The Chronicles of Kashik

The Pyre and the Axe Pt 1

2013-02-12T08:45:00.001-05:00

I wrote this to christen my brother's new Kindle, since I can email him stories without asking him for permission first. IT'S ABOUT WORLD OF WARCRAFT :-O

The young orc stared ahead, gripping the bow and turning greener with each passing wave. His eyes swam as he forced his will on his churning stomach.

"Lok-narash!" a voice from behind him rang out, as a small, pale hand clapped him on the back.

"Heeeuuurgh," the orc replied, cascading pork ribs into the sea. "Heeeeuuuuurgh."

The Blood Elf took a step back, turning his head aside foppishly. "I can see you are... indisposed. Well, I just wanted to tell you that we approach Booty Bay. We should be able to find some new quests, I think."

"Thank you, Critmypants. I hope we wuuuuuuurrrrgh-"

Turning away from the still-worsening Axefist, the mage looked out over the sea. In the distance, the palms and ferns of Stranglethorn Vale gently waved. Trolls and naga pathed back and forth endlessly. And there, in the distance, the walnut and russet hues of the great city of Booty Bay, haven of the Steamwheedle Cartel, and one of the few remaining places where Alliance and Horde could share a tense peace. Slowly, a mischievous grin crept across Critmypants' face.

The Adventures of Wyndemeld, Bard to the King

2010-01-24T22:15:00.003-05:00

A bit of a silly story I wrote using Write or Die during NaNoWriMo. I completely forgot about it until today, but I rather like it.

A Position Well Earned

As the early dawn of Firstfarthing broke, the townspeople gathered in the court of Hyndryn, capital of the kingdom of Flyntwind. King Flyntwind XVII strode to his throne, capitalizing the great chair with the presence of his impressive imminence. There, he looked out upon his throngs: the people laughed and danced with each other, reveling in the year that had come before. The harvests had been good, the year had been one of plenty and the people were happy. Now, as the longest day of the year began, they looked cheerily upon the times to come. The king smiled to himself. He considered himself the warden of his people, and he was glad they had done well.

In the midst of this revelry, Wyndemeld pranced. His lute in hand, he strummed a tune that drove the feet of the crowds around him. While he meandered about the folk, he sang broadly and loud of the grandness of the kingdom. He winked at the young girls as he strode, and bowed to the gentlemen: the town was blessed with an abundance of both, of course, being the capital and all. Indeed, of the cities of the Kingdom of Flyntwind, this was the grandest. Hyndryn was a jewel in the crown, the beacon that all of the nearby peasant villages strove to emulate. And grand it was, as no one could deny while they danced under the gilded ceilings of the Great Hall in the castle!

The king looked down on Wyndemeld from his throne. Long had he been his favorite performer, having always caught the king's ear when his entourage happened to pass the bard as he cavorted. King Flyntwind longed for his younger days, when as a prince among his people he would join their revelry with gusto. He cupped his chin in his hand, leaning against his knee. Yes, he still wished for that unrestrained joy. He wanted the freedom to laugh, like the townsfolk enjoyed when they passed Wyndemeld on the street. He thought hard, and made up his mind. Turning about in the great red throne, King Flyntwind beckoned his advisor, Samsomell.

"Samsomell, my friend, I have a favor to ask of you," the king said, his voice rumbling out through the hubbub of the crowd.

Samsomell bowed, as he had so many times before. "At your command, my liege, as always."

The king smiled. He liked Samsomell, for all his stuffiness. He had one of those nasally voices that are so easy to despise, but really he had been such a faithful servant that one could find no fault with him. "I need you to seek out that bard down there. The one called Wyndemeld," the king continued, patting Samsomell on the back jovially.

Samsomell arched his eyebrow. That fool, indeed? he thought. "That fool, indeed?" he said to the king.

The king nodded. It was only to be expected of Samsomell to disapprove of merriment, but no matter. He waved his advisor away. Samsomell marched off, pompous and officious as always, his black coattails flapping in an effect that would have been comical were the wearer not so stern.

Down in the crowds, a murmur went up as Samsomell came down. The sea of townsfolk parted as the famous Advisor to the King approached. The citizens watched in a hush as he strode past, his face and posture set, as if on a mission; his buttons polished and gleaming, as if on a soldier; his nose dignified and upturned, as if on a butler. Samsomell passed directly through the crowd, straight as an arrow, until he reach Wyndemeld, who still pranced about merrily, not noticing the tall official.

"I say, bard!" Samsomell began. Wyndemeld danced past him, bowing to a buxom lass who blushed as he winked at her.

"I say, again, bard!" The bard, in his element, continued to prance. How could the king possibly want such a jester? Samsomell thought. "How could the king possibly want such a jester?" Samsomell sighed to no one in particular. The girl, who still held Wyndemeld's attention, pointed at the advisor, grinning at his obliviousness.

Finally, Wyndemeld turned. Seeing Samsomell, he blushed. He had forgotten his duties as an entertainer! As a person of fame, one must always cater to people of fame, and, of course, both Wyndemeld and Samsomell were famous! The bard leaped over, his lute jangling as he landed with an elegant tailing back-flip. He strummed, and up welled a beautiful chord, perfectly capturing the joy in the air. Samsomell only held up his hand.

Wyndemeld halted abruptly, his face like that of a dog caught chasing the family cat. "What, no?" he said. "Perhaps something less bright? Maybe a bit from one of the old masters?" he asked Samsomell hopefully.

"The king wishes to see you," Samsomell replied simply. The bard jerked back, astonished.

"What, me?" he asked, his face red.

"The king wishes to see you," Samsomell repeated, growing wearied by the bard. Sharply, he turned from the bard and walked back through the crowd. Wyndemeld followed, jogging to keep up with the long strides of the advisor.

As he went, he passed from shock to fear and into joy. This, Wyndemeld thought, will be my break! The king shall hire me as his court entertainer, and I shall never know a hungry night, and I shall never have to sleep cold and friendless. Also, the women! One can't forget the women!

All of this was going through his head, you understand, in a sort of rapid fire array of images and sounds, unrestrained by reality. His future, if you were to see what Wyndemeld saw, appeared to be a sea of women lovelier than any in Hyndryn, food more exotic than should be imagined, and feather beds. He did like to sleep and eat and sleep in the colloquial sense.

The pair passed through the crowd and reached King Flyntwind, who sat upon his throne, both hands cupping his jaw. His elbows propped him against the arms of the throne. "Well, well, my good bard, it seems today is your lucky day," the king said, a smile playing on his lips. "I have long admired your performances! You will be hired as my court entertainer, and you shall never know another hungry night! Never again will you sleep cold and friendless. Also, there will be women! One can't forget the women! And I only ask that you keep me entertained!"

The bard bowed, speechless, but only for a moment. Just as quickly, he found his voice, gushing, "Oh, my liege, I've never been so happy. You will never regret this! I promise to serve you faithfully and endlessly, exerting my every dramatic and musical muscle to your diversion! And the women! One can't forget the women!"

The king smiled at the excited bard. "Good!" he bellowed, laughing heartily. "It's time you got started then!" The king stood, stepping to the front of the dais that looked over the crowd. "People of Hyndryn!" the king intoned, his voice carrying effortlessly through the massive hall. Almost to a voice, the talkers stopped talking. Almost to a foot, the dancers stopped dancing. Almost to a strum, the musicians stopped musicing, and all turned to listen to the beloved king that had guided them to such a year of abundance.

The king smiled out on the throngs. Here were his adoring subjects, looking to him longingly. It's good to be the king, he thought! "I want to introduce you all to your new Bard Laureate. All hail Wyndemeld, Performer to the King!"

The crowd let out a mighty cheer! Here was one of their own, a child of the streets who had performed among the poorest townsfolk many a time, elevated to stand next to the king himself! The loudest cheers, the greatest honor, came from his very competitors, his fellow bards! And as the party resumed, there was a new sprightliness in the music and a new spring in the dance, a celebration redoubled for Wyndemeld, who stood dewy-eyed, blissful and dumbstruck next to King Flyntwind XVII.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Gender Roles and Kids Toys

2009-12-13T19:56:00.003-05:00

It's interesting to me how clearly delineated sexual roles are in kids' toys. I've been watching Nickelodeon all day, and if there's one thing toy commercials make clear, it's that sexuality comes up a lot in toys.

