The day hangs behind me like a charmed venomous cobra. Sure, the threat is always there to imprison my life behind a poisoned sequester, but today I decide to press on. The sun beats down littering the Texas pavement with more trashy sunlight. Nobody needs the day to be hotter and really the sun should just be for emergency occasions to make certain Earth does not become Pluto. What I'm trying to say is: it's hot and I'm tired.

But i cannot sleep yet. No. There is writing to be done. And blogging to be read. And nerdisms to coin. This is the rejoinder of a session long in recess. Welcome to the inner Congress of Space City Nerd.

Why did I ever stop producing literature for this site? Was it the spartan postings and deliberate and irrational scheduling? I mean a guy looks to crank out several hundred words, he would appreciate the ability to view said words within a Chrome browser a few minutes separate. It's not like I lacked the topical knowledge to become a pundit for the videogame peoples-- I was too engrossed in the stories of a game's development to care if it was good-- but I believe it was the lack of contrary force that made me lose interest.

The opinions of a videogame world and NERDS in general is a safe inconsequential debate. One can argue the legitimacy of an actor or artist all day long on an infinite supply of message boards. Trolling as an art form adopted by a mad troop of wandering self-proclaimed Core. Where is the spirit in consequence? If I say Firefly deserved to be cancelled, how does this spark a larger debate than whether the death penalty is ethically wrong?

Context is king, as someone said, probably out of context.

Right now, we live and abide in a world where nerd is a code for cool. It is the quickest most direct slang to describe ourselves without actually placing any descriptors on our person. You like comic books: you are a nerd. Sci-Fi, videogames, boardgames, cardgames, hell fantasy football players are now card-carrying members of the student AV club. So if everyone is a nerd, how come nerd talk is not allowed to mature and enter the larger philosophical conversations? Why must an idea that videogames are considered art be shoved aside for being too subjective; yet that same audience regularly polls itself to find out which Space Marine is the best? What is the game critic's real job? I mean, is it to decide which titles are purchase worthy; warn off the more salient creations; or simply build boilding hype for blockbusters. I believe a game critic is all of this, but more so speaking to the ideas and purpose beyond what takes 8 hours to play. It is to ask WHAT is play.

Why is this control scheme better? Why is there fun in spending time exploring smaller spaces and traversing larger expanses crammed with detail?

I don't wish to review games. Instead I want to talk about videogames are as an asset to understanding the human soul. Martin Heidegger classified his god as I and Thou, player and game. So my big deal question is this:

Do videogames prove the existence of God?

Gamesicon

Here it is, the blog. An invention of radical journalists co-opted for the ultimately dull. I can't promise either extreme, all I can guarantee is a monorail towards a luminescent express station. Maybe it's in Vegas, could be Atlantic City. It's certainly not in Louisiana; fuck that place, yo.

Call me Mr. Sean.

I have been playing Dead Island on 360, but I would rather not cover common ground. Let me just say that Gears of War 3 is looming and I am easily suggestible. That being said, I will be playing the ever loving crap out that title until my chosen receptacle of multiplayer shows up (Uncharted 3).

Still the number 1 game I'm dying to play is Batman. You cannot propose a more eloquently sophisticated superhero game out there. The game lacks any sort of health or ammo counter making our pop cultural heroes out to be the immortal and invulnerable bastions of idealism they exist as.

Videgold

I should feel ashamed of myself. Bopping my head to a Rivers Cuomo track in 2011. I don't care if B.o.B think's he's magic or if he carries magic within his personage...sitting at home trying to come up with topics to write about and realizing I'm actually productive with a person to bounce ideas off of. Houston and videogames are strange cocktail to try and cook. I mean how do you tie something so universal into H-town without tracking down the mere handfuls of studios?

Continued from Myspace

Where the fuck am I?

You're in someone's secret little home. From here, you can look back at all the thoughts I've had over the past few years prior to meeting you.

This is completely crazy. I mean I was just over there and now I'm here?

hey, could be worse. you could be in here.

i don't understand. One second we were all happy and talking inside an IHOP when you got on the phone and now . now... what?

