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Oct. 14th, 2011 @ 10:48 pm 26
Tags: ,

(Written on the way home from Comic-Con 2011)

Someday, if I sell enough
video games, I'll be rich enough
to afford one
Someday I'll have my own office
at a game company someone's heard of
in a room that doesn't always smell like cat shit
in a building that doesn't always smell like cat shit
and I'll line a bookshelf with souvenirs
from half my life--an old
microchip, a wooden ghost, a handmade owl,
a Sherman tank in the shape of an anime girl--
tastefully arrayed above
the desk where I make
the other half--
instead of taping them shut
in a cardboard box
Someday I'll live in a room bigger than a closet
(no, that's not hyperbole)
and watch enough movies to follow conversations
without consulting Wikipedia
Someday I'll measure the price of a comic book
in something other than days of rent

Someday I'll have a DVD collection
Someday I'll have a bunch of friends I can just call some weekend
and ask if they want to hang out
or talk about William Shatner
or watch Community
or argue about McLuhan or McCain or McGonigal
or play that new video game I bought
while we complain about how our lives are going
Someday I will stop using my chessboard as a coffee table
and my copy of Apples to Apples as a paperweight
Someday I won't be ashamed
of liking My Little Pony

Someday I'll stop obsessing over Charles Schulz's little redhead,
the fujoshi playwrit
the Star Wars animatrix
the steampunk librarienne
the superheroine seamstress
the not your average girl reporters--
the Felicia Days, the Lauren Fausts,
who won't take shit for an answer
and aren't full of no
Someday I'll quote Pride and Prejudice
in my bedroom voice
to a woman who quotes Princess Bride
in her bedroom voice

Someday I'll learn to play "Knockin' on Heaven's Door"
both the Bob Dylan version and the Guns 'n' Roses version
Someday I'll go to a con dressed up like Terry Bogard
and you'll go dressed up as Aradia Megido
and in a roped-off nook of the convention center we'll have
the most flagrantly non-canon makeout
in the history of chainsaws
Someday I'll hum the Chrono Trigger ending song
as you're drifting off to sleep, and you'll hear it in my chest
and surprise me with the OCRemix vocals,
the pixietricks to my zircon
Someday I'll bore you with the parable of
the Atari ST and the cathode ray tube,
how a lifetime has to happen in the instant
between the first scanline and the last
and you'll just laugh
and call me a dork

Someday I'll go dancing and not come back alone
Someday I won't lie in the grass late at night and fall asleep in the quiet
Someday I'll make love in a mosh pit

Someday I'll take for granted
the opinion of an average
woman on the shape of a
bagel relative to the starch
content of the dough as just
another idle observation
and not
the most beautiful thing I've ever heard

Some days I'll shut my laptop
stare into the afterimage it
smolders into the dark
reach out to the
blistering antiviolet and
feel myself
running out
of someday


About this Entry
cavestory
Sep. 25th, 2011 @ 07:16 am shakespeare had his sonnets. i have love letters to okcupid
Current Mood: hornydating is hilariously sad
Current Music: Jackie Greene - Call Me, Corinna
Tags: ,

Excerpts from actual messages I have sent to unfamiliar women on OKCupid since January.

Read more...Collapse )

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cavestory
Jun. 22nd, 2011 @ 04:19 pm kevin, why don't you date asian women anymore
Current Mood: racist
Tags:
What do you see in the face of a local white American woman?

I see swaying maples. I see hazel in her irises, and hair the color of warm earth, and gentle, soft skin. I see memories of Saturday morning cartoons, of the prick of rocks and shells in the sand along a hot July beach, of the sweet tang of varnished libraries and ancient drywall. I see hands sticky with toast crumbs. I see the coppery sting of combination locks and patent-aluminum lockers, and the grassy bite of wild grapes, and the one spot on the fingerboard of an old steel-string acoustic guitar where your finger sticks to the grain.

I see a quiet moment in a convenience store parking lot, engine thrumming, stars out--a pebble of oranges and cream snow, wet on a plastic straw. I see a long, quilted scarf flapping against the bite of an ice-bright October morning. I see Robert Frost branches spidering upwards into an Annie Dillard sky. I see a single autumn leaf, woody and defiant, green with life.

