum for actually getting questions answered).

I went through the process of downloading the big installation of FreeBSD - dvd1 - which would include all the documentation and a bunch of packages besides the OS itself, as well as a small installation (disc1) with just the OS and docs.  Knowing the Fossil has no network card and being uncertain if I'd ever be able to connect it to the 'net, I wanted to install as much as would fit right off the bat.  I burned dvd1 to a DVD, booted up, and inserted the DVD into the CD drive.

Windows 95 booted.

Well, okay, that makes sense, I just needed to change the boot order.  So I rebooted, went into the BIOS, and put the CD drive first.  And...go!

Windows 95 booted.

Maybe I didn't put the DVD in fast enough.  I rebooted again.

Windows 95 booted.

The CD drive literally only reads CDs, not DVDs.  "It's red lasers!  What's the difference!?" I complained to someone I know, who laughed and said "We're young," clearly indicating that we expect things to work that once did not.

Fine.  Minimal installation from a CD it is.  And this time it worked, and installed fairly painlessly, and has no GUI by default.  I haven't run into any problems yet, except that the only text editor is vi - which sounds a lot worse that it really is.  I don't hate vi.  So I count this as a win.

Thank you, timmmay, for your perfect and simple answer, and to Sardathrion for clarifying which of timmmay's suggestions to take.  Of course, now that I have FreeBSD, what do I DO with the thing?  That shall be answered in near-future posts.

The Fossil Project, Part I: First Computer Disassembly/Re-Assembly Experience

Hello, all.  It's been a while.  I've been working on a new pet project to learn some things about computers that I didn't know before, so I'll have plenty of blog posts in the near future relating to that.  This is the first one.

It begins with a machine.  Specifically, this is the computer I used as a kid to play games like Ping & Kooky's Cuckoo Zoo and Richard Scarry's Busytown, and my father used it for whatever mundane things people did with computers that didn't connect to the Internet.  I think it had some kind of extremely basic CAD software and Microsoft Office.  Parts of it are probably fifteen years old (or more), but it's been upgraded over time to have a zippy 133MHz processor, and it ran Windows 95 pretty okay.  I'm past-tensing the software because now it's running FreeBSD, but that's a story for another time.

Anyway, I was a counselor for my church's Youth Camp this year, and I needed to choose a topic for my teach-me group.  Every year there are several little four-day classes that the youth get to attend during the week, and for my first couple of years as counselor I did jewelry making.  This year, for various reasons, all kinds of possibilities were opened up to me.  Comic-book drawing and objected-oriented programming for junior highers were high on my list until I got an email asking me to do the junior high counterpart to the new senior high class on disassembling computers.  I'd never disassembled a computer before, so of course I said yes.

For reasons fairly beyond my control it ended up getting canceled (and I ended up assisting with archery), but this was the beginning of the Fossil's resurrection.  My dad decided he was officially finished with this computer and that I could allow junior highers to pull it apart if I wanted, so a couple of days before leaving for Youth Camp I began the process of learning to disassemble and re-assemble a computer.  Thank God my dad helped me or it would probably still be in pieces on the kitchen table.  Here's the saga as I tracked it with pencil and paper in real-time on 31 May and 1 June, 2012 (with minimal corrections to grammar and the like).  Several bits of information are missing because I forgot to write them down, but you get the idea.


Day 1

20:42 - Il commence!
21:07 - I should have made notes about what ATA cords go where.  I just wanted these stupid ribbons out of the way (this computer is way pre-SATA) but I'm going to be upset by the time reassembly begins.
21:14 - Power supply plugs into the motherboard via two separate plugs that look the same except for the colors of the cables.  I hope I don't fry it on reassembly.
21:25 - Just removed the tape drive.  Tape drive.  Tape.  Drive.
21:32 - The guy who designed the end of the cord that connects the CD drive to the motherboard should be punched in the head.  It's nigh impossible to unplug it from the motherboard because you have to squeeze it from the front and back instead of the sides.  With a pair of needle-nose pliers.
21:43 - The floppy drive...oh, you're laughing.  I'll wait.  Yes, the floppy drive's card is connected to it by a jack that has a tab on the bottom of it.  It must be pushed down with a flathead screwdriver.
22:08 - I let a How I Met Your Mother rerun distract me, but I am now removing expansion cards.  I lack an antistatic wrist strap so I'm touching grounded metal like a superstitious person.
22:19 - There is a dead spider in the case and I think I can remove it using toothpicks as chopsticks.
22:22 - OH DEAR LINUS IT'S ALIVE no, I'm just kidding, it's all dead and crunchy.
22:29 - Onto the RAM.  Two sticks are different from the other two and they don't alternate.  I don't understand.