This is the evolution of a love poem, a sweet and kind lullaby you hum to an infant before you crush its windpipe. I like to talk here because Diaries are inadequate. I never liked the way the ink or pencil would show through the other side of the paper. Recording my every day like that seemed like a crime scene. The way I see it, the digital era is for those who either spit it or shit it. I spit it. Now if you want to cramp your hand dotting your I's with fucking hearts, be my guest. Or better, yet, print this out and trace it with a pen so you too can feel a creative satisfaction. I already know you're first question.

Why am I here?

Nintendo and shame, Nubian, Nintendo and shame. To be honest I don't know. i'm that voice that speaks the commonest sense when you need it, but you have to ask the right question first for the right answer. I'm here, manifest, because there is something you were saying that triggered it all. Anyway, you should be honored I'm here. now bow so hard till your knees hit your forehead.

You stole that shit!

Yes I did. You know, son, you had a pretty good handful of play ideas there for a while. Like that Alcestis notion. I bet you could work that one into a modern theater. Think of the setting. . . Death perched on the roof of a great hero's home waiting, like a vulture, to take his prize when Apollo enters and combats Death!

This play begins in silence. No talking, no breathing, no movement of any kind. Two characters are presented; Apollo is the sympathetic god as opposed to vigorous Death who is crouched in front of the door. The audience does not know why the two forces are opposed, just that they are decidedly different in philosophy and for the time being that is all that matters. Apollo is all the excellence in the human body, even going so far as to be the preserver of mortality, the beacon--

that's IT!!

Or remember this one: "(The scene opens on a sandy beach. Palm trees engulf the left half of the stage in darkness while the ocean is heard off in the distance. Typical isolated beach. A woman's form is silhouetted lying on the sand, distracted and near death but not in any emergency. In the distance music can be heard, first lightly, then louder as the crowd of flickering lights and cacophanous celebration comes closer. It soon fills the backdrop with revelry hanging sparkling necklaces into the back lace. Bacchus enters and sees the woman)"

Damn, that would be pretty nice to make into a real play. You see i was thinking---

Stop thinking!! Just write the blasted thing! Or remember this one?

The only time to swim is Texas dusk,

Because that swollen bothered sun has turned--

lifting the season, and you could not ask

For a cooler pool to ruin.

I remember how
Ripples quivered to the edge
from that collision of skin and liquid.

I was eager to bite that hanging

full moon surprising bare
swimmers; its grand lazy light,

Bright, making our submerged pieces appear

distanced, like coming from little children

With little fingers,tiny palms, short nails,

Pointing out our ridiculous sins.

To escape it we float deeper in love,

And we dive higher into the Texas

Dusk flapping little hands,

little ' ' wet ' ' wings.

The War Against Cliche

Two men walk into a bar, of course two men is too cliche. Start over.

A man and a camel walk into a bar. Bar is quite the modern meet up place. Strike the cliche.

A man and a camel walk into an Asian Spa, but then again can we be so cockey to assume the preferred method of motorisation is walking? After all, walking implies a bipedal format. Damn the cliches!

A man and a camel fly in on an electronic hoverjet into an Asian Spa. There you go. 1/3 way done towards a audience killing joke.

I wonder if I have a sense of humor or just the right timing.

There's a Myspace universe whether or not it's a microcosm or a macrocosm is yet to be seen.

Hmmm. I need sexier boxer shorts. The ones I'm wearing now make it appear as if I'm hiding diapers.

Say God is out there, then you are here, but what if there is really here, does that mean you're not really here?

Skank by numbers is a ch-ch-ch-ch ile song.

Black people are brown and white people are pink. Two moderates have been pushed to extremes. Sounds political.

Amber glass lasts like coordinating puffs of oxygen and nitrogen;
When you drink it's exhalation but not of the going...