Consider the dolls targeted at little girls, which are, in large part, baby simulacra. These are dolls that not only train girls to nurture, but reinforce an expectation of future motherhood (I make this claim without looking up real data, but how many little girls profess a desire to be a mommy?). For somewhat older girls, dolls move towards simulacra of teenage girls and adult women. These dolls (Barbie, Bratz, etc.) focus a lot on fashion-consciousness and the socially normal form for relationships (what is Ken but an accessory for Barbie?). Again, it seems to me that doll-play for girls is deeply focused on preparation for attracting a mate, maintaining a relationship and caring for the eventual result of the relationship.

Boys toys are not innocent of sexual preparation, but they focus on a surprisingly different side of the relationship. Most of the toys targeted at boys are based on ideals of combat, construction, or control (e.g., G.I. Joe, Legos, and toy cars, respectively). In essence, they prepare boys for the long-standard masculine role as family bread winner, which is a way of teaching boys to attract and keep a mate and support offspring, since not being a deadbeat is an attractive trait to have.

I guess it shouldn't be surprising how prevalent the idea of sex is in children's toys: man is a sexual animal, which is a fine thing because it has let our species dominate thoroughly. As my brother once said, everyone with working genitals is a secret pervert. In this age of false unity, when the politically correct thing to do is often to pretend that men and women are the same, I'm glad that we still can't help but teach the next generation the real truth about genders. The roles that have so long shaped society did not persist for thousands of years because of some unfortunate sexist accident in the dim memory of mankind: these roles, to varying degrees, are inherent in our genders, defined by who knows what combination of physiology and genetics and sociology. The truly progressive thinker, in my opinion, must learn to accept the differences between humans. Equality between all groups can only come through understanding.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

The Onanistic Problem

2009-10-03T22:40:00.003-04:00

I missed last week. I was dancing (contra). It was a lot of fun! You get caught up in it. Having marching band experience helped, since I was already good at counting and walking at the same time.

Anyway, let's discuss Onan, shall we?

Onan was the son of Judah, who was the son of Jacob (called Israel), who was the son of Isaac, who was the son of Abraham in the Book of Genesis in the Bible. Onan is the inspiration for the word onanism, which means masturbation or coitus interruptus (it applies to both, apparently). His story seems to be the basis for the blanket ban of masturbation in most Christian sects. It appears in Genesis 38:1-11. It's not very long, so I've copied the important bit below.

6 And Judah took a wife for Er his firstborn, whose name was Tamar.7 And Er, Judah's firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord slew him.8 And Judah said unto Onan, Go in unto thy brother's wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brother.9 And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and it came to pass, when he went in unto his brother's wife, that he spilled it on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother.10 And the thing which he did displeased the Lord: wherefore he slew him also.

The part of this that has always captured the attention of the Western world is the mention of Onan spilling his seed upon the ground. This, it's argued, is what so displeases God about Onan. The claim, as I understand it, is that sperm should not be wasted, as it's a gift from God meant to create life.

I don't agree.

Consider the story carefully: Judah's firstborn Er takes a wife (Tamar), but dies before she conceives any children. Judah commands his second-born son, Onan, to marry Tamar, to give her children for Er's sake. Essentially, it seems to me, it is a command to reproduce as a means of honoring Er. "Raise up seed to thy brother." Onan believes that Tamar's children should not be his (I guess because he felt it disrespectful. Moot point), so, while he's having sex with her ("when he went in unto his brother's wife"), he ejaculates upon the ground to avoid conception. God is wrathful at Onan for something in this series of events and slays him.

The thing is, Onan disobeys his father in the story. There is a clear command from Judah to go in unto Er's wife and raise up seed to Er. There is no two ways about it: Onan does not do this. The father is clearly important to God: the fifth commandment, of course, is "Honor thy father and thy mother," the father chooses spouses for his sons and daughters, the blessings and punishments that God places upon a father are usually inherited by his children, the genealogies of the Old Testament are patrilineal. The father is the key cornerstone of Biblical families, since polygamy often means there are multiple mother figures and way too many children. So disobeying a command from Judah was probably a big deal.

Besides that, Onan is the descendant of Abraham and Israel, both of whom were told by God directly that they would bring forth kingdoms and that they and their children should "be fruitful and multiply." God has given the family a sacred charge to reproduce! His refusal to bring forth children in the family line when he has a chance also seems like something God would not be pleased about.

So far, refusing a father's command and refusing God's charge could be important reasons for smiting Onan. But there's something more that gets me: if sperm is sacred and should not be wasted, then eggs should be the same way. They are, after all, both the haploid gametes of reproduction. But, women waste eggs on a monthly basis! Either there is a double standard, or women are supposed to remain pregnant from puberty to menopause non-stop, or it's not a sin to waste either. I don't see why there should be a double standard, and the second possibility is clearly not the case: older and very young mothers suffer an increased risk of injury and birth defects, and God does not build punishments into righteous acts. So, the third possibility must be the case.

To me, then, the only reasonable conclusion is that God was not mad at Onan for masturbating: he was mad at Onan for disobeying his father and his Lord. Like so much else in the Bible, the story has simply been twisted to fit the preconceptions of society. What's your view on it?

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

The Tower of Babel: A Lesson for Greatness

2009-09-19T22:30:00.005-04:00

If I have to apply a religious label to myself, it's Methodist. Quoth the Wikipedia, "The [Methodist] movement focused on Bible study and a methodical approach to scriptures and Christian living." That is, the Methodist moniker denotes a devotion to examination of the Bible and life to determine religious doctrine. I've heard it called "faith through reason," which is as good of a description of my spiritual beliefs as I've ever heard. It is a bit hard to pigeonhole me: doctrinally, I differ significantly from the traditional Methodist dogma. And in the modern Christian world, it's largely a moot point: the key difference between the Methodist churches and the Presbyterian churches I've attended is whether they say "sins" or "debts" during the Lord's Prayer.

(As an aside, the Lord's Prayer is one of my favorite things from Jesus. Here we have Christ telling people, "Listen, don't stress out so much about prayer. If you're so worried about it, just follow this script and you'll be fine." It is short, simple, and humble. In Matthew 6, when he teaches the Lord's Prayer, Jesus says not to pray boastfully or noticeably or even particularly fervently, and provides the perfect, eternally acceptable prayer. God doesn't need specific requests: simply that you willingly ask for help)

When you read the Bible critically, it is easy to become confused, disillusioned or lost. It is a dangerous and lovely document. It is self-contradictory, it presents God as unnecessarily cruel, it includes stories that seem completely meaningless. Genesis contains two fairly different accounts of creation, a story in which God plays favorites (Cain and Abel), a story in which a supposedly-perfect God has to destroy his own work due to its imperfection (the Great Flood), a story in which a man's entire descendant bloodline is cursed because his father saw his grandfather naked (Noah's son, Ham, sees him in a drunken stupor. Noah curses Canaan, Ham's son. God, apparently, is okay with this. Genesis 9), and, of course, the Tower of Babel. This last is an exceptionally odd story, one of the ones liable to make me close the book in disgust with the God described, who cannot be the God I worship.

To recap the story: mankind begins to make bricks and build a city. They say to each other, "Let us build a tower to the sky," and they set to work. God sees that they are working well together, that they are not fighting, that they are working productively to better their station because they have one tongue. And God says, "Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech."

This blew my mind when I first read it critically (that is, as an adult). Here, it seems, God causes strife among his children on purpose, so that they can't work together anymore. It is odd, offensive, running contrary to the image of a loving God held by Christians. But that is not the whole story.

When encountering a story like this, one must consider the quality of the truth it contains. It is clear that the Bible is not entirely and literally true. In Genesis 1, mankind is the last creation on the sixth day, after the beasts and birds and fish. In Genesis 2, the beasts and birds are created to be help meets for Adam, after Adam was created. It is contradictory and thus impossible for mankind to have been created both before and after the other animals.

