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Got you! You can't break up with me because I have no Self!

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A story today about one of my family who, as he must, is honouring his duty. A promise given, for which he sails over the horizon, out of view, but not out of mind. Call this a reflection of my thoughts, when he is away and I am left waiting upon the …

 

Oceanside
By TeraS

 

There are many bodies of water in the universe. Some are the deepest of blue, stretching farther than the eye can see. Souls are called to travel upon these waters, seeking out many a varied thing. Some pass over the deep blue with focus, searching not for a thing, but to find themselves.

Among all of these, there are those left behind, waiting near the shore, looking towards the horizon, waiting—as they must—for they cannot be with those in their thoughts. Upon the seas, existence can be wondrous in one moment, a chore the next, and terrifying unexpectedly. For the waiting, their thoughts, at times, turn towards what might be, what could be. What they hope will be.

She is one of the waiting.

He is one of the called.

The time away comes, as it must, and the ritual begins: the settling of accounts, the provisioning that must be. He is wise in the ways of the deep blue, knowing the peaks and troughs upon which he will set passage. The well-worn duffel bag is retrieved, pressed into service once more, the sea chest opened to hold things for safekeeping. He arrives with news that the time is upon him; not surprising, for she has that feeling once more—a tearing of eyes, then a lump forms in her throat. But her voice is warm; she doesn’t allow her fears and concerns to take over and make him worry. But she has her own ritual, as familiar to her as his.

There is no question that he will go: the call of the blue cannot be ignored, pushed off, or discounted. Some describe it as a siren’s call, a tugging presence that never goes away. A gust of wind carries the salt of the seas and along comes the reminder once more. The date is circled, it comes far too soon, and he makes his way again.

She understands this and respects his choice, his calling. The thought of asking him not to go never crosses her mind, for that would be more than unkind, it would be like asking him to give up a part of himself. The blue is his world, the moments there have shaped who he is.

The moment comes far too swiftly for her liking, how he feels she isn’t always certain. The morning sun warms the vast piers of a city built on the edge of a blue sea. It stretches westwards from whence the flotsam drifts, pushed by the never-ending tide. There is a ship waiting there, a vessel with purpose, preparing to take to the waves. The souls who serve upon it seem so small, so insignificant, when seen from far away. It is a creation of hands, mind, and will destined to challenge the blue, to mark it, for a time, as it passes from shore to shore.

Things are ready, checked and checked again, for the sea can be unexpectedly harsh and one must be prepared for what may be. Dotted here and there, near to the gangway, are those whose place is upon the ship that waits for them. As well, there are those who cannot be on the ship, for that is not their place. Lovers say their words until the next time, families see off their loved ones, some simply make their way to the ship, enter and prepare to leave.

He’s tried to do that, to pass onto the ship once more, thinking he can be on his way without having to encounter her. After so many times, so many moments of thinking he’d gotten away with it, not having to face her, she’d appear. There was no mistaking her, and he always wondered how long she’d been standing there at the gangway waiting for him. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if she’d greeted every single soul, wished them well and, in her way, said a little prayer to her Goddess.

After all, this was his sister.

After all, this was her brother.

She waited for him to place the duffel bag on the pair, her smile a bit wan, concerned as she was. She didn’t like goodbyes. Those words had never passed between them. It was awkward, however, as she asked about where he was going, if he had any plans for where he’d visit. He’d answer with a shrug, smiling crookedly. Running a hand through her ebon mane, tugging on it slightly, she asked if he remembered his promise. From the first trip upon the seas, she’d asked him to do one thing for her and only one. Looking down, he nodded, the promise had been kept once more.

A call from above drew his attention. The moment to depart was sooner than expected. Their foreheads touched, they shared parting words, and then all she could do was watch as he gathered his things, smiled, and entered his world, leaving her beside the walkway, now empty and forlorn with all aboard the messenger of the deep blue.

As always there was much to do. His possessions put away in their places, final checks to be made, things to be checked and rechecked. The time was busy and he had little time to wonder what she was doing, where she was. The moorings released, his duty upon the bridge—to lend his hand to the passage—didn’t allow him to see her, still on the pier. She’d remained by the gangway as it was removed, watched the lines pulled in and noted the tugboats move to their places to begin the journey. As the waters churned about, she turned to walk beside the behemoth with purpose, her only companion a small thin book held in one hand.