REGARDING THOSEINTERNET SEARCHESYOU FOUND AND THENCONFRONTED ME ABOUTIN A HOSTILE WAY?WE'LL BE LAUGHINGABOUT THE HUGEMISUNDERSTANDINGIN THIS WEEK'SCOUNSELINGSESSION.
BY FRANK FERRI
- - - -
anal creampies
Can't a person be particular about his desserts? I'm damn near OCD when it comes to blind-baking my crusts to the perfect golden brown. I was simply seeing if there were any like-minded precision-driven pastry fanatics out there.

teen sex
While it's true we don't have children yet, we're going to someday. And they're going to grow up—faster than you can imagine—and have lots of questions. I don't know about you, but I'd like to have some answers.

hot facials
I know how much you enjoy the occasional spa treatment, so I wanted to surprise you with one. Guess that's ruined now.

pearl necklace
It was going to be on your pillow when you got back from the facial. Also ruined.

dripping wet pussies
I'm sorry, but we don't own any books called What to Do When the Cat Falls in the Toilet. Forgive me for turning to the Internet for feline-drying techniques.

cock-hungry whores
Apparently, you're too busy—or is it callous?—to concern yourself with the fact that prostitutes need to eat, too. And guess what? Turns out they tend to crave poultry.

curious about gay lifestyles
Now that was just a typo. The c should have been an f. Those gays make me mad.

The online profile for a girl who likes being submissive.

They say you have doe eyes and those
sayers are correct. They have the same
ethereal sadness before a bullet rips, rends the brain
from the skull.

Fantasic blowjobs. That's your tagline?
How can anyone care about that? What
kind of world do you think you live in with your doe eyes
just waiting for it.

Create. The hands are masons the tips
caked in graphite sludge and concrete
mortars jabbing into internals using
the viscous fluid for glue. Glue holds
like hands hold other hands. Microscopic
details prove that each molecule of glue
is a knuckle white and pressed
to a knuckle to a knuckle until only wrists
remain and you need to add more glue.

His leg jeked him out of what he thought was a sound sleep. There was a silent frustration at work when he awoke like when a garbage truck bangs its cans at four a.m. disturbing your respite of the day. Without opening his eyes he moved his fingers to feel the fringes of the mat he lay on, the solid starchy yet damp straw threatened to puncture his tips. His fingers moved further arcing underneath the mat to feel the texture of the thatches. One eye opened to take in the mud and the drizzling rain in the corners of the room. Beyond his feet, a few yards away crouched against the further wall of the shack was a small dark boy.

He thought dark, but black dark. Why is there a small black boy in my shack? The wretch looks hungry.

For a minute his eyes searched over the black boy's slim figure looking for a trace of clothing to help identify the visitor. All he saw was the ball-like head over thin shoulder rails and a slighly puffed muscular frame. The head knodded to one side at a soft angle and he concluded the boy must be sleeping.

His hip felt like a jagged chunk of stone as he tried to turn over, to get himself off the mat, to get himself outside the shack and into whatever rainy, thundery carniverous world was outside. He exerted as much pressure as he thought he could handle before believing his eyeballs would dislocate from the pressure. Strapped down, he thought. I must be strapped down. As he closed his eyes again, too worn out to fight and surrendering to the apathy awarded to those who feel no drive to overcome but instead wait and see, he thought for a second he could see the black boy raise its head and smiling gumless.

----

The plane fare from Sierra Leone to Houston, Texas was approximately $540 with a total traveling time of over ten hours with four stop overs.

Free write is Hard.

Write what you know and know nothing else.
What I know is where these things always begin:
on the self. the cuddling of my tongue
on the ice cube out of a glass of orange juice.
The cold bite is shivering and sour
like the meeting of grass and sky.
Green and blue and now orange and blue.
The blue of ice which is never a blue except when you see it on yourself.
Cool crisp drops of concentrate
orange pulp extracted to produce a sweat
for fruit not unlike your own, cascading
and blooming flowers of perspiration on your collar and forehead.
The free write is an exercise i tell myself begins at one region and ends without one.
A destination is a border of sorts, the progressive end,
what I need, if I may, is not to have an end,
but a thought.
to have that glass of orange juice,
see the couture of the glass
slimming on my desk and the pale comparison
of a yellow sunny drink against
the thoughtful cherry wood's black scratches and rubbed-off varnish. Free write.