But stories don't have to be literally true to be true. The purpose of the story of the Tower of Babel is not a historical account: it is a lesson for all of mankind, something that applies to every creed and color and religion or lack thereof. It is the story of what makes work admirable, of the value of effort in our lives.

As the Tower of Babel starts to rise, mankind is working with ease. A great structure is being built through mutual cooperation. Quite literally, mankind is reaching for the sky. It seems impressive.

It's not.

You see, the construction of the Tower was effortless, and nothing easy can be great. Consider the ancient wonders of the world: could we be impressed with the pyramids at Giza if they were built with bulldozers and cranes? The Hanging Gardens would be nothing more than a rather nice building using modern technology. Or consider those whose names we remember so long after their deaths: Leonardo da Vinci, Isaac Newton, Picasso, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Mozart, Martin Luther King, Jr., Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Harriet Tubman, Helen Keller, Emily Bronte and Charlotte Bronte (man, it's hard to think of more women before the 20th century, sorry). They were not people content with a settled and easy life, but who strove to press forward, to expand the bounds of the world through their efforts.

This, I think, is something more than a perception effect. Difficulty really does make an action more worthy, regardless of whether it makes it more memorable. A man who makes $50k a year and donates $10k to charity is more courageous and heroic than someone who makes $100k and donates $10k, even though the effect of their actions is the same.

So the Tower of Babel is the story of an effort doomed to mediocrity because of its ease. What's more, it's a lesson in the destiny of mankind. When God sees the Tower, he says "now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do." This is a supremely sad statement: never will their accomplishments be great, for nothing is out of their reach. God fixes this by artificially making life hard.

Here's the thing: the story probably never happened. Languages evolved in the anthropologically-accepted way: slowly, due to geographic isolation. That has nothing to do with the truth of the story, though. The Tower of Babel is a lesson in our destiny. We are a species who must strive to overcome difficulty, to seek greatness. When God confounds the tongues of man, he does so because without effort, we are nothing. The tale is a parable: for Christians, the lesson is that God wants us to have to work for our goals; for everyone, the lesson is that we do have to work for our goals. And the implicit conclusion is that we should glory in the effort, that the strife we face should be something we take pride in. Without it, we are worthless.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

The Still and Sacred Morning

2009-09-09T11:00:00.003-04:00

I wake up early (pre-6) these days to get to work. After a good night's sleep, that first hour casts a stillness over the yet-dark world that settles over my mind in a blanket of peace. I desire, I have to admit, to relish it, to simply let it soak through me. It is the only time I ever want to sit for a while and pray, or meditate, or even slip outside and do some quiet manual labor.

On good mornings, I can see the appeal of the farmer's life: to step out in solitude before the cock crows and smell the quiet scent of morning on the fields. And I understand what is most succinctly called Sabbath: a break, a "sanctuary from time" when the rushing world slips by, felt but unheeded for once. This is where the magic of sunrise comes from for me.

I remember on camping trips in the Scouts that I would get up early on most mornings. Part of this is that I've always been restless in sleeping bags, but it gave me an opportunity for quiet contemplation. As the first few wakers rose (mostly adults), there was very little conversation. I would stoke up a morning fire, maybe make some coffee or start in on breakfast, but mostly I'd sit quietly and think on the world, listening to the stirring of the birds above. The wan light of morning is a gauzy magic.

I think I'm going to start waking early on weekends. Weekdays are, of course, no time for stillness: I'm always running late. I wonder if I can get my fill on those days when I would normally sleep in.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Cycles

2009-09-07T21:18:00.002-04:00

I go in weird cycles where I end up revisiting my favorite games of years gone by. I've played through The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past maybe five or six times now, and this is my third time playing Final Fantasy V. Viewtiful Joe, We <3 Katamari, several of the Mario games, and SSX 3. And a couple more (lots more on PC), I guess. DragonRealms, of course.

I don't know what it is: I know the stories, and I've sought ought most of the secrets. The mechanics of these games still linger in my consciousness, examples, I suppose, of what a game should be. They're sort of the archetypes, to me, of genres: epic action-adventure, JRPG, brawler, dunno what to call Katamari, platformer, snowboard game, text-based RPG.

We all have these sort of past joys that we tend to revisit, I think. Rereading the books you loved the first time is fun after a few years; Lolita is infinitely re-readable, for instance, even when one has the tale practically memorized (yo). I recently re-read the Harry Potter series. It was as fun the second time as it was the first. I wonder sometimes if I truly revisit these things because I still like them, or simply because I used to love them. I'm curious as to whether the nostalgia of youth casts a rosy light on otherwise normal things: certainly LoZ:ALTTP is an excellent game, but why do I count it better than Ocarina of Time? Why is Perfect Dark higher on my list than Goldeneye? Why does FFV beat FFVII (actually, VII wasn't that great)?

It doesn't really matter. I still enjoy them again on this go-round, and that's all that counts. Still, I wonder...

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Cultural Infidel

2009-09-05T23:10:00.002-04:00

I've been trying (again) to learn Japanese. I have some wonderful audiobook language tapes (Pimsleur) that are really effective. It's hard to keep at it sometimes, so I'm trying to set aside a time every weekday to practice, a bit like how I've decided to post something every Saturday.

My worst retention is for the pair of kana writing systems used in Japanese. Like David Sedaris once said, the hiragana alphabet isn't something you just sort of pick up: you have to sit down and cram it in your brain. I learned them all at one point (using a My Japanese Coach for the DS, which is much better at teaching writing than the Pimsleur audiobooks are), but when I started back on the whole learning thing, I discovered that they'd completely slipped away.

Oh, well. Time to cram it back in again.

I think I started wanting to learn Japanese because I was thinking last year about the effect Japanese culture has had on me. Anime, video games, manga, sushi and otaku culture in general all swirl about my personal cultural heritage, touching on the ways I view the world and what I choose to experience in my free time. I would like to be able to watch anime and play import games in the native tongue, eventually.

It stands to reason, I think, that Japan should be so important to me. I am a gamer: have been since I was five or so, always will be. It's hard to deny that the nature of modern video gaming is predominantly a result of Japanese efforts and has been profoundly shaped by Japanese culture. Until a few years ago, when Microsoft released the XBox, all of the important consoles were Japanese. It was simply a Japanese industry until very recently.

It's neat to learn a language known by so few people in America. My friend Schuyler is learning Japanese as well, which gives the language almost a secret vibe for me, granting a sort of retreat that is gibberish to almost everyone that might be listening, even though nothing we talk about needs hiding anyway, and neither of us is fluent enough to carry on a serious conversation anyway.

There is one sticking point: it's hard to practice. If one is learning Spanish, one may pepper his language with Spanish words, and a lot of people will understand it, because a lot of people have taken at least one Spanish class. I think this keeps the language in the forefront of your mind, which makes it easier to learn, because you end up reflecting on it all day. Not so, in general, with Japanese.

It's kind of funny watching anime now. Random words pop up (choto, konban, tabemasu, osake, etc.) that I know, but I don't know enough to put them in context. At least I manage to hear them, I guess.

Anyway, until next time, さようなら (sayounara).

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Nellehseran, Chapter Three

2009-08-30T20:36:00.003-04:00

(Check the Nellehseran tag for the other chapters)

In the broken stillness of the evening, malevolent eyes glared at Kilrik and Nellehseran from the dark cowl of a brown-cloaked man. He stood, pulsing with rage in the failing light, his impressive size seeming to grow in the sight of the surprised travelers. "Father!" Nellehseran whispered in shock. The man cuffed her sharply across the face, and she fell sideways. With startling agility, he swept upon Kilrik, grasping his throat and lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

He stood taller than Kilrik's appreciable height and held the armored traveller helpless in front of him. Kilrik grasped at his neck, futilely trying to prise off the strong grip. The bulky man pulled him closer, baring his teeth with a sibilant hiss.

