You know that splashscreen/swipe that says something like, "Don't forget to get out of Azeroth once in awhile, and take your friends with you?" It is subtly expressing that Blizzard is doing its part to recognize that well, folks need fresh air once in a while. Until that day when the game becomes like a Wii fitness, and I can battle virtual monsters in my yoga pants (wait, damn, I don't have yoga pants!! That's my problem!)
Tomorrow is Mataoka's three-year 'creation' anniversary. Three years...sheesh! Where did the time go? What have I accomplished, in game, sure, but more importantly, outside of the game? To the Reflection Machine! (Cue whirring Batmobile soundtrack here.)
/shrug -I dunno.
Well, let's see. Got to go to Blizzcon two years ago, and that was fun.
On Saturday I met my writing buddies in downtown Seattle, and one of the member's husbands works in an architectural firm, so we were buzzed in by a handsome doorman who unlocked elevators that whisked us up to the third floor, and there were large tables, and books, and designs, and and and it was like a magical fairyland of professionalism and obtuse angles.
I set my own creative writing assignment, and took photographs of blue things. I shot blue hair (not old lady blue hair, but true-blue Otter Pop melted rainbow hair) to blue signs, blue logos, fish, cars, jackets, etc. Can't wait to put it together.
Why don't they have that in Azeroth? Dance studios, architecture, music lessons?
At one point we stopped in a wine-tasting bar. I've never been to an actual wine-tasting room before. Pro tip: if you're going to Seattle and want to go into one, do so before noon when the crowds start showing up. It feels both sneaky and debauched to start drinking wine at 11:45AM. Hey, only a tiny bit!
So my goals are to 1. buy some yoga pants 2. not wear them to the grocery store like I actually do yoga 3. start doing yoga 4. hold off on the wine tastings for a few months 5. get outside more
Cause they don't sell Spanx for Night Elves:
I'm going to be studying the dance moves of trolls and elves, too:
(needs music: still doing research)
There are just too many amazing things on the Internet, even though some days I wish it was closed for repair. All the evil, bloody, and stupid stuff would go away, back to its hell-hole from whence it came. Right now, I'm going to go look up Maori dance music and traditional hula steps. Oh, some reggae would be lovely, too.
“Dornaa, I went mining for some lower quality gems so you
can get started on your jewel crafting training. I put them in the bank for
you.” Mataoka was so excited to see Dornaa carry on the traditions of Draenei
jewel crafting. She herself had spent years perfecting gem cuts, and having a
discerning eye for the perfect magic of each gemstone. Dornaa looked sheepish. “I
have decided to pursue Engineering, Matty. I didn’t want to tell you.” Mataoka
was not sure what hurt her more: the choice or the holding back. “And, it’s
“I see,” she said.
* * *
I am already missing that second account much more than I thought, although I know it's a very good thing. The reason I am missing it is because I love to start new characters, new zones, new everything: how tedious things become for me when I reach top level surprised me. Isn't that always the goal? More, more, more? And how envious I am of those who can play only one true main, and craft and hone their skills to world-class levels of play? I don't deny them their skills or knowledge: I just wish I could groove like that. I will forever remain a dilettante; and that's just fine. I know I am in good company with my love of alts. But there is impatience in me, too--even with Dornaa, I tossed on a trunk load of heirlooms and just today alone went from level 14 to 28 in a few hours. Boom. Done. I swore that I would savour leveling her, take my time, do every quest, and here I am again, leveling out of zones faster than I can get a flight path.
I told my friend Señor and CDR all I wanted to do was sit in Azuremyst and watch the purple skies. That's it. Listen to the crickets. Listen to the music of the zone. Chill. Out. Friday was a terrible, horrific day. No hyperbole, no exaggeration. It was the kind of day that broke me. Somehow the skies and pines of Azuremyst mend me. So does a glass of good Merlot, but that's a story for another time.
Yes. I could grab Mataoka and go "home" for a spell. And I have done that on occasion. But Dornaa's narrative intrigues me: I feel that when I am playing her, and aiding the Nestlewood Owlkin and their primitive, shamanistic, indigenous rituals, I am in another world. Somehow if I am on a leveled character, that sense of immersion dissipates and feels too nostalgic to be authentic.
Perhaps it's a good thing we are not getting three specializations. This way, I am forced to level Dornaa in a new way. She is strictly elemental and restoration. Not an agility muscle will be flexed, nor a single piece of gear without intelligence in it.