The ship’s bell rang, and the tugs sounding their horns in reply, the passage at its beginning. As she walked along the pier, she looked to see what was now his home once more start to move. At first she was able to keep pace, but, in time, he and his mates pushed out in front of her, starting to gather speed and purpose again.

His eyes scanned the bridge, called out and replied to orders well remembered, almost second nature now. The land gave way to the sea soon enough, his thoughts on the next moment and then ones after that to be.

She’d walked as far as she could, as far as the finger of concrete allowed, her red dress being pushed about by the winds, her ebon mane being caressed lightly; she did not look away as his ship became smaller and smaller its journey begun once more. She opened the small book and began to read.

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;

These see the works of Goddess, and her wonders in the deep.

The lands receded behind, his eyes looking forwards as he slipped back into the warm familiarly of his duty once more. Time passed, the ship moving onwards, the blue being deeper and deeper as the days came and went. The sun rose into the blue skies, arced overhead, then plummeted into the black waters of night before rising once more into a red sky of warning.

She felt the warmth of the sun rising as her eyes flitted from page to waters. The red of the morning paled in comparison with her own red, her thoughts not of herself, but of the one now so far away. The breeze kicked up, the seagulls leaving for safer perches, she not moving from her place at the sharp end of the lands where she waited and continued to read.

For she commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.

They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble.

The seas never remain calm for always. The deep blue turns darker still in a moment, the challenge being placed upon the ship and the hands that guide the path they are set upon. The storm came out of nowhere, a rolling, boiling thing of wind, rain, and wave that reminded those travelling upon the seas of how small they were and how vast the seas are. He calls out to his companions, to check and recheck the ship. The cargo must be secure, the lashings made tight, all hands to be counted and in place.

She feels the rain falling, drops falling upon the pages and she knows. So-green eyes look upwards to the heavens, unafraid. Her mane of wild hair becomes more so as the storm pushes against her, to drive her away. Flashes of red in her hair are defiant. She smiles, unafraid, at nature’s fury that comes calling, her voice pressing against the winds.

They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end.

The waves are monstrous now, towering over the ship, crashing down upon the decks. He grips the railing tightly, calling out commands, turning the ship to face the oncoming maelstrom. His eyes fall upon the red marker light at the bow, waters smashing over, through and washing along the decks. The storm is awful, the worst he has seen, but the ship is strong, the crew knows their roles, and so they continue onwards. There is no turning back, only onwards and through the challenge.

Her dress is soaked through now, the rains and wind chilling her to the bone. She does not stop reciting the passage, does not turn away and run. Her choice, much like his, is to face the challenge head on. The pier is empty of other souls, all of them driven away, turned by the deep blue, cowering in fear of what would be. Turning her so-green eyes to the horizon, she makes the promise she’d made for always.

Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and she bringeth them out of their distresses.

The crew is focused on their duties. His own is to rake his eyes over the deck, looking for impending doom. Across the ship, at its prow, something catches his eye, and he raises his binoculars to see. He gasps in surprise, realizing there are figures at the sharp end being buffeted about by the waves and winds. Shadows of red and blue move around, circling one another like sharks. It takes a flash of lightning to reveal what his mind cannot comprehend. The one figure’s form is draped in shimmering blue, hair of shocking white wildly thrown by the winds. She holds a golden trident in her right hand, left pointing towards the other resisting her. He knows who the opponent is: there is no mistaking the ebon mane of hair, no ignoring the red dress that billows around her. She stands in her place, a silver pitchfork in her left hand.

He winces as the waves come crashing down on the pair and take them out of view. The Mistress of the Deeps demands her prize, to claim that which is hers. The anger of being defied makes the storm worse, the deck tilt, the battle met. Her weapon daggers downward, to end the battle, to turn this challenger away as she had so many others before. Silver tines deflect the golden spear, driving it into the deck. A hand tipped with red takes hold of the trident and the storm seems to freeze in its fury. Cold, deep, blue eyes meet warm, shimmering, green ones. Lips of red press against those of blue, the gasp of surprise as the heat of the heart warms the frozen depths of the sea. The kiss breaks, the forces of nature look across the divide that separates them before time moves onwards once more.

She maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.

The storm continues in its fury, but tempered somehow. The ship straightens, the course steadies, and in time the storm passes by, the waters becoming still. The command is given to check the ship, to be sure that all is well. He remains on the bridge, looking towards the bow where the vision stood in the midst of the fury. He knows she was there, her fury of red against the deep blue, the red beacon blinking out where she’d been.

Then are they glad because they be quiet; so she bringeth them unto their desired haven.

Oh that they would praise the Lord for her goodness, and for her wonderful works to her children!

He resolves to tell her of this moment, to ask how it could have possibly been. Then there is a call from elsewhere and his attention is drawn away. It is so very late when his watch ends and he can rest. The cabin awaits him, all neat and proper. A small book rests upon his bunk, the pages open to a passage marked by a red bookmark—one he knows well, for she had spoken of it often.

On the shore, she places a red bookmark in her own small book before closing the cover, her railing against the fury stilled for the moment. Some see her leave the pier, returning to the land. What they do not see is her other self, standing at the bow of the ship, hair being tossed about, smiling in bemusement as the ship moves over the deep blue: a beacon of red, marking the passage of her brother across the waters of Posedeia.

He is one of the called.

She is one of the waiting.

Together, they are family …

… parted by distance, but never truly apart.

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And now that I think about it, that centaur wasn't exactly canonical...

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We had some flooding in South central Wisconsin, last week, and Casa Muskrat was hit.

We’re safe, we didn’t lose much of anything, and all is dry now. Still, lugging the contents of an entire basement to another floor is Nature’s way of telling you, “you’ve got too much shit.”

(Also “hey – I bet you didn’t know you had muscles that could hurt, here!“)

One thing that did get hit, though, was the deadline for the latest Munchkin project.

As it stands, the project will wrap up two days late – not bad, given a week of human pack-muling boxes that were far heavier than they had any right to be.

Still, coming in late with a project is Not Good.

Let’s not mince words: I hate blowing deadlines. I hate it like poison.

I tend not to use the word “hate” much, but something else that makes me gnash my teeth is when younger artists casually throw around that Douglas Adams line, “I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”

Mainly because none of us are Douglas Adams.

If you’re trying to break in as a writer, or an artist, here’s the thing: deadlines matter. A lot.

Pros know this. Newbies learn, with luck.

But sometimes, life gets in the way. Waters rise, basements flood. Possibly you simply misjudged how quickly you could pump work out.

And that deadline is staring you straight in the face. Snarling.

What to do?

Hide? No.

Hide REALLY well? No, no, no no, no, no, HELLS, no!

Prevaricate? No.

Communicate? Yes!

The moment you suspect you won’t make deadline, get in touch with your editor/art-director/publisher/assorted-team-member immediately. No really. The moment!

Even if you’re a week away, let them know the second you suspect things Aren’t Going Quite Right.

It never feels great, but you know what’s worse? Leaving your team in the dark. Having them believing all’s fine and dandy dandy – and then springing the news on them the day of the deadline. Or worse, two, three or four days later, when someone calls to ask “what up, dog?”

In fact, even if thing are going dandy, let your editor/art-director/publisher/assorted-team-member know that, too. I like updating folks on a weekly basis, at the very least. Even if the news is “no news this week.”

And even if things are going great – YAY! Good for you! – but you’re not talking with your editor, she’s probably thinking something’s wrong. Very, very wrong.

DO NOT GIVE ART DIRECTORS ULCERS! They are on your side!

Pick up the phone. Talk with the editor you’re working with. Let her know what’s up.

Talk, call, e-mail, chat, text, Skype. Anything.

Don’t let your team down: let them know.

Make explanations, not excuses. Most editors and art directors have been there. Ain’t nobody who’s ever picked up a pen or a stylus  that’s never blown a deadline, whether or not it’s through no fault of their own.

Even if you haven’t done so yet (and I find that hard to believe about anyone, TBH), you’ll blow deadlines.

Don’t get me wrong: I love deadlines. I like the squishing sound they make, as you tramp them down, triumphantly.

But on those rare occasions when that might not happen?

First thing I do, I pick up the phone.