Staring into Kilrik's panicked eyes, he roared, "You petty soldier! You thought to take my daughter, to steal my prize? You have interfered with powers beyond your ken, boy!" Kilrik kicked wildly, gasping against the man's tightening grip. Shaking Rik violently, Nell's father continued darkly, "Struggle as you wish; you cannot hope to save that disloyal sorcerous! I am Antrohk Cameron, High Wizard of the Throne of Halreln! I have risen beyond the fold of mortal men! She will be Subdued!"

With the calloused hands holding him like a vice, Kilrik felt the world turning dark about him. His mind filled with the sound of his ragged gasps as he struggled for air. Gathering his discipline to stave off his panic, Kilrik looked about the clearing for some means of salvation, blinking as sharp lights punctuated his vision. Nell lay groaning on the ground behind Antrohk, regaining her senses. A few feet away by the still-burning campfire, the pile of fuelwood was crowned with a long, heavy log. Kilrik stared at Nellehseran, willing her to look up. Finally, as Kilrik felt the last fibers of his strength slipping, Nell slowly sat up, grasping her forehead and gazing at Kilrik. Kilrik looked between the log and the girl, gesturing wildly with his eyes.

As Nellehseran snuck toward the log, Kilrik locked eyes with Antrohk. The wizard's grin was vile. "You should be proud, boy. You are about to be killed by the most powerful man in the entire Empire of-"

Nellehseran struck a powerful blow, swinging the long branch in a wide arc against the wizard's skull. Dazed, Antrohk loosened his grip on Kilrik. The armored man fell to the ground, coughing and gasping as Antrohk turned against his daughter. Reaching into a large pouch on his belt, he withdrew a clump of a white mineral, clenching the stone in his fist. His eyes flickered as he cast the rock at Nellehseran. With a resounding blast, she flew back, striking a tree and slumping to the ground. "Fool!" Antrohk spat. "It's a shame I can't kill you."

Behind the wizard, Kilrik had risen weakly to his feet. Seeing Antrohk's assault on Nellehseran, Kilrik felt his resolve grow. He steadied himself, drawing his sword and wielding the Provincial Guard's shield. Standing at his full height, he stepped toward the wizard, shouting in challenge, "Antrohk! Turn and face my blade!"

The High Wizard smirked incredulously as he faced Kilrik. "You wish to wield a knife in battle with a mage?" he cackled mockingly. "Even your whitesteel will be of no use to you!" Antrohk slipped his hand into his pouch once again, withdrawing a small pool of liquid, which sloshed oddly about in his palm as if contained within a spherical glass orb. Kilrik breathed deeply, crouched against his back leg, and sprang forward silently, sprinting intently toward the wizard. As he raised his longsword high, the wizard twisted sideways and flung the liquid forward, as if lobbing a grenade. The orb swelled in the air, sloshing wetly in front of him where Kilrik had been running. Kilrik, however, spun sideways and down, ducking the orb and the wizard's outstretched arm, slipping around and behind him to stand in front of Nell defensively. The wet sphere fell to the ground with a thud.

The wizard turned to face them, his jowly face a mask of rage. Rik reached behind himself for Nellehseran, pulling her up. She wobbled on her feet. "Stay behind me! Use me to stay upright, if you have to!" Kilrik commanded her, his voice terse and energetic. She stumbled forward to hold his shoulders, her face pressed against the back of his armor. In the silence, as the wizard coldly regarded Kilrik, the strange liquid sphere crackled and snapped, boring a deep hole in the earth where it lay.

Finally Antrohk turned and walked slowly toward a nearby oak while his eyes remained locked on Kilrik, who held his shield and sword high. Pressing his hand against the trunk of the tree, Antrohk grunted, the muscles along his arm suddenly bulging as he tore out a handful of wood, the splinters shearing away with a crunch. He held the mass of wood at arm's length in front of his eyes. The chunk quivered and seemed to melt, wobbling and dripping in on itself as the beige color of the wood drained away. Soon, the wizard was staring intently at a white mass which glowed slightly in his hand.

Kilrik looked on in awe. The wizard inhaled sharply, a supreme focus of will playing through his eyes. Slowly, reverently, he intoned, "I Deem thee flame."

A flash of orange sprang in the center of the mass, which now seemed to exude a quiet power. Suddenly, the mass split open with a crack! In the expanse of a breath, a circle of singed grass swept outward from the High Wizard's hand as a swift wall of heat caused a haze between Kilrik and Antrohk. The clearing was bathed in a dense red glow, the color of the hot embers of a large fire. Kilrik closed his eyes and flinched, steeling himself for the flame.

In the darkness of his mind, though, he found a strange calm. A warm glow seemed to suffuse through him, trickling from his spine to his legs and up into his skull. He pictured it as a blue light tracing his very bones, spreading outward and growing in strength. He sighed, letting himself fall into the warmth, so comfortable, so safe, releasing his cares and caution.

"Stay strong," a voice whispered to him, "for Us." He became suddenly alert and obedient. The voice was so like Nellehseran's, and yet so complex, so wrong.

"What is this? Who is that? Nell?" he asked himself.

"We are Us. We are, because We have been Bound," the voice responded, hearing his silent thought.

This time, a voice that was quite clearly Nellehseran's spoke, as unlike the mysterious voice as Kilrik's own voice. "Bound?" she asked. "I don't understand. Rik, is that you?"

The voice responded before Kilrik could. "We are, and We are you as well. We have been born of the intertwining of the Sorceress and her Guardian. We have been Bound."

"But why," Kilrik began, "do you sound like-"

The answer came to him before he could resist. A tide of images flooded through him, and he was certain what they meant. Flashes of his past, traces of his soul spun along streams of what he knew was Nell at her very core. The boundary between the souls coruscated, sparkling golden between the mahogany of his own soul and the cerulean of Nell's soul.

The voice spoke again. "You must fight, Kilrik. We are with you. You must stand for Us. You are Our body and We shall be your strength."

Kilrik's eyes snapped open. He sucked a great gasp of air and, his mouth open in wonder, leveled his gaze at the wizard. Antrohk stared at him, his jaw set. As the great flame had passed over Kilrik, he had stilled for an instant as if frozen, Nell pressed close behind him. Slowly, Nell's feet had barely left the ground, hovering slightly as she grasped Rik's shoulders. Now, as he looked on, Antrohk's vision seemed to contort and shimmer until all he could see in his rage were Kilrik's eyes. The once sad, brown eyes were a cold, icy blue, the color of an Arctic sky.

Fury bubbled along the wizard's features. "No," he grunted quietly. Then, flinging his arms into his pouch, he shouted in rage, "No!" Whipping strange objects at Rik with abandon, Antrohk filled the air with streaks of energy that began to coalesce into boulders and flames and stony serpents before silently tearing and slipping like vapor into Kilrik's shield. Kilrik looked down at this, and watched as a blue glow seemed to suffuse the shield, each wayward spell reinforcing the soft light. He felt a rage building through him with the sundered spells, thrumming like a cord strung through his chest.

Antrohk relented his assault, yelling again at Kilrik, his face contorting and his body shaking in his wrath, "How did you break her? She is mine to break!"

Kilrik stared at the wizard, a great certainty of purpose filling his mind. He felt the energy trapped within his shield raging against him, fighting like an animal to break free. Rik shifted his will: it felt like he was opening a dam. The energy shot through his chest, searing a painful path as it went, a torrent of fire and hate that fled into his sword arm and up the hilt of his longsword. The energy suffused into the great whitesteel blade, which began to glow an eerie yellow. Flashes of the same golden light that entwined Kilrik's and Nellehseran's souls seemed to dance about the sword.

Kilrik strode forward with purpose, Nell hovering effortlessly behind him. The wizard backed slowly away, tossing more objects at Kilrik, his eyes betraying anger, then shock, and, finally, fear. The stones and acorns and feathers and bones each silently transmuted, briefly swelling to a tower of cascading mud and a dense cluster of wooden spears and a swarm of ravens and a dreadful skeletal ram before slipping into a vapor, drawn, now, to the whitesteel sword.