I see nothing exotic. I see home.

What do you see in the face of a Taiwanese woman?

I see plaster of Paris. I see a windowless room in her cold, hollow pupils, its brutal concrete dry and cracked, searing with the spiritless glow of a white xenon tube. I see a piano with muted hammers. I see the sharp, tintinnitic bark of a furious parent over a gurgle of pink noise. I see sheets of shipping-grade corrugated steel, rusted brown and seawater grey, plated over every surface. I see Hello Kitty douche rags. I see meat sludge over hard, day-old rice, laid over sweetly with a slice of neon ginger and a veneer of raw, runny egg.

I see an involuntary twitch in her right eyelid. I see a thin paper tape of black glyphs vomiting endlessly out of a cast iron typewriter, silently churning ribbons upon echolalic ribbons onto a polished bamboo floor. I see an imagined, omnipresent bamboo switch (there's the twitch, again). I see sweat boiling in a cauldron under a canopy of rotting palm leaves. I see the sensation of falling, of forever slipping off the edge of a sand-blasted cliff. I see a piece of another woman's small intestine, clenched tightly and desperately between her teeth.

I see, caught in her lips, the pent-up squawk of a voice unused to speaking above a whisper.

I see a horrific spiked phallus, its filamented, garrote-like needles dripping with viscera. I see a schoolgirl uniform cut for a thirty-year-old woman. I see a thirteen-year-old slathered in makeup. I see an opera sung entirely in shrieking, high-pitched sobs. I see a cracked stone altar at the shrine of innocence, slick and acrid with steaming virginal blood. I see pink--pink pencil cases, pink notebooks, pink earrings, pink elephants, pink eye, pink pockets. I see a trembling, androgynous overgrown fetus.

I see thick lines, delicately painted, in black and white. I see a tall, cool cup of green tea, sweet with mint and crushed ice, sealed with plastic film, on an endless cobblestone square. I see a flock of transparent kites over the harbor, soaring quietly in place over lush, verdant hills. I see a lump of crushed sesame dough on a glass table in front of a blaring television. I see a shattered glass table. I see the long, crying trails of raindrops down a double plate window. I see a fine bone teacup filled with water. I see a red-eyed ogre in a greasy wifebeater shoveling a mouthful of boiled fish into his toothless maw with a pair of steel chopsticks.

I see, in the reflection of my eyes in hers, a dragon. Not a shimmering golden dragon, but a reptilian one, its horns migraine-hot, breathing smoke from its nostrils and drooling semen from its lips. I see a foot bent halfway to the ankle, bent so far the ligaments rip apart and the bone snaps. I see fear. I see anger. I see endless surrender, over generations and generations and generations. I see resignation.

I see a long, terrible silence in a lightless dream.

那美國女人呢?看到她們的臉, 會想到什麼東西?

I see swaying maples. I see hazel in her irises, and hair the color of warm earth, and gentle, soft skin. I see memories of Saturday morning cartoons, of the prick of rocks and shells in the sand along a hot July beach, of the sweet tang of varnished libraries and ancient drywall. I see hands sticky with toast crumbs. I see the coppery sting of combination locks and patent-aluminum lockers, and the grassy bite of wild grapes, and the one spot on the fingerboard of an old steel-string acoustic guitar where your finger sticks to the grain.

I see a quiet moment in a convenience store parking lot, engine thrumming, stars out--a pebble of oranges and cream snow, wet on a plastic straw. I see a long, quilted scarf flapping against the bite of an ice-bright October morning. I see Robert Frost branches spidering upwards into an Annie Dillard sky. I see a single autumn leaf, woody and defiant, green with life.
About this Entry
cavestory
Feb. 20th, 2011 @ 02:12 am in which the two largest organs in kevin's body share a beer
Current Mood: synecdochic
Current Music: Artie Schroeck Implosion - Do You Believe In Magic
Tags: , ,
Two months ago, after one of his friends' shows, Kevin sticks around and chats with the band. He has a particularly pleasant conversation with the pianist, a petite, friendly gal with tulip tattoos on each arm and a red feather in her hair. She giggles and smiles whenever she looks at him, though she seems to do that for everybody--Kevin can't really tell if she favors him in particular. When the next few bands come up she and Kevin sit by each other, whispering to each other, and Kevin discovers that underneath her bubbly exterior is a deep weariness--the flip side of the adventurousness that comes with choosing to dedicate oneself to music full time, after years of trying to fit it in between shitty day jobs. She's talented, brave, and penniless. "I'm twenty-seven," she explains, "and I'm not getting any younger. It's now or never." Kevin relates.