–John

PS: We’re back to posting TWO new Dork Tower comic strips a week, thanks to our wonderful Patreon patrons! Join the fun and see the comics early, plus a lot, lot more, for as little as $1 a month ($.12 a comic!)

PPS. HEY! Thanks for sitting through that. As a reward, here’s a photo of Douglas Adams from 1980, at London’s Forbidden Planet, and the copy of the Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy he signed for me, then.

 

The Oxford comma

The Oxford comma is the comma after the penultimate item in a list. It’s normally a matter of style — you can happily choose to leave it out — though in some cases it can clarify what would otherwise be an ambiguous meaning, as in this well-cited book dedication “To my parents, Ayn Rand and God.” Or, more pertinently, in a recent legal case where ambiguity hinging on the lack of an Oxford comma is costing a dairy firm a $5m overtime payment to its drivers.

HT: Jon Hoare

Reading Lovecraft's Shadow Out Of Time again--it's great.

The usual sort of nervous academic narrates a story of experiencing a strange split consciousness, being not wholly himself, strange visions and dreams of massive landscapes, compulsions to consult obscure texts. All this is wonderfully done--better than usual, I'd say, Lovecraft in top form: shadowy but crisp, obscured but never vague, never embedded more in the mundane than necessary to feel grounded.

The narrator does eventually get around to describing why all this is happening to him. Spoilers:

Specifically goofy-shaped psychic aliens that take over peoples' brains and zoom around in space ships, rovers and boats and zap each other with "cameralike" weapons.

These guys:
Fun, definitely, but ironically lacking all the emotional and aesthetic qualities that seemed to horror enthusiasts to be distinctive enough that someone decided to coin the adjective "Lovecraftian".

This is one of the paradoxes of Lovecraft: his actual inventions were, if not banal, at least, technically, almost wholly typical of the kinds of pulpy sci-fi of the era. It was how he described them and--moreover--their effect on people, that was magically creepy.

The quality of any given Lovecraft story tends to depend a lot on how he manages the transition from the dream-space of abstract threat (his forte) to actually telling us what the monster is (a big roll of the dice).

My restrictions as a prisoner gradually disappeared, so that some of the visions included vivid travels over the mighty jungle roads, sojourns in strange cities, and explorations of some of the vast dark windowless ruins from which the Great Race shrank in curious fear (Beautiful, awesome) There were also long sea-voyages in enormous, many-decked boats of incredible swiftness, and trips over wild regions in closed, projectile-like airships lifted and moved by electrical repulsion (Wait, you were in a blimp?)

It's not exactly the old cliche that "what you imagine is scarier than anything you could see" I think it's more that the dreamstate of only half-imagining is a more powerful evocative state than the fully described thing. That juxtaposition of that half of it that is nailed down with a few specificities with that other half that could still be anything and you haven't thought too hard about it is essential.

This is one reason why the actual Call of Cthulhu book and its laying out of the "mythos creatures" always seems a little disappointing--although these squidbeasts and tentacled pyramidheads are the lynchpin, justification and most identifiable characteristic of the Lovecraft stories, they aren't the actual heart of the magic.

The magic (as in most horror) is in the delirious prose evocation of the emotion of guessing at and anticipating them. The simple word "Azathoth" contains much more of it than the image or stats in the book. (Lovecraft's first mention of it was in a note to himself that just read "Azathoth--hideous name".)

I think a lot of weird fiction after Lovecraft (and influenced by him) recognized this--and tried to find ways to suspend that moment of not-knowing-what-the-fuck as long as possible. When Ligotti describes language and life itself as the horror he's trying to do this, when Grant Morrison describes a demon as made of the collective despair over like Hiroshima he's trying to do this: the story can't be let down by the final boss' banality because the final boss still has a gap of effective indescribability.

Lovecraft knew the trick, even if he didn't ultimately rely on it: the "non-euclidean angles" and the "concepts beyond our understanding"--these were word-constructs, not descriptions of mere things you could picture and get bored of.

To describe the indescribable space of dream, (by which I mean the consciousness characteristic of real dreams which films and books and games can sometime approximate) I'd say:

There is an unquestioned assumption that something is there and real, without the sobriety, distance and clarity that the mind constantly unconsciously uses to understand the thing's full shape and limits. The important questions that would establish how a thing is in the world are not answered but also never asked.