Kilrik no longer felt any rage; the energy no longer tore at him. All of the force and emotion he had felt through the shield seemed contained within the luminescent glow of the pristine metal. As Antrohk backed against a tree trunk, still throwing spells at the knight and the girl, Kilrik stopped and closed his eyes. He could still see the image of the clearing on his eyelids, the wizard standing terrified against the towering black oak. Quietly, with a gentle motion, he tossed the sword forward and opened his eyes. The blade spun in the air for a moment, its tip pointed at the wizard, crackling and hissing, shining golden against the red glow. The yellow light rippled once along the sword, bulging like a wave moving from tip to hilt. The blade darted forward, speeding toward the High Wizard. Antrohk whipped his arm before him, conjuring a shield which glistened like a soap bubble. The blade tore through it, unhindered, and pierced the wizard, shuddering into the tree with a mighty thump. Antrohk gurgled, the glint in his eyes fading to a matte darkness, and his arm fell limp by his side.

As Kilrik walked toward the dead mage, he felt the power flushing through him ebb away. Already his heart began to beat faster as his mind wondered excitedly at the ordeal he had just faced. He pulled the sword from the corpse, the blade coming out clean and unblemished as the wizard's blood spilled across the ground. The last vestiges of the blue glow he had felt so strongly slipped away like a dream. He felt Nellehseran slip down his back, her legs collapsing under her as she hit the ground. He turned quickly and caught her about the waist, pulling her close to him. She lay against him, letting Rik support her as she sobbed uncontrollably into the loose hair that draped his neck. He pulled off his helm and tossed it aside, embracing her. Nell pressed her face against his, her body heaving as she cried.

Kilrik comforted her, whispering, "It's okay, we're fine. Let's leave so you don't have to see him any more. It must be hard."

Nellehseran nuzzled against him a little, and responded quaveringly. "It's not that. There was something... I couldn't control it, Rik; I'm so sorry you had to fight him. You were amazing! Thank you. Thank you." With this, she brushed her face across his cheek until their mouths met; they kissed, eagerly.

Kilrik held her close, shutting his eyes as her soft lips swept across his again and again. Nell reached up, stroking the back of his neck as she craned her neck upward, pressing hungrily to kiss him a little harder. His heart pounded fiercely; he imagined he could feel her heartbeat through his breastplate. Together they stood for some time, feeling a wild relief and release, an odd security in the embrace, like nothing could hope to spoil the moment.

Finally, they relented, panting, gazing into each other's eyes. Rik turned his head first, and Nell followed his gaze, looking down upon the corpse of her father, laying against the oak. "Let's go," Nellehseran said with quiet vehemence. Kilrik stooped to pick up his helm, slipping it back on his head. They turned toward the road, but Nell only stumbled, her legs unsupportive.

"Here," Kilrik said, smiling softly. He picked her up, carrying her easily, like a child in his arms. She smiled up at him, exhausted, her teeth barely flashing into view, and relaxed against him, closing her eyes. He carried her back to the road, heading again eastward, and felt a great and unfamiliar tenderness filling him. All he could think about was protecting her, being there for Nellehseran. After crossing the bridge over the stream, he walked a few paces and turned into the woods, leaving the sight of the road. He lay Nell down in the soft underbrush, and, in his exhaustion, decided not to take up a watch. He curled up beside her, holding her tight against him, and they slept.

Back in the clearing, a rush of wind rent the air. A great gray column traced a thin line through the night sky and spiraled down next to Antrohk's corpse. A shadowy form, tall and lean, coalesced out of the cloudy column, looking down upon the late wizard.

"You have failed me, Antrohk," the figure's voice rumbled, coming from all directions at once. "You were to leave the girl for me, and you let her get suspicious. I expect you tried to Subdue her yourself, didn't you? But no matter." The figure stooped low, its gray hand resting on Antrohk's shoulder. "I needn't worry about your disobedience anymore, hmm?" The figure chuckled quietly, a ringing, bright laugh. Looking down again, the shadowy form seemed to solidify briefly, exuding a force of will that made the nearby air stifling and oppressive. "My careless friend, I Deem thee Antrohk Cameron, Wizard of the Shade."

The corpse flushed briefly with a white glow. As the light faded, Antrohk's body seemed less solid, the ground visible slightly through him. Suddenly, his eyes sprang open and he clambered to his feet, his great bulk seeming even less of a hindrance to his motions now. His face blank, he stared ahead, unblinking, at nothing.

The shadowy stranger sighed, a wry smile playing across his ephemeral lips. "I shall have to retrain you, I think, my old friend," he said, "but your powers will still be useful to me. You shall have your chance to redeem yourself. Come." The shadow reached out and grabbed Antrohk's hand. The column of cloud reformed around them both, swirling and retreating upward, erasing as it went the same line it had earlier traced.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Tonight's Update Tomorrow

2009-08-29T23:41:00.003-04:00

I JUST finished chapter three of Nellehseran, but I want to let it cool off before I post it. I'll reread it early-ish tomorrow, fix up whatever phrasing I don't like, and send it irrevocably into the world.

Since the spirit of this Saturday thing is to get me to work on writing every week, I think this counts, since I wrote for nigh-on two hours.

By my hand, as always,
~Michael Akerman

A Force of Habit

2009-08-22T22:17:00.000-04:00

The other day I was in my apartment (effectively) alone. Scott (my brother and roommate) was either out or asleep, I don't recall which. I slipped into the restroom, closed the door, and locked it.

I stopped for a moment, bemused. There was really no reason to lock the door: I had no fear of intrusion from my brother, and it's not as if I expected villains or scoundrels to come barging in and head for the restroom. It was simply the force of habit that made me lock the door. The long ages of repeating the same series of motions (open the door, step in, grab the knob with my left hand, turn slightly, pull the door closed, turn the lock) had hardwired something that wasn't quite a muscle memory and wasn't quite conditioning. I don't perform the same motion on other doors, so it's not something my arm does of its own accord. I have never been rewarded for it, nor have I been punished for not locking the door, so it can't be conditioning.

The action just follows seamlessly, as if the most logical sequence in the world were "close bathroom door, lock bathroom door," an unquestionable truth that would be foolish to stand against.

It's funny how solidly we can work our habits into our selves. We sit down in the car and reach for the seat belt. We intend to turn and activate the turn signal (some of us). We feel like sneezing and cover our mouths. We take the wizz and wash our hands, even though, at least for the male set, we might not have touched anything warranting hand-washing (ladies: it's relatively easy to urinate in urinals without particularly directing the stream). Take out food, shut the fridge; come home, check the mail; stand up, push the chair in. All of these little routines that build up into an unconscious set of undirected actions.

It is appropriate that it is called a "force" of habit. How little we can do to stop it! We are forced, indeed! But, there's something more. Habit, I think, is also a societal force, binding us together in little ways that make life in the herd all the easier. Habit is the gravity of society.

When these actions become automatic, they are not forgotten when they are important, even if normally they don't matter and sometimes they seem silly. Locking the bathroom door prevents embarrassment and a possible argument (why didn't you knock?). Buckling your seat belt reduces the cost to all parties should there be a major accident. Covering our mouths when we sneeze and washing out hands in the restroom prevent the spread of germs. Shutting the fridge prevents waste, checking the mail ensures a rapid response to urgent mailings, pushing in your chair prevents people from tripping on it or simply being annoyed.

Small things, certainly, but they add up. The turn signal thing, for instance, is blindingly noticeable to me, being, as I am, not psychic. If you waver about and finally slide into my lane an inch in front of my car without warning me, I might get a little ticked off. If you slow to turn without signalling, you might get rear-ended by an inattentive driver, which wastes both parties time and money. Yet, it's not something we should have to think about every time we turn: driving is complicated enough without a monologue saying, "Okay, now I should move this lever up, because I'm turning left." That's why new drivers are so bad: lack of habits.