When happier music takes the stage, they get up and dance. There are six people in the audience and the two of them are the only ones dancing.

At the end of the night Kevin helps his friend's band pack up their instruments and carry them to the subway station. The scene is somewhat reminiscent of the iconic album art for the Beatles' Abbey Road, with the four band members lugging their instruments over a crosswalk. It differs from Abbey Road in that there is a fifth person trailing behind them, ferrying an amp. Kevin sets down the amp, thanks the band for a great performance, high-fives his friend, hugs the pianist, and walks away.

He then goes to a bodega and buys a beer, which he brings back to his apartment and drinks by himself.

Scene. Read more...Collapse )
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cavestory
Feb. 4th, 2011 @ 05:02 pm the cup menaces with spikes of steel
Current Mood: amusedamused
Tags: ,
Not finished yet--but was too amused by this output from my currently-in-development narrative environment generator not to share:

Alice has a handheld crucifix, bloodied.
Bob has a handheld crucifix, bloodied.

Before them is the last remnant of a cherished childhood memory.
About this Entry
cavestory
Nov. 13th, 2010 @ 04:40 am robot builder ray: a children's story
Current Mood: drunkdrunk
Tags: , ,
Once upon a time there was a little boy named Ray.

(Illustration of a spiky-haired boy, about eight or nine years old, wearing a welding mask on his forehead and a yellow shirt on his body. Not necessarily anime, but he clearly intends to look like it. A little steampunky. Backgrounds are minimalist, maybe just a couple of washed out hues.)

Ray loved to build robots. Read more...Collapse )
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cavestory
Sep. 29th, 2010 @ 10:57 pm rosencrantz and guildenstern are single
Current Location: Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York, NY
Current Music: an ironic cover of Empire State of Mind
other bards play. SHAKESPEARE KILLS.Collapse )
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cavestory
Aug. 18th, 2010 @ 09:47 pm 五言绝句
Current Music: swishing about in a black robe and gesticulating with a rod to clanging noises
I accidentally wrote a 五言绝句 on Twitter today.

Seeing apartments,
strange people in mine.
It is hard to work.
I am without peace


"Oh, please," cries the smug fuck, "that's not really a wuyien jueju. You totally missed the point of this ancient and elegant poetic form, you cultural appropriator."

Fine, smug fuck. Have it your way.


找房陌地去
住房陌人進
工作無法辦
天地不平靜


Yes, I know. My classical Chinese is terrible. I would get so lost looking for a bathroom in a Tang Dynasty poem.
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hug
Jul. 14th, 2010 @ 12:16 am you swing at the bugbear! you miss
Tags:
Integer Sign was rejected by OG's Speculative Fiction.

Reload! Second salvo, away!
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toroko
Jun. 14th, 2010 @ 08:01 pm in which kevin tries something new (and pretends you care)
Tags:
Spending this morning reading Murakami got the muse stirring again. ("Oh, it's you," it said, drowsily, "I thought you had forgotten all about me. Don't you have, like, coding to do or something?") I have an idea for a new story. It's funny that this should happen, because the story is decidedly not Murakami-esque. In fact, it's not even new--it's an idea I turned around in my head for a while last year, after starting work on the screenplay for a silly black-and-white steampunk film that never went anywhere.

So what's so special about this new idea? It's one that requires actual world-building. :D

Details are still being fleshed out, but as of now it's a Silver Age style sci-fi story...set in an alternate universe late 18th century New Jersey (post-Revolutionary War, at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution)...with giant yetis. I guess you could call it anti-Victorian steampunk horror.

Fuck literary credibility! I'm going full-blown genre hack.
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dd2guy