Not sure what it is -- probably my own projection of narrative and idiosyncrasies--but let's just say it's mischief, magic, and mojo: playing Dornaa is unique to her. We'll just leave it at that.
Today I'm up again at the crack of dawn to meet with my writing group. I was furiously writing a thesis paper last night (where did all this procrastination come from? I will figure that out tomorrow...) and trying to figure out transportation, so today will be spent in the big city, and I don't mean Dalaran.
I found this image a while ago, and thought it almost, but not quite, suited how I see Mataoka:
I will always treasure Vidyala's commissioned piece, however, as this is how she really is:
The thing about our characters is we are in (delusional) control over something that never ages, as we ourselves grow a little older. I've played Mataoka about 148 hours. Titan Panel tells me so every time I log on. My Titan Mirror, the one on my bathroom wall, tells me I've played my life a bit more than that. The scales tell me when I should have said no to that second glass of wine, or when I should have gone for a walk instead of farmed some ore. My blue jeans tell me the same thing in their silent refusal to snap buttons or zip up.
A good friend told me yesterday that when she hit this magical age number, she realized that she was getting happier and happier each day. Somehow psychologically the things that she cared about, namely, worrying about what others thought of her, suddenly didn't seem so important. Maybe it was her father's passing, and the concept of "don't sweat the small stuff" resonated with her deeply, and fundamentally. One can't "make" these epiphanies happen, but we can lay the groundwork for them.
Mataoka will never age, as I am. Does this mean as a character she'll never get to experience epiphanies of simply not giving a damn at a certain age? Well, she will if I write her narration that way, but otherwise, no. All those epiphanies belong to me.
Dornaa would not listen. It was unlike her to
be so disobedient, and the matron lost all patience. The little Draenei had
been playing outside for hours, the first warm spring day in weeks, the first
day with real, pure sunshine, and when it grew dark, she pretended not to hear
the matron call her in. The streetlamps went on. The merchants pulled in their
wares. The beasts in the forest began snarling, and the carousers in the inns
began drinking. Nothing was safe now. Still, Dornaa did not come home. Beginning
to feel terrified, the matron, Mercy, felt at once anger and despair. When the
guards were about to be notified, Dornaa snuck in through the side door, only
to find Mercy, arms akimbo, and angry fire in her eyes. She swooped up Dornaa
and swatted her backside. She had never struck a child before. The look of
betrayal on Dornaa’s face crushed her.
Mercy left the house in order to cool down.
The other matrons tucked Dornaa in, even though she smelled of dirty skin, sweat, and spring
air. Dornaa grumbled tough curses under her breath about “How sorry she would
be” and the injustice of the spanking. But she hurt, too. The matron was
warmth, hugs, love, and stories. She supposed there would be no story
tonight, and she didn’t deserve one.
Relieved that she was safe, and guilty over
striking the child, Mercy could not sleep unless she checked in on her favorite
child. She sat on Dornaa’s bed, and Dornaa rolled over, tear-streaked little
face, sniffling, and grabbed Mercy with her whole self. “You scared me, little
one. That’s why I got so angry. Please don’t ever scare me like that again.”
“I am sorry. I was stubborn and didn’t want
to come in.”
“Well, let me tell you of another stubborn
little kid, Dornaa.”
When Kafi was a kid, bleating and ramming his
horns, he wanted more than anything to be the Father of the Mountain. As it
was, his father had ruled over the mountaintop for as long as memory, and
goats’ memories are exceptionally long. They remember every insult, challenge,
or defeat. But most importantly, they remember victories, and hang onto them
with all that they are. The victories were their pride, and pride was
The Father of the Mountain ruled over the herd for so long that even the mountain had grown familiar with his command. Each day he awoke to his crisp blue kingdom
of gold and rock on the mountaintop: he knew it was his sovereign right to be
there, to defend and protect the nannies and kids from the prowling leopards
and ferocious yetis. The yetis could decimate a herd in minutes, ripping through
flesh eating goats pelt, horns, and all. He must defend them all, and over time
believed he was the most capable, most courage Father of the Mountain the gods
had ever chosen to rule.
never faltered in his duties, but he never relinquished them either. Many a
young buck would challenge him in the spring, vying for his position of power
and glory, and would be sent careening off the sides, skittering for purchase
with their novice hooves. It was normal and expected that every spring this
would happen: it was known that for the good of the herd, if the Father of the
Mountain could not protect them, he should fall. This was the way, and the way
of his father, and father before him.