Habits are important, then. Like so much in life, they're a little absurd, but necessary, and a little irrational, but perfectly reasonable. The human animal turns out to be like that a lot.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Writing

2009-08-20T20:27:00.003-04:00

I was reading my old work the other day. I really like chapter one of Nellehseran and Angel Arisen (I would like to rewrite chapter two of the former, I think). Reading that stuff makes me want to write more, but I come home from work, flop down on the couch, eat some dinner, and play video games.

It's easy to justify a lack of productivity when you're working all day. I've all but stopped exercising, I don't write, I don't post to this blog (and you, gentle reader, don't get to enjoy my pedantic peramblings). To my conscience, to the world, I say, "Lay off me, I've been working all day."

That's unacceptable, though. I know that I want to write, I know that I want to think. The easy road is to cheat myself, to skip the arduous ardors of the writer's craft, to lay aside the deep and difficult thoughts that nestle within philosophy, to give pass to tiring physical exertion. But I am the master of my mind, and the rewards for fulfilling my desires are far greater than the rewards for fulfilling my wants (I use interchangeable words, but I think context and connotation make that sentence clear).

So, I need to master my mastery. I can not live a life of dull mediocrity, a perpetual comfortable rut leading only to the hope of a painless retirement. The man of thought, and I immodestly consider myself one, must seek, in the words of David Foster Wallace, "...to keep from going through [his] comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to [his] head and to [his] natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out."

So, I'm promising something to myself and to the internet: every Saturday, I will have posted something worth posting during the previous week. That is to say, by Saturday at 11:59 P.M., I will have published some bit of work with substance. Everything I post will be accessible from this blog, so you don't have to work too hard if you don't want to.

Onward, then, and let's hope I can actually maintain this for once!

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Shuffle Mode: July 21, 2009

2009-07-21T21:17:00.005-04:00

I reckoned that I ought to do something that at least feels more productive than sitting around all evening reading Overcompensating.

I've been trying to work out car insurance. My car got all smashed up June 16 by a nitwit in flip-flops, plaid shorts and a Civic EX (if you've been to college this decade, you now know exactly the type of person I'm talking about) who decided neither red lights nor not lying to the cops were facets of legal existence that applied to him. Anyway, my insurance company elected not to investigate the accident, no one in this dickwad town stopped to give me their information to witness it, and the police officer was probably hung over or something, so Fratty Fraterson got off as scot-free as he could have hoped. In a just world, I would be held not at-fault, at least, since I wasn't at fault.

Geico seems to think I'm at fault, at least according to the little accident history thing that pops up and doubles my quote as I'm checking out.

I need to talk to various agents tomorrow. This shan't stand! I'm not paying $600 for an irresponsible insurance company's failing.

A lot of The Who's live tracks are absolutely wretched.

The moon landing anniversary was yesterday. Thus was heralded a lot of praise of the "greatest scientific achievement in history". The thing is, it isn't. Heck, it wasn't at the time. First off, landing on the moon is an engineering achievement, not a scientific achievement. The physics had been known for a century or so.

No, what I count more magnitudinous is not a vast scaling up of a relatively simple system: most of what made the moon landing possible was not scientific genius but government funding. The General and Special Theories of Relativity may be the greatest scientific achievements of all time. The development of the microprocessor may be the greatest technological achievement of all time. The understanding of quantum physics by Schroedinger, et al, the development of Newtonian mechanics, and the invention of electricity or of the internet all rank above the moon landing in my mind.

It was damn impressive, though. It might be better to call it the most impressive scientific achievement.

Now I've gotten myself all riled up, so I think I'll try to calm myself down somehow. Writing? Maybe. Escapism does tend to help one escape. But first...

I've been re-reading the Harry Potter series lately. Oddly, this had nothing to do with the recent movie.

When HP & the Sorceror's Stone was released, I was the same age as Harry. It felt special to be in that age group, most affected by the most effective of the most escapist of genres.

It's been over a decade, now. The books are still extraordinarily good, and unlike some authors (King, Brown), I can't get mad at Rowling even though she's preposterously successful. It is clear from the books that she loved telling stories, and that's why they're such fun to read.

A friend of mine said the Harry Potter books were not very good because they did not fascinate you. I disagreed. They are not deep. They are not insightful. But they are easily the most fascinating books I've read.

I think I'll finish HP3 instead of writing.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

An Eye Out for a Story: June 10, 2009

2009-06-10T19:17:00.002-04:00

In an effort to improve my memory for my external life, to improve my storytelling abilities and to work on my writing, I've decided to start writing posts detailing my daily life. It's a lot like a diary, I suppose, but more narrative (hopefully) and less feeling-oriented (again, hopefully). Onward!

I woke up late this morning. I wake up late most mornings, though. It is important to understand this about me. Mornings are my bane, and nothing I can do will change it. I wake up to my alarms (plural), pry my sleep-glued eyes open, shut off my clocks and fall back asleep for twenty minutes. I curse my inability to wake up every day, but it doesn't seem to matter. If I wake up at 6:30, I get to work at 8:10. If I wake up at 5:30, I get to work at 8:10. This, I think, is another important thing to understand about me.

We dosed fermentations this morning as soon as I got into work. At my old job, we would run one one-liter fermentation at a time, sampling every half hour for twelve to thirteen hours. At Novozymes, we run a lot more simultaneously. It's more efficient, actually, because we get replicates of everything and I don't sample every thirty minutes. I'm going to stop talking about our methods, though, because I'm not sure how much is covered by my NDA.

I was setting up the second fermentation this morning with Guillermo, my supervisor, after having prepped all the stuff for it yesterday alone. It was my first time propagating yeast and setting up the fermentation matrix alone, actually. Kerry and Katie, my coworkers, were both out, and Terry and Guillermo had left for the day. It was hellacious, but I got through it. It's always obvious when they're not there. Especially Katie. She's my go-to girl, I guess. She'll be back tomorrow. Don't tell her, but I'm very relieved!

After finishing the setup, I retired to my OLO to work on tomorrow's experiment. Before you ask, I don't know exactly what an OLO is. Well, I know what it is: a largish cubicle with four deskish areas in it, sitting in a corner of the lab. I have no idea, however, what OLO abbreviates. No one does, as far as I can tell.

Setting up the experiment was interesting. Not only is it the first experiment for which I am taking a Study Leader role, it's rather different than our normal experiments. I was stepping out on an unknown surface a little, but I feel like academia prepared me well for that. Close to everything I did in Lamb's Lab was a new procedure. At any rate, I don't have any regrets regarding my plans for tomorrow.

After lunch (Remington Grill), the day went by surprisingly quickly. I finished up my experiment plans while Catherine complained about her current work (some kind of charge-measuring thing). Catherine and Tim started watching a few YouTube videos, so I got to introduce them to some of the memes I take for granted. It's funny how much I expect people to be entrenched in the internet. I don't realize how nerdy I am sometimes! Did you know that some people still haven't seen the Dramatic Look Gopher? I know. It blew my mind, too.

The tail end of the day was just measuring the running experiments and setting up tomorrow's stuff. Today's setup was pretty much the same as the stuff I did yesterday afternoon, but it took me like a quarter of the time and I didn't get blindingly frustrated. Experience grows on you quickly. Finishing up did take me until after five, though, which means I missed rock climbing again this week. A crew from work has started going. I need to get involved. I love climbing!

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Evenings

2009-05-28T22:27:00.001-04:00

How my evenings disappear: tweet at someone, they tweet back, I tweet back again. Check Google Reader while waiting for a response. Get response. Read webcomics. Five minutes later, it's an hour later.

~Michael

Memorial Day Weekend, 2009

2009-05-25T18:55:00.004-04:00

EDIT: Added links to the last paragraph.

I've been trying to fix my parents' desktop this last week. While playing games that stress the graphics card, the screen will occasionally fill with artifacts (it looks like a woven pattern), which makes it rather unusable. VRAM tests show nothing, GPU stress tests don't cause it, and underclocking and ramping up the cooling fan doesn't prevent it.

Still, I'm pretty sure it's the video card. I got a new card for my PC for Christmas last year and swapped my old graphics card into my parents' computer. The PCI-E power adapter that came with the new card didn't fit very well, apparently, because the OS told me the card didn't have sufficient power. Also, crackling may have been involved.