22:45 - Ohhh the CPU is under the fan.  On a side note, I was expecting to see a chipset with a northbridge and southbridge and basically nothing looks like the layout shown in the PC Builder's Bible from 2008.  My dad was sort of helping - answering questions - but now he's watching King of Queens and I'm flying fairly solo.
23:07 - I'ma just leave the motherboard right where it is.  Commence reassembly!
23:54 - Cards are in properly, I hope.  RAM is in.  Floppy drive is in, but I can't say I'm going to test it.
0:56 - I'm actually guessing where things go at this point.  I should have taken better photos of the ribbons.
2:02 - Giving up for the night.  Somehow 5 drives were connected in here.  I think.  Maybe one wasn't.


Day 2

20:46 - Il commence - deux!
20:58 - Mysteries of unconnected cords - solved!  Between my dad and I we figured it out.  I think.  We'll test it shortly.
21:13 - Moment of truth.
21:15 - Oh eff.
[We turned it on and literally nothing happened. At this point I received a phone call from someone at church.]
21:17 - ahahaha the teach me group is canceled.
21:22 - Oh for...like an idiot, the power supply was plugged in incorrectly (off by a pin).  Now it turns on, but the hard drive won't talk.
21:34 - Drives now spinning (ribbon was backwards in motherboard) but nothing on screen.
21:49 - Got distracted by Santana's no-hitter - first in Mets history!
22:06 - Unplugged all the drives except for one hard drive, and the BIOS finally works properly.  Wish the C drive were labeled.
22:18 - Starting Windows 95!
22:24 - The motherboard is racist.  White is master, black is slave.  I will always remember this.
22:38 - Plugged in the other drives.  No BIOS.  Come on!
22:43 - Unplugged tape and CD drives.  Works.  Next!
22:47 - Tape drive != problem.  Must be CD drive.  But why!?
22:49 - Oh cool, my hands smell like ATA ribbons.
22:52 - Ah yes, plug in CD drive -> BIOS turns into the robot from the Asimov story "Runaround."  Or maybe that's us.  Maybe the CD drive was the issue the entire time.  We will die on Mercury's surface.
22:57 - The CD-ROM drive's ribbon goes in backwards relative to the hard drive ribbon, which is right next to it.  Powell and Donovan.  That's us.  Except less intelligent.  On the plus side, I didn't kill any components!  Mission accomplished.

Pygmalion

Pygmalion built himself a girl

and perfect in all ways was she,

with shapely silent marble lips

and eyes that gazed on only he.

A goddess saw the sculptor's heart

and as a gift brought breath to her,

but it could not have been too long

before he knew what he'd prefer.

For Galatea had been his,

the only woman he could own -

the only woman he could love

was but a woman built from stone.

The woman had a mind and thoughts

and she could speak them as she pleased.

Her hands could touch the things she liked

and now her feet could walk with ease.

Pygmalion feared she'd walk away

and leave him if she had the chance -

for certainly, if she were free,

she would not choose him for romance.

No other mind had chosen him,

no one could love this sculptor's soul.

He thought to chain her if he could

and keep her thus in his control.

But over time he learned to love

and learned to trust his marble bride,

for they did quarrel now and then

but never did she leave his side.

Through freedom Galatea loved

but her Pygmalion could not own

yet when she was his to possess

her very heart was only stone.

Catching the Bouquet

I was standing in the front.  I was wearing four-inch heels.  I had every advantage except that I was pretty sure the bride was aiming for the girl who stood to my left and slightly behind me, and I wasn't about to let myself worry about that.