a challenger would shamefully climb down from the mountainside on the easy
path, he would tell them:
I’ll give up the mountain
today is not that day
you’ll be where I am
for now, get out of my way
spring, Zìháo surveyed his herd and noticed his youngest son, Kafi, ramming
horns with the other bucks. It did not pass his notice, either, that Kafi looked back up at him and did not gaze down quickly. This one—this one didn’t know his place.
time, Kafi grew stronger and bolder. Before he was full grown, he asked his
mother if he was ready to challenge Zìháo. His mother told him, “There are two
paths to the top, Kafi. The easy one and the difficult one: the easy one will
never reach your father, but the difficult one will. When you can reach him,
you will only be ready to challenge him. It does not mean you will beat him.
And my son, it is a long way down.”
found the easy path up the hill soon enough, and it didn’t seem all the easy to him. Yes, there were many delicious
flowers to eat in the nooks of the rocks, and the grass was softer on his
hooves, but there were steep bluffs, but over time he scaled them as if he were
an bird. He would hate to know what the difficult path looked like. He finally
found a spot where the easy path stopped, and he could go no further. Unless he
grew wings he would never reach the top this way. He heard his father’s voice
just over the edge. An eagle was speaking to him, saying another had stolen his
nest, asking for Zìháo’s advice. Kafi was confused. He thought his father just
stood on the mountaintop all day, lording over all those beneath him. Zìháo
gave the eagle some wise advice, (something about creating a new nest and life
for himself) and off the eagle flew. Kafi climbed down.
next spring, Kafi climbed back up the easy path, thinking he might be able to short
cut the path to his father. He came to the same impossible edge, and could go
no further. He heard his father speaking to tolai hare, humbly asking for
forgiveness because she had eaten all of the silkweed meant for the warren’s
supper. Zìháo told her to go and replace as much as she could, and not take
another helping until the debt was repaid. Kafi climbed down the mountain.
year, Kafi was larger, and stronger. He went up the easy path again, and met
the same obstacle. A fox kit, wounded from a hunter’s misguided arrow, sought Zìháo
for healing advice. Kafi was flummoxed. His father knew about healing, too? The
fox kit ate some berries, bound his wound with silkweed, and seemed no worse
for wear. He hopped down on the ledge where Kafi stood, looking at him
quizzically. “Why are you standing here, when you could be standing next to
told the kit he was stuck, and could not figure out another way to seek his
father, and ultimately challenge him. The fox told him, “The difficult path is
just on the other side; try that way.”
down the mountain once more, he sought the difficult path. This path railed
against all logic: overhangs, steep bluffs, thorns, nettles, and biting beasts.
Bitter cold wind sliced his pelt, making him feel like he was held down by the
shearer’s blade. Just when he thought he could go no further, the mountain
leveled out, and there was a smooth, soft path to his father’s throne.
Kafi did not know was that Zìháo was ready to relinquish his rule. He had
watched his stubborn son grow into a leader. He still wasn’t quite ready yet,
and must be tested. He had strength, he had desire, but did he have humility?
it is time.” Kafi stood his ground.
be it. There is grey in my beard, and my hooves aren’t as sharp as they once
were. But I can still outrun, out climb, and out maneuver you. Whoever is the
last ram standing, until the sun rises on the red flag, will be our herd’s new
battle of rams is a terrifying site. The horns clash like thunder and the
hooves shred the earth like a thousand mounted soldiers, with bloodlust and
rage. Kafi did not realize his father was still so powerful. Each pushed
forward with no quarter for the other. But youth began to win out over
experience, just an edge, and an edge was all Kafi needed. Blindly he rammed Zìháo
once, twice, and again. Zìháo was bleeding, bruised, and broken. The sun rose on the red flag: the battle was finished.
is not what Kafi wanted. He wanted his father to continue to guide him, provide
bowed to him. Zìháo pulled up short, barely knocking Kafi to the ledge.