My dad likes to play Flight Simulator X, so I plan on replacing the card, since I broke it. At least they're cheap nowadays.

It was a busy weekend in more social ways, too. Alex, Matt, Scott and I went to the NC Zoo on Saturday, had a Memorial Day cookout on Sunday, and went to the Raleigh Museum of Natural Sciences with Erin and Evan today. In brief: way too crowded, fun but shorter than usual, and nice, respectively.

Expanded thoughts on the zoo: there were TONS of young families there, by which I mean both in the sense that the kids were young and that the parents were young. It was a little alarming, honestly, for so many people of roughly my age to be running about with children or pregnancies. No one gets used to getting older.

I saw a friend from college at the zoo (Diana), which was nice, because Alex always meets people she knows and I never meet people I know. The odds were pretty good that one of us would see someone we knew. The crowds were awful.

We got to see the swim dogs and miniature swim dog, though, so it was a successful zoo visit.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Electro-Piano

2009-05-11T22:16:00.002-04:00

One last thing for today: I bought a keyboard (the piano type)(this one). Now, in addition to knowing sax and pretending to learn guitar, I can learn piano! I really really like the idea of piano, far more so than guitar. The ability to play harmony and melody is appealing.

I think I really just want to play Simple Sim from The Sims 2, though.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman (you know, I type that signature each time. You'd think I'd build it into the template, but it feels more genuine this way)

No More Kings

2009-05-11T21:30:00.005-04:00

Scott discovered a band through Pandora that's pretty great. No More Kings sounds like Jason Mraz with an awesome band backing him. It's sort of an upbeat melodic rock that I really enjoy.

At first I was hooked on "Sweep the Leg", which is a track that should be at least interesting to any child of the 80s, then "Zombie Me" eclipsed it, then "Mr. B" eclipsed that! I've gained a new theme song from NMK with "Michael (Jump In)", which puts it up there in the list.

I've settled on my favorite song from NMK, though. "About Schroeder" is, as near as I can tell, about Lucy and Schroeder from Peanuts (the song says "Sally Brown sits down," which is the wrong character, but whatever).

There's a couplet in the song that runs:

This is love at its finest.
This is love how it needs to be.

It got me thinking about Lucy and Schroeder, and about Schulz in general. His characters were very simple, drawings with little detail of children with little souls, each character essentially a set of caricatures. Yet, there's something profound about them: they act, through their simplicity, as a remarkable mirror for ourselves. I'm not the first to say this, of course: Bill Watterson of Calvin and Hobbes fame said that "in asking us to identify only with children, Schulz reminds us that our fears and insecurities are not much different when we grow up." (source) Charlie Brown's persistence and Linus' security blanket are apparent in ourselves, certainly. All of the characters have as their primary characteristic some melancholy aspect of the human psyche we all share, save Snoopy.

The most interesting character to me, though, is Lucy van Pelt. She's crabby and she's bossy, but it is revealed time and again that she's tremendously weak. She asks Charlie Brown and Schroeder to tell her she's pretty often enough, and she falls to temptation with surprising regularity when Charlie Brown and a football are concerned. Topping it all off, she has an unrequited love for Schroeder of a purity that can only be found in the idealized world of the comic strip.

Here we have a person in love with another for what he does and what he is. She sits by the piano, learning to appreciate Beethoven for him, complaining, certainly, but returning, always, to listen. There is no infatuation here: she sits facing away from Schroeder, her only connection to him the piano music. In contrast, Sally Brown has a nearly neurotic attraction to Linus for no apparent reason, following him like a spaniel and always staring at him. Charlie Brown does not even talk to the red haired girl: he can only be infatuated with her.

Out of all the tragic characters of Peanuts, Lucy is the most eminently human. She is crabby and bossy and foolish and deceitful and cruel. But, above that, she is loving and wounded, scared and small.

It is no accident that she is the psychiatrist.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

First Day

2009-05-11T21:10:00.002-04:00

Oh MAN I'm tired.

Today was my first day of work at Novozymes North America, in Franklinton, NC. For those unacquainted, Novo. is the world leader in bioinnovations (I got that from their website, of course). One should probably read "bioinnovations" as "enzyme innovation and production". The company develops and produces enzymes for detergents, animal feed (it reduces phosphates in waste, apparently), fuel production, etc. I'll be working in fuel production, and I can't say terribly much because I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to talk about.

I'm going through orientation, which is basically an information flood. The take-home points: my benefits are better than I thought they were, my 401k is better than I thought it was, everyone is cool at Novo, and everyone goes by crazy non-initial abbreviations. It's the weirdest system, but I guess it's because of the size of the company and its international nature (it's based in Denmark). Everyone ends up with 4 or fewer letters based on their name, but it's seldom just standard initials. Since I'm Michael John Akerman, I might end up as MJAk or MiAk or, my favorite, MAke.

The drive is a little long, but it's cathartic. There is no traffic heading out of Raleigh in the morning.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Poem: If I Could

2009-04-29T21:52:00.005-04:00

I'm feeling emo today.

When my brain turns about, there's the back of my eyes:
A darkness built up out of secrets and lies,
Growing each time I am what I despise,
And I'd be blind to it if I could.

Behind my ears rings out the high wailing voice
Which will screech at my glee but at pain rejoice.
Lending doubt to my actions, it laughs at each choice
And I'd deafen myself if I could.

The base of my tongue tastes the tang of despair:
The brimstone of hell and life's pain both lie there.
A flavor that ebbs and then suddenly flares,
And I'd lose all my taste if I could.

Deep down in my nose is the scent of defeat,
Of each battle lost, of each task I can't meet.
The fumes burn my nostrils and make my veins bleed,
And I would smell naught if I could.

At the ends of my fingers, a warmth emanates
That wards off the chill from the cowardly Fates.
An aching that cleanses, a hunger that sates,
And I will reach out while I can.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Tutorial: Separating Notes from Google Reader Shared Items Posts in SweetCron

2009-04-27T22:14:00.008-04:00

Jump to the solution
Jump to the short version
Download the modified files

I set up a LifeStream recently (http://www.michaelakerman.com. It's ugly as sin currently, but coming along) using SweetCron. My initial CSS-customizing fervor was dampened when I ran into a problem with my Google Reader feed items.

Here's the deal: when you share an item on Google Reader with a note, it enters your RSS feed looking like this:

Shared by Michael

Here's a note on this item!

And here's the item!

The note and the line "Shared by Michael" (or whatever your name happens to be. Use your imagination) are contained within a <blockquote> tag.

The problem is, every item's content is fed through a function that removes HTML formatting, other than line breaks, so all that is left is:

Shared by Michael

Here's a note on this item!And here's the item!

Since the <blockquote> provided the line break between the note and the actual content, there's no reliable way in the processed item to find the end of the note. The "Shared by" line can still be stripped fairly easily using string matching, but that leaves the content sounding like a Tourette's patient.

The solution, then, is to get at it before the HTML formatting is stripped off, which will take more than just a plugin. Here's how I did it:

Solution

(As a disclaimer, I don't know PHP formally. A lot of the language I use to describe the code is borrowed from Java or made up)

The first thing we must do is get the note split off before the HTML tags are removed. The cleaning happens in sweetcron.php, which is located, by default, in /system/application/libraries. At about line 70 is a column of function calls to define various array elements and instance variables. It looks like this:

$new->item_data = array();
$new->item_data['title'] = $item->get_title();
$new->item_data['permalink'] = $item->get_permalink();
$new->item_data['content'] = $item->get_content();
$new->item_data['enclosures'] = $item->get_enclosures();
$new->item_data['categories'] = $item->get_categories();
$new->item_data['tags'] = $this->get_tags($new->item_data);
$new->item_data['image'] = $this->get_image($item->get_content());

We're going to add the note to the array by calling a new function (we haven't written it yet). Add the following line at the end of the above list:

$new->item_data['note'] = $this->CI->input->xss_clean(trim(strip_tags($this->get_note($item->get_content()))));

This line defines a new array element 'note' in the item_data array attached to the object $new (which is later built into an $item object). The actual value given to the 'note' element is the result of running $item->get_content() through:

get_note()
strip_tags()
trim() and
xss_clean()

These might look confusing now, but they're pretty logical. The get_content() call gets the content of the item (see?). get_note() parses out the note from the content, which then has the HTML tags stripped off (strip_tags()) and the whitespace trimmed off the ends (trim()). The result is then sanitized with xss_clean(), which is a function designed to prevent various scripting attacks.