"Okay, girls, put your hands up!  This is a photo op!" boomed the young emcee into the microphone.  I obliged, but otherwise, I was pretending I didn't care.  A heart monitor would have revealed the truth.

There was a countdown, presumably by the emcee, but I've already forgotten.  I was in my head.  "Three!"  I don't care.  "Two!"  I don't care.  "One!"  I care and I'm going to catch this.

Time slowed down for me alone, to provide one final advantage.  I watched the bouquet's trajectory as it left the bride's hand and headed straight for me.

No, not straight for me.  It was headed slightly to the left.  Impressive aim, I thought, but there's no room for politeness now.  My left hand reached out and the bouquet fell neatly, top-first, into my open hand.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw several sets of outstretched fingers falling just short.  Then, time resumed its usual pace.

It was hard to keep track of what was going on in the minute or two immediately following my success.  There was a lot of noise, and a few people got photos of me with the bride.  Meanwhile, I was on the alert for one thing.  As far as I can remember, at every wedding I've attended where I've failed to catch the bouquet, my disappointment quickly turned to relief as I remembered the garter toss.  In each case, I witnessed the poor winning girl seated in a chair in the middle of the dance floor, gripping the flowers as some random guy slid a garter onto her leg.  Even when it's just put on her arm, it's an awkward and embarrassing ritual.  I braced myself for the ordeal.

Long seconds passed.  I waited.

There was no garter toss.

Hallelujah.  The time I finally catch it, I get all the joy and none of the obnoxious aftermath (except for one or two people heckling my dear boyfriend).  Success all around.

I like to think I'm not the type of person who believes in superstitions.  Part of me does want to be the next to be married, and like most girls, I think about my own wedding details and wonder when it's going to happen.  Everything is especially up in the air for me right now; I can't reasonably predict where I'll be or what I'll be doing six months from now.  No, catching the bouquet was not a sign that I'm going to be married next.  It was, instead, a sign to me that everything will work out right, and I should just stop worrying about it.  So, that's what I'm going to do.

I'm going to have a little faith.

Caramel Macchiato

Today I had a caramel macchiato.

I was provoked into a Starbucks trip, and I have mixed feelings about Starbucks.  On the one hand, they have a shiny app for the iPhone, and this alone renders me as wide-eyed and senseless as the lobotomized version of Babydoll at the end of Sucker Punch.  Besides doing a whole bunch of neat stuff from store locating to general tag scanning, the app stores your registered Starbucks gift cards so you can have the barista scan your phone like a pretentious yuppie, which I rather enjoy.  The whole franchise is actually fairly shiny and fun, which makes me pay a lot more for a cup of coffee than I ordinarily would like.

On the other hand, all I drink is black coffee and straight tea, which is a lot cheaper if I just brew it at home.  So, whenever I go to Starbucks, I feel some pressure to get a fancy drink in order to make the trip make sense, except that's illogical because I'm spending even more money to get something I don't like very much.  Ingredients are generally not meant to be mixed.

Did I mention I dislike caramel?  Part of my dislike of caramel is the confusion over its pronunciation, but mostly it's the fact that I actually don't like the taste.  Or the stickiness.

Anyway, today's trip was one where I felt extra pressure to get a fancy drink, because I wasn't meeting anyone with whom I do not live.  We were actively leaving the house to go purchase caffeinated beverages, when we possess a Keurig with many K-cups, and a tea kettle with two fancy boxes full of tea.  The caramel macchiato was at, or near, the top left of the fancy-drinks list, but that's not why I chose it.  I chose it because it is mentioned in a song that is in the movie Sweet Home Alabama, starring Reese Witherspoon, and I love Reese Witherspoon.  So that's what I ordered.

Have you ever had one of these?  It tastes like being in an airport.  Or perhaps on an airplane, definitely a flight where the sun is up but you still have the scratchy blue blanket and white pillow.  This is not altogether unpleasant, but I never want to drink another.