I seek your advice. I want to be a great leader for our people, but I am not
sure what is the right path. How do I lead them and keep them safe, as you have
knew Kafi did not really need his advice; he was allowing him to save face, to
save his dignity. His pride of being the Father of the Mountain gave way to
being Kafi’s father.
you may rule the mountain.”
with that, Zìháo went down the easy path, and lived the rest of his days with
the herd, respected and loved. Kafi still rules the top of the mountain to this
day, and if you challenge him, you may think you’ve won, but he’s just allowing
you to think so.
moral of this story is, it is prideful to beat our enemies with all that we
have, but worthy of pride to win with dignity.
was asleep. Mercy thought to herself, “Yes, that is a tiresome story when you’re
later, training as a young shaman in Azuremyst, Dornaa bested every beast,
every challenge, and every obstacle with ease. She began to think there was no
stopping her, and nothing she couldn’t do. She was mining some ore and slipped
down a cliff, not hurt but embarrassed, and she hoped no one saw her fall.
still had some things to learn.
On Tuesday night, I was playing Dornaa, and another player spotted her as a I was about to log off, and seemed absolutely thrilled to see her--she hugged Dornaa, waved, waved some more...she never whispered or anything, but stood jumping in the inn for about five or more minutes.
It was probably because she recognized Dornaa's name from being a world-famous NPC. Must admit that was kind of fun.
Escarlata, which means "Scarlet" (feminine) in Spanish, created by an American woman, and is living on an Oceanic server. It's a strange world, after all.
I sure do hope Tome never gets tired of her posts inspiring me. I'm sure she never in her wildest dreams thought, "You know, someday I hope there's a Northwestern/Texan shaman who reads my thoughts and spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about them!" Well, Tome, you got your wish! Once again I've taken one nugget of a mention, and plan on steering it into dark, murky waters. Toot Toot! All Aboard! Okay - here it goes. In her latest post, Conversations with Joan, in a comment Cymre mentions about how when one plays the Chinese version of WoW, you can cover up your bony joints. This reminded me of something I've been meaning to write about: censorship, cultural sensitivity, and commercialism. *crickets* Whatever. I want to ponder this, so ponder I shall. Freedom of Speech, and all that. Let's go back to 2011. I'm at Blizzcon, and talking to folks, am told that the Chinese government wouldn't allow WoW unless some cultural modifications are made. And I know I should be embarrassed by using this, but one of the best comprehensive resources about this is Wikipedia:
In China, because a large number of the players do not own the computer they use to play games (e.g. Internet cafes), the CD keys required to create an account can be purchased independently of the software package. To play the game, players must also purchase prepaid game cards that can be played for 66 hours and 40 minutes. A monthly fee model is not available to players of this region. The Chinese government and NetEase, the licensee for World of Warcraft in China, have imposed a modification on Chinese versions of the game which places flesh on bare-boned skeletons and transforms dead character corpses into tidy graves. These changes were imposed by the Chinese government in an attempt to "promote a healthy and harmonious online game environment" in World of Warcraft. The Chinese government has delayed release of the Wrath of the Lich King expansion, due to what it feels is objectionable content. NetEase took over licensing of World of Warcraftfrom The9 in June 2009 following the expiration of The9's contract, and were able to secure a launch for Wrath of the Lich King on August 31, 2010, nearly two years after its Western release.
5. There are several examples of companies getting tangled up with bad translations of products due to the word "mist". We had "Irish Mist" (an alcoholic drink), "Mist Stick" (a curling iron from Clairol) and "Silver Mist" (Rolls Royce car) all flopping as "mist" in German means dung/manure. Fancy a glass of Irish dung?
Kind of gives Mists of Pandaria a new meaning...
Case in point of cross-cultural contentions: In U.S. schools, a traditional "Halloween" party rarely exists. Religious groups protested, and over time schools might have a "harvest" celebration, but ghosts and ghouls are no more. They have bitten the dust. Bought the farm. Gone onto their great commercial reward. This deeply saddens me. It's something I grew up with, and love. It's part of my culture. But it interfered with someone else's cultural rights. Nothing I can do about it, but in my own private life make sure I decorate with as many witches, ghosts, and monsters as I please. Fine. But this is a world game. At what point does a cultural (encompassing religious, traditional, and political views) encroach on the rest of the world? If I had to play a game where the bony joints of the undead were removed from sight, I would be annoyed. But if I was raised without knowing anything differently, or more importantly, knew that this was a valued and important part of my culture that deserves respect, and then was exposed to this, I would probably be equally put out. I realize I don't have to worry about this, because "they" have their game, and "we" have ours. Settled. But sometimes I wonder if we worry about the landscape of "our" game changing in ways we don't desire, that a cultural piece is assimilated, mutated, or destroyed. The old "not in my back boneyard" song. What a silly thing to worry about, right? But it turns out, once again, I find out that I'm only human: Yesterday I heard a fantastic interview by Mahzarin Banaji on NPR about a new study and resulting book, Blindspot: Hidden Biases of Good People. It's not so much the explicit acts of aggression or intolerance we perpetrate on one another, but the effects of connection and favoritism. In no way am I suggesting that we excuse that racist uncle or dismiss egregious trade chat, what I am suggesting is a recognition that we as humans all have predilections and cultural biases. Part of the deal, yo.