Games have one disadvantage in getting you into the dreamspace of abstract threat in that in even the spookiest situation you generally know the thing does have stats and is embedded in a world where foes are basically challenges that can be addressed. The possibility of uncontested annihilation is off the table. It always boils down to a bag of procedures or numbers.

On the other hand, games have one tremendous advantage: unlike a short story or film, the game does contain something that is there and is authentically of unknown and unknowable shape--the future of the campaign.

It is undeniable that the campaign will keep going and it is undeniable that no-one can describe in full detail where it will go. The campaign need not simulate the ecstasy of potential dangers and evolutions, metastasizing meanings, it is that. You are in the midst of a genuinely half-shaped and half-shapeless thing. With a book, you could skip to the end and the unknown turns into a package, a product, a mere evocation of infinity, not the actually infinite. In game, as long as the campaign is still on, you are still watching form solidify from a shadow that is not yet used up: continuously and in real-time.

The demon of RPGs means Tiamat is far more statted, described and knowable than she is in any story where she might appear, but it also means what will happen when I meet her is far less knowable. When I pick up the ring it might mean something and it might not.

And that--feeling being in the middle of that--is kind of great.
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How to grow your own fresh air

In his 4 min TED talk, Kamal Meattle explains how to grow your own fresh air inside with just 3 common house plants. The areca palm works hard in the day, mother-in-law’s tongue during the night, and the money plant cleans out volatile chemicals. He transformed the air inside a New Delhi office park by filling it with these 3 plants to some wonderful health and productivity benefits. You could do much worse than add a few of these to your office.

Giovanni Battista Ferrari, Hesperides (1646)

Fever: To prevent catching any infectious fever, do not breathe near the face of the sick person, neither swallow your spittle while in the room. 

Cold in the Head: Pare very thin the yellow rind of an orange. Roll it up inside out and thrust a roll up each nostril.  

Cough: Drink a pint and a half of cold water lying down in bed... Or, make a hole thro' a lemon, and fill it with honey. Roast it, and catch the juice. Take a tea-spoonful of this frequently.  

The Country Gentleman, Farmer, and Housewife's Compendious Instructor 

What, you don't want to spend the winter with a cocktail garnish up your nose? Maybe you shouldn't have swallowed your spittle, my friend.

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Some of them are trapped in a ghostly cycle, forever arguing on twitter.

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The Streisand effect. 

A term coined by Mike Masnick, for what happens when you try and censor or suppress information: it draws attention to it.

It’s named Streisand after Barbara Streisand tried to have an aerial photo of her house removed from a set of California coastline photos intended to document coastal erosion. Views of the photo apparently went from 6 to 420,000.

More about the Streisand effect.

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I have a stomach virus today and am using my free will to decide not to be clever here.

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Saying we need to bring together art and science is like telling a longterm couple they need to get married.

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The elephant's perception of itself was also warped by the limits of self-knowledge.

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Just two weeks to submit your proposals for BAHFest MIT and BAHFest London!

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I wonder if transitions like this always have a Most Awkward Year of usage.

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Thanks to my Patreon typo squad for catching FOUR typoes in the original draft of this comic.

I adore cuteness, I’ve said that many times on the Tale. There’s something about succubi being cute, perhaps a bit shy, that just makes me smile. A pair of succubi for this week’s image who have, I think, adorable expressions… and their chibis are too cute by far…

This art is titled The Grass Is Always Greener For The Succubi and is by an artist on DeviantArt called Paprikakun. You can find the original page with this art here and this artist’s page can be found here as well.

There’s a story behind this art, just in their expressions, the little bits of cute like the bow on one of their tails, the blush. There’s a neat little tease in how they are looking at one another, but at the same time there’s a sort of ‘oh you didn’t’ vibe that makes me smile.

Amazing succubi characters, they just look right together. Lovely details, their hair, eyes, their outfits, the shaping of their tails. How Miss blue-hair’s having her bangs toyed with is just deliciously fun too.

A favourite of mine, and I’m sure will be the source of a story sometime too…

 

Tera

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Thinking about the frequency of showering and availability of basic cosmetics should ruin pretty much any fantasy you have that's set before about 1930.

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