Believing in Beauty

I wish to describe a contrast, or rather, a situation that relies on a great contrast.  Imagine, if you would, the young person who has lived all his life in a bleak location.  His very home was plain in all ways.  The land for miles around lacked any truly beautiful feature.  Seasons held only the worst aspects - winter meant more slush than snow, and spring held more pollen than flowers.  Summer was horribly hot, but the only beaches were ugly and polluted.  Sunrises and sunsets were strangely dull, and did not play lovely colors upon the clouds.

Who could ever say to him that river valleys and mountain springs, or daffodils and orchids and ivy and roses, or strange and elegant cloud formations, truly exist?  Who could impress upon him the idea of swimming in a deep blue ocean, or playing in fresh snow, or waking up glad to enjoy a beautiful dawn shining on a beautiful home?  He must be shown such hope, or how could he find it possible?

Now

I am occasionally stricken by the absolute "now-ness" of Now - the utterly fleeting nature of each passing moment, the fact that everything I see is just a memory by the time my brain has processed it. Like the light of the stars, what we see is not what Is, but what Was. A miniscule fraction of a second ago is still in the Past. Time is the essence of flux - or vice versa - and if I overthink it, I am overwhelmed by the rush of it, and the fundamentally ephemeral nature of Now.

Wedding Dresses

I think what I hate about modern wedding dresses is that they seem to have fallen so far from the real purpose of the wedding. I've been flipping through an issue of The Knot (I do love looking at dresses), knowing that I seldom see a wedding gown that I really like, when I started to realize what my problem is. It's not just that I dislike strapless dresses, super long trains, overuse of detail, underuse of detail, and unflattering shapes - including the terrible idea known as the "mermaid," in which the girl's dress is super slim down to below her knees, where the designer suddenly remembered he wanted a poofy skirt rather than a slim one and fanned it out at the last moment, resulting in something ridiculously similar to a fish's tail.

No, what I dislike most is the adjectives used to describe each praised dress: chic, modern, risque, dramatic, retro, flattering, fairy-tale, scene-stealing, statement-making. I'm not knocking a gown that's incidentally ethereal, or structured for the bride's body type. What bothers me is that we've quite turned the whole thing into an issue of fashion alone - Is it an "in" style? Is it sexy? Does it say what the bride thinks it should say about her? - and we have utterly lost the idea of preparing a bride for her groom, of making her beautiful to be received by him in a ceremony as a companion, lover, helper, and friend, as they will belong to each other afterwards for as long as they both shall live.

Suffering's Effect On Fiction

I hate the idea that a writer of fiction has to suffer in order to write well. Somehow, it seems that only comedians are exempt from this rule. It's something about needing a source of conflict, something about "write what you know," something about "show, don't tell," but the whole thing sounds miserable to me. Maybe this is why I haven't finished a short story. I haven't suffered enough.

I suppose pain is an integral part of the writing process. Suffer, come up with a story idea based on that suffering, write some of the story, suffer from writer's block, write some more, forget to save your work and lose most of it, write some more, submit it, get your rejection letters, start over. I don't know if that type of suffering is particularly useful for coming up with new stuff, though. Stories about writers are like films about filmmakers - everybody in the audience knows you had no better ideas than your own life, and your own life is clearly no more interesting than your job. I mean, at least use a metaphor. I train dragons and I'm having a terrible time getting them to listen to me, but once I get a dragon trained to perfection, I can sell him to a famous warrior and make a lot of money. Character growth can be found in the dilemma between training dragons for a love of dragons and training dragons to become as rich as Rowling - I mean as rich as the richest trainer of dragons.

So, the boring pseudo-suffering of a writer's life can be translated to something interesting and whimsical, but there will probably be some realism missing, some details left out. That's why it is useful to watch other people suffer. Talk to strangers. Read people's Facebook statuses. Take the interesting parts from what's wrong with everybody else's lives, and use it to flesh out your character.