This topic fascinates me, truly. Think about it: we all bring our own cultures with us, like big suitcases full of memories, foods, idioms, etc., and then we actively choose to layer these lives with virtual ones of fantasy characters. "Oh, you're a NIGHT elf, not a BLOOD elf, well, fine, come right in! Have a seat!"We may be able to garner preferential treatment in a virtual world that we are unable to attain in the real one.
I was talking about idioms today, and a Spanish-speaking acquaintance shared with me that when her dad says "Hevo" to her, it means it's non-negotiable. I doubt if I said "egg" to someone they'd catch my frisbee, know what I mean? But she explained the nuances of the term, and I got it.
Tome: this will either cement your avoidance of LFR, or prod you to join me in fighting the good fight against young squires like Sir Chad.
Here is the situation:
Tome's post really made me reflect on why I go into LFR. I mean seriously, why? It's not like I am trying to stay current for a raid team, like I'm going to get called off the bench-- I don't want to be called off of any bench, I can't right now, truth be told. Even this weekend I played too much yesterday (Saturday) and was only going to play "for a little bit" this morning, and go to the library, and wouldn't you know, it's 12:19PM, and well, yeah.
But yesterday, it is Saturday afterall, I thought I could avoid my duties for at least one day, you know, and get Zeptepi enough Valor Points to get a pretty necklace from the pandas in the cave. They're lovely pandas, and I'm concerned that hanging out in the damp, drippy cave will give them all a horrible fungal infection, but perhaps they have a cream for it. Some special panda elixir or something that prevents cave rash. Anyway, in order to do this in a relatively short amount of time (insert laugh track here), this would involve going through the cycle of LFRs and a few dungeons.
And during one, I just stopped, and looked at how beautiful Zeptepi is:
Look at this eye candy-- she is like a walking work of art and light. She is lovely to behold. The Gods of Warcraft have given me an angel. I just took a moment and admired the craftsmanship, and artistry, once again, that is Azeroth. But it's not just standing around admiring my bad self, oh no -- it dawned on me that LFR is the only place I can practice my stuff, and see it in action. Remember, it's as big of a scale of battle that I can participate in right now, and training dummies just don't cut it. It's not about the meters, or the world stats, it's about what am I doing, how I am performing, for myself, and myself only, and watching the prettiness fly.
And then comes along Chad.
You know the part where there are the slugs, and the spiders, and the ook and the ick and the poop piles? (You may recall I am the Spider Slayer in the Matty Shack: no hobo or recluse is safe from me once spotted: you will die a shriveled, broken mess, spider! NOT ON MY WATCH!) So while trying to dodge slug slime, I managed to aggravate a hanging spider. Whatever. No big whoop. And I get this whisper:
Fail? A "fail" whisper over one spider?
So, yes, there are add-ons that make bullying and experiences more trying and harassing. Chadeth, first - I hate to tell you this, and I'm sorry, but really--you sir should really think about some things.
I was laughing to myself for the rest of the day. Imagine, every single time something happens -- from a fender-bender to a broken nail, up pops on your life screen a pink FAIL? And Chadeth, and more importantly, for the makers of that add-on, please-- get a life. You never once made a mistake? Your expectations of perfection from the world around you are inevitably going to leave you embittered and very, very lonely. I know for a fact that you wouldn't last five minutes in a room with two 8th grade girls who think you're a loser. Hell, five? One. Have you ever noticed that every bullying story starts off with, "When I was in 8th grade...?" Eighth grade is a magical year. It's when the bullies hone their most epic and evil of taunts and spells, and the targets are scarred for life. If we survive eighth grade, we can survive anything.
Chadeth: I am not an 8th grade girl. But I know a few