Anyway, onward! Everything we need is already built into SweetCron except for get_note(). We can put this anywhere in sweetcron.php that is not inside another function. I put mine right after function get_image($html) (line 185, now) if you want to emulate me!

The get_note function should look something like this:

If you copy-paste this, you might need to replace all of the less-than and greater-than signs, since I used the HTML non-functional versions.

The function gives the name $html to the item_content. Then, stripos() is used to test $html for the string "<blockquote>Shared by". It's case insensitive, and will return a value if it finds the string or false if it does not. If it does find it, we enter the loop.

The variable $pieces is created, and the results of explode() are poured into it. This will split $html into two pieces at the </blockquote>. $html is cleared so we don't forget to get rid of it. If $pieces actually does contain two parts, the method returns to first part, which is the note. Yay!

Save sweetcron.php and put it back where it belongs. We're done with it.

The next issue is to get the note out of the remaining content. We can do that in a plugin. Navigate to /system/application/plugins and open google_com.php. If that doesn't exist, go ahead and open your favorite text editor and save the blank page as google_com.php. We'll work from there.

Here is the complete code of my plugin:

<?php if (!defined('BASEPATH')) exit('No direct script access allowed');

class Google_com {

    function pre_db($item, $original)
    {
    $original_publisher = $original->get_permalink();
      if(!empty($item->item_data['note'])){
        $lookin = $item->item_content;
        $find = $item->item_data['note'];
        $pos = strpos($lookin, $find);

        if ($pos !== false){
          $item->item_content = str_replace($find, '', $lookin);
        }
        //Set length of "Shared by Name" thing + 1 as the final value in the next line.
        $item->item_data['note'] = substr($item->item_data['note'],18);
      }
      return $item;
    }

    function pre_display($item)
    {
      return $item;
    }

}
?>

Again, watch the less-than and greater-than signs.

I'm going to skip the beginning, because it's boilerplate plugin stuff.

If the item_data['note'] value is not empty, the content is searched for the note. If the note is found, the note in the content is removed by str_replace().

The "Shared by" line is then removed from the note. This is something you'll have to edit.

Important!

Write or type out the phrase Shared by Name, where Name is what Google displays when you share something, e.g. Shared by Michael for me. Count the number of characters, including spaces (17 for my phrase). Add one to this value.

Replace the number 18 in the substr() arguments with the value you just calculated. This will tell substr() how many characters to strip out. For some reason there are two phantom characters in the "Shared by" line that I can't identify. Adding 1 to the number of characters will take care of that.

Save the file, and put it in the /system/application/plugins directory. The note is removed and separated!

Manipulating the note can be done in the _activity_feed of your theme in the same way that the item_content or item_title can. Just use <?php echo $item->item_data['note']?> to summon the note object.

Step-by-step Recap

Add the note element to the list of array elements in /system/application/libraries/sweetcron.php.
Add the get_note() function to sweetcron.php.
Save sweetcron.php.
In /system/application/plugins, create or edit google_com.php to include this stuff.
Edit google_com.php as per this important note.
Save google_com.php.
Call your note in the _activity_feed.php file for your theme using <?php echo $item->item_data['note']?> in google.com items.

If you're having trouble, you can try simply downloading the modified files from my LifeStream. You'll still have to edit google_com.php to reflect the length of your name.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Arboretum

2009-04-19T11:40:00.006-04:00

Yesterday I visited the JC Raulston Arboretum with Madison (of Madison's Flowers) and Scott. It's a beautiful place, nestled off Hillsborough in one of those large chunks of land that NCSU owns due to the grace of fortuitous foundation.

Aside: NCSU is remarkably lucky, as far as land ownership goes. Founded in 1889 between Raleigh and Durham, NCSU basically took what UNC considered theirs when it opened, getting Land Grant money because of some skilled lobbyists:

Then there was only one hurdle left to cross; how to get the Land Grant funds that were presumably going to UNC-Chapel Hill. Governor Alfred Scales, along with the Swift Creek Farmer’s Club of Wake County, Polk and the Watauga Club, pressured the legislature to allocate Land Grant funds to the new college. A wealthy real estate developer named R. Stanhope Pullen donated 60 acres west of Raleigh to serve as the college’s location.

The location west of Raleigh was farmland at the time: undeveloped, relatively uninhabited. So, NCSU was in the unique position among UNC schools of being able to buy massive tracts of land for low, low prices. Useful, because now the school owns approximately 107,000 acres of land, much of it in the thick of Raleigh.

The arboretum is larger than I expected. It was a beautiful spring day, sunny and warm, and lots of stuff was in bloom. Madison brought her cockatiel, Icarus, who rode on my shoulder for a while. He was very popular with the other visitors.

I've posted a bunch of photos on Facebook (probably Flickr too, later), and feel free to check out Scott's photostream and Madison's photostream!

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Notebookery

2009-04-14T21:28:00.002-04:00

I've started carrying around a little black notebook. It's a discard from my father, who bought it because the office supply store didn't have the notebook he normally uses. It was inferior (though it was the same brand).

It's acceptable for me, though.

Inspiration strikes at odd times. I have the type of mind that spawns rhyming couplets in the shower without forewarning. Already I've written a significant poem (the Scribbled Poem from yesterday was part of a larger poem) and a private rant in it. I'm also practicing drawing.

For years I thought I couldn't draw. It never made much sense to me: I can visualize with uncanny clarity, and I can hold images in my mind well, but something in the mechanism from my brain to the paper always failed. I've been reading a lot of webcomics recently, though, and the degree of improvement over only a few years is remarkable. Early Penny Arcades are practically incomparable to the modern incarnation. Questionable Content went through a similar transformation. Even Achewood has improved over the years (it's a very sparse comic). So, I figure it's just a matter of practice.

I'm better than I thought I was already. I drew a pair of stylized eyes that came out recognizably eyeish, which I count as a victory!

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Scribbled Poem

2009-04-13T10:42:00.001-04:00

While the dreamer lives his dream
With his muse behind a wall,
He listens at the chink
And shudders at her call.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman

Easter

2009-04-12T13:22:00.003-04:00

Happy Easter, internet!

I was thinking the other day about Jesus. The standard dogma holds that he died for our sins. The historical record confirms that he lived approximately two millenia ago. Since Christian theology also holds that one does not get eternal life without believing in Jesus, even under a Creationist timescale this would mean that for 10000 years, mankind was completely out in the cold with no possibility of salvation.

If we're to also assume that God is inherently good, this doesn't make sense. So, I don't believe Jesus died for our sins, but died to tell us that God forgives us. That is, God was always a forgiving God, and man simply didn't understand that until God sent down his son to tell us directly.

What, then, of other religions? The above sentiment effectively discounts the necessity of Christianity for salvation, causing Jesus to be a messenger (though still the Messiah). If it is true that God is good, then people must have the opportunity to find salvation regardless of their cultural resources. If one were raised in a strongly Hindu society, for instance, it is quite possible that one would never encounter the idea of Christianity. I cannot conceive of a being of infinite good persecuting someone for their upbringing. So there must be some other requirement than simply owning a Bible.

It is a basic tenant of the beliefs of every major religion and of most thinking men that one ought to be "good": love your neighbor, be charitable, be kind, etc. I think the "goodness" (a word, I think, that means more in quotation marks than out) of a man, not his religious beliefs, is the true litmus test. If there is an afterlife, it is not an exclusive club for Westerners, but a reward for a life well lived.

By my hand,
~Michael Akerman