This is also where showing instead of telling becomes important, and what makes it so difficult to accomplish if you have seldom had real issues. Suppose you have never felt lonely when you were not alone, and you want to explain it through your story. "She was lonely" won't cut it, I can tell you that now. But if you've never had such a thing happen, and you can't easily see such a thing by watching other people, how will you know what kind of a scene to craft to show the emotion instead? So perhaps some little bit of suffering is important after all, in order to know to place your character in a crowd of people who don't interact with him, or to leave her crying near somebody whose mind is elsewhere - don't you feel a little lonely yourself just envisioning these scenes?

But I have been crazy blessed throughout my life, and I have no desire to bring suffering upon me. What then shall I do? After people-watching, the easiest thing to do is augment one's own little experiences, and pretend they were much more than they actually were. Every bad day feels blown out of proportion while it's happening; you just have to capture that and make it seem real instead of histrionic. Make the causes bigger, but the emotions the same.

So, for all writers who are content or - dare I say it? - happy, be glad in knowing that there are loopholes to the Suffering Rule,

And the Blog Re-Awakens

With my impending graduation, and my keen desire to be a writer, it is time I bring back This Is An Art. One purpose of this post is to establish the focus of subsequent posts - not that I have established a niche (don't be silly), but I've at least come up with some variation of default topic set. The other purpose is to ensure that people can hold me accountable for actually posting things again. You now have a specific post to which you can refer me, if I say "Meh, I don't want to post this week." Here it is. Cmd-D to bookmark (or ctrl-D, if you use Windows).

I intend to return to a schedule of blogging at least twice a week, probably on Tuesdays and Fridays, once my finals have ended. And, I intend to blog primarily (but not exclusively) on the following topics:

• Writing. This includes writing about writing, and posting actual poems, short stories, and writing exercises. I want to be a writer. I started this blog in order to get some public practice. I now intend to un-defeat that purpose.
• Projects. I do love projects, and I have so many. I want to post them here, as I do them - in-progress posts and finished posts, with all kinds of photos (or screenshots, where applicable) whenever possible. This is to inspire others to do new projects, as well as to hold myself accountable to finishing the things I start.
• Various Christian topics. Nothing is more important than God Himself. When I am blessed with wisdom, I will write.
• Media (occasionally). Books, films, and Leverage typically fall into this category (what do you mean other shows exist?). I have no intention of discussing media very frequently, and when I do discuss it, I hope to make much mention of the writing involved therein.

I also intend to come up with a standard for tagging my posts, and to tag new and old posts accordingly. I have previously hated tags, but I have come to find them quite useful.

Excelsior!

Edit (29 Nov 2011, 1:34 AM): Oh, rats.  This didn't happen at all.

Leverage Analysis - Parker and the Family Dynamic

As a fan of the TNT show Leverage, I have a peculiar contention - one that will make little sense to anyone who is unfamiliar with the show, so if you fall in that category I suggest you first watch an episode or two before reading the rest.

Ready? Okay, good.

The characters of the show, and the people involved in making the show, often discuss the familial nature of the five main characters, that is, Nate and his crew. If we were to break down the family dynamic, certain roles are more obviously filled than others. Nate is clearly the father figure in this family, and Sophie is the mother. Eliot is the eldest child, a mature yet passionate son. The other two are somewhat more difficult - Hardison and Parker. You see, since the two share romantic tension, we must accept one of three possibilities: their relationship borders on incestual, the "family" metaphor breaks down if it is considered too deeply, or one of the two characters is not part of the immediate family. Assuming the first is absurd and the second is too boring to put in a blog post, I shall now defend the third. Hardison or Parker is a "child" of Nate and Sophie, and the other has been grafted in.

My immediate thought, when I first considered this, was that Hardison is the outsider. After all, he is the only member of the crew who is not white - one glance at the crew would suggest that he is not blood-related, which could carry to the show's family metaphor. He is also the only member of the crew whose past and personal life have not yet been dealt with more than briefly, and three seasons have passed.

But consider Parker. Parker is the only one who goes by a single name. Her foster father has appeared on the show, and initially, he seems angry about her joining this new family, saying he'd made her a perfect thief and Nate ruined her by allowing her to become a "good guy." She acts truly strange in comparison to everyone else. In promotional materials for the show, she is almost always set apart from the rest of the crew. The DVD sets for both the first and second seasons of the show each have four discs, and each disc features a different member of the crew, but never Parker - she is the face of the special features. Finally, Eliot and Hardison fight like brothers.

So, my contention is this - in the family that is Nate's crew, Nate is the father, Sophie is the mother, Eliot is the older brother, Hardison is the younger brother, and Parker is the girl who is with Hardison, and has become included in the family but does not quite belong yet. Thus ends my analysis.

Youth is Wasted

I have learned to appreciate music, but I have no time now to play an instrument of my own - though for years I was in a good music program at a public school, and I loathed to practice, or to listen to instrumental music. I have learned to appreciate math, history, science, and education in general, but now I have to pay for it - though I was once handed information daily, for free, and I sneered at it. I have learned to appreciate family, immediate and extended, but it is while I live at home for less than half the year, and have little hope of seeing most of the extended family members who live out of state - though once we regularly visited the family who is in California, and once my grandparents were near at hand, and I hardly cared.

Youth is truly wasted on the young. Somehow, it doesn't seem fair. I wonder, what do I have now, that I will later realize I missed?

On Forcing Our Beliefs On Others

I think the biggest complaint I hear from non-Christians, regarding Christians, is that we like to "force our beliefs" on other people. They consistently get offended or annoyed because, hey, can't we all just believe what we want to and leave each other alone?

‎First of all: no. To quote the character Emerson Cod from Pushing Daisies, "The truth ain't like puppies, a bunch of them running around, you pick your favorite. One truth! And it has come a-knockin'." I would like to explain why, exactly, we "force our beliefs" upon the unbelievers, and why we consistently "come a-knockin'" even after you have disconnected the doorbell, removed the door knocker, and hidden under your bed.

Christians operate under a set of beliefs that can be found in the Bible. The primary belief, especially in terms of sharing the Gospel, is that Jesus is "the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through [him]" (John 14:6). Jesus is the way, the only Way, to a positive afterlife (commonly known as "Heaven"), and, many of us contend, the only Way to goodness and virtue in this life.

We could simply believe that for ourselves, and have good lives and afterlives for ourselves, not worrying about what happens to other people, except that selflessness is a tenet of Christianity as well. When asked what was the greatest commandment, Jesus's response was, "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments." (Matthew 22:36-40). So, if I love my neighbor - neighbor being loosely defined as anyone with whom I may come in contact - and I believe that my neighbor will live a dissatisfying mortal life and an unbearable post-life eternity without Jesus, it is only reasonable to do everything in my power to bring that person to Jesus, as soon as possible.

We don't always. We worry about mockery, insults, minor persecution, or losing the friendship. But should we? For Jesus said in his Sermon on the Mount, "Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you" (Matthew 5:11). The issue of timidity in the face of evangelism or open belief is addressed again and again in the New Testament, always saying that we are blessed by God though we are hated by men for belief and righteousness.

So this is why Christians "force their beliefs" on others. It is senseless to suggest that we should simply let people believe whatever they like, and that it does not matter. To suggest this shows a fundamental lack of understanding of the Christian faith. Christianity is not a crutch to get us through this life. It is not a mere set of rules for morality. It is not a philosophy chosen because it sounds nice. There is only one question of importance, in deciding to accept Christianity: is it the Truth?

Obviously, I contend that it is.

As always when I reference Bible verses, I encourage you to look up and read the context for them. Biblegateway.com is a good source if you don't want to leave your computer or don't have a physical Bible.

Regarding Wedding Photos, From An Editor's PoV

I have recently acquired an unpaid internship editing wedding photos, to fulfill a graduation requirement. I have found that I rather enjoy the work, the people who work there, and even the building's quiet location, which is so near to both a peaceful lake and the insanity that is deep downtown Orlando.

The passing-thought purpose of wedding photos is to record the event that is supposedly the happiest day of your life. The cynical corollary is that the event is so expensive you'd better be able to re-enjoy it for many, many days afterwards. The purpose of editing wedding photos, as far as the bride is concerned, is to make her special day look as pretty as possible. As far as editors are concerned, the purpose is to generate money. For photographers, the purpose is to allow them to pay less attention to things like white balance, lighting, exposure, and crooked shots. An idealist would say this allows photographers to focus their attention on getting the most romantic and memorable shots. A cynic would say it's so the photographers can be lazy.

I contend that the true job of an editor is to make the bride, the groom, and the whole event appear, in recorded form, the same way the couple should be remembering it for the rest of their lives - a beautiful and holy beginning. More importantly, an editor tries to make the bride and groom appear, in recorded form, the same way they actually see each other in real life. So we take out the imperfections and the rough edges. We add a little glow. We make the sun shine brighter. My favorite weddings to edit are the ones where the groom cries because he's so happy. It feels like finding a four-leaf clover. At that point, it doesn't matter what the cynics have to say, or how expensive the wedding was, or why the photographers take photos or why the editors edit, because what matters is not the purpose of the photos - it is the purpose of the wedding.

Removal of Obligation for Myself

For a while now, I've been striving to blog every Wednesday and Saturday no matter what, with few exceptions - though they have increased lately, what with various stresses from school, etc. I briefly considered finding a niche for my blog, but upon determining that my main reason for blogging is my desire to practice my writing, it seemed less important to try to gain a particular readership, do the niche thing, etc. I thus remove, starting now, the self-imposed obligation upon myself to write every Wednesday and Saturday, and will therefore only write here when I please, once again. My hope is that when the semester ends I'll get back to writing semi-prolifically, possibly more than I was already, for at least as long as I have a decent amount of free time.

Yours truly,

Rae

Storytelling Exercise: Dwarf Story, Part 3: P'kin Explains

P'kin laughs. "I'm not really going to kill you. Calm down. You're just stuck here til morning. Or you could try to walk home, but I hear the city is dangerous to walk this late, alone. So relax and I'll tell you why we've yet to be discovered by anyone besides you." He takes his own whistle, now finished, and waves it in my face a bit to show that he really did whittle mine so quickly. He then places it in his pocket, leans back, and suggests I get comfortable.

"The luck I have, to be in one of the few stations that does not run twenty-four hours. I have no chair. Are you going to whittle one of those too?"

He looks confused for a moment, and then stands and gestures like a gentleman at his seat. "Milady."

"And then where will you sit?"

"I am a dwarf. Does not your lore tell you how comfortable we are with the Earth? I will sit on the ground. It is not so damp over here as it is down that way. You may mind it, but I do not."

I sit in the chair in the alcove, and he settles onto the ground outside it, where I was standing before. "I don't like to believe everything in lore," I say. "While it also speaks of your folk as skilled craftsmen, which is evidently true, there are conflicting pieces of lore regarding your people's size and temperament. Why should I believe any of these things, without seeing for myself?"

"Fair enough. Know this, then - we do like the Earth. We live under it, actually, or many of us do."

"Many? And you chose to tunnel from the subway, and somehow managed this without people seeing you? Nothing is making sense."

"Then, Dinah, let me make it make sense. You have made the assumption that this bit of tunnel has existed for a very long time. It has not, and it is incomplete. You have also made the assumption that we tunneled from the subway. We have not. We tunneled from where we live underground, over to here. We were hoping to keep the wall between us and your subway system for just a while longer, until this tunnel is truly complete, and looks more like a proper dwarf-tunnel should. But I confess, I saw no danger in letting a fellow whistler find me. It seemed better, anyway, than to drive you away and let you alert the news-folks about this place."

My head spins. "But what do you and your people want with us? For that matter, where are the rest of you? Where is the rest of the underground? This tunnel, as far as I have seen, has no way of entry besides the way I came in, and ends rather visibly just past those lanterns."

"Ends? My dear, that's a door."

Extra Post: I Found Me At A Crossroads - A Poem

I happened to get inspired. The Dwarf Story should return on Saturday.

----

I found me at a crossroads, and I had two ways to choose
It seemed each had its own to gain, but one had more to lose
And each one had a guarding man, who knew his road quite well
I thought it best to take the time, and find what they would tell
I tried first he with kinder eyes and face that was clean-shaven
"Sir, tell me, does this road you guard lead to some kind of haven?
Or misery, or challenges, or happiness, or friends?"
He smiled kindly, saying "I've not seen yet how it ends,
But I like this road, so straight and true; I find the work exciting.
No time for love, I'll grant you that, but it never seemed inviting."
I pressed for more, but he said less, so closed-off was he now
So kind yet so impersonal, he frightened me somehow.
So then I asked the other man, with earrings and a beard,
"Sir, tell me, what is down your road? The normal or the weird?"
"Why yes," he said, "and more than that; I've seen so many things,
The road meanders senselessly and I take all it brings
I've driven in a chariot, befriended large and small
I've loved, I've lost, I've worked, I've taught; I fly before I fall
There's much to see and much to do. I'm always entertained."
"Is it dangerous?" I asked him. "Yes of course!" Then he explained,
"I've been shot and stabbed and poisoned and I've twice been hit by cars,
But that's alright - the danger never makes it very far,
And I keep walking onwards, like I've always done before.
I'm beginning to believe this road will never reach Death's Door."
I thanked him for his time and I stood still to contemplate
For neither seemed ideal, and I did wish my choice could wait
I asked the men if somewhere else another road did lie
The first man handed me a map and then he bid goodbye
The second handed me a sword and said, "The road is free
To the traveler who makes it his - or hers, as it might be."
So I set off with sword and map to find what was ahead
To take the road or make the road - the road I chose instead.

Storytelling Exercise: Dwarf Story, Part 2: Dinah's Whistle

The dwarf is comically similar to the sort of dwarves and trolls I've seen in classic European fantasy art, so much so that I can hardly be surprised at his appearance, nor pretend not to know what he is.

"You're a dwarf," I say.

He smiles, and clearly cannot even pretend to be offended. "Aye, my dear, that I am. And you are a human. A human, and alone. My whistling tipped you off?"

"I heard a voice. Then I whistled, then you whistled."

"Ah yes. It is because of you that I am whittling this. Well…" He gives a few more touches of the knife to the whistle. "…have whittled is more accurate. It is for you, that you may whistle louder, more melodiously, and more accurately. Not that you are a bad whistler, but that if you enjoy it so much, you ought to do it even easier."

I take the gift he is offering and examine it. It is beautifully crafted of some sort of dark, thick wood, with a place to put a string through and several holes so that I may make a multitude of sounds.

"I thank you. This is beautiful. You made it very quickly indeed, if what you say is true."

"Would you like proof?" He opens the top of the school-desk and removes a chunk of the same wood. "I'll make myself a matching one, as we chatter. Only, let me make some quick adjustments to yours, so they aren't mixed up." I hand my gift back to him. He takes a leather string from the school-desk, puts it through the string hole, and closes the desk. "What is your name?"

"Dinah."

"Could you spell it? That is no dwarven name, nor an especially common human name."

"It isn't that rare, either." But I spell my name, and as I do, the dwarf quickly carves each letter into the side of the whistle, in strange and lovely script. He hands it back to me. Before my second thanks has left my mouth, he is already whittling the other piece of wood, and it is already resembling a whistle. I never knew such thick hands could move with such dexterity.

"So you know my name, dwarf, but what is your name?"

"I am P'kin. That is spelled with an apostrophe, and I am very much considering putting an 'i' in its place. I would like something more easily pronounced by you humans."

"P'kin. I am already used to it after one go. You needn't change a thing. Do you expect to be encountering many of us?"

"How difficult was it for you to find me?"

"Not that difficult at all, but presumably you've been here a very long time without being discovered. Unless you kill or kidnap everyone who comes down here."

"You seem awfully unafraid for someone who believes that to be the truth."

"You have given me a whistle. If that were the truth, you would be a very stupid kidnapper indeed, for I can call for help."

"You have already missed the last train. The only folks left in the subway are the bums whom nobody would miss."

My heart beats faster at these words, for I am typically cautious, not courageous. At best, I am stuck here until morning. At worst, he really is going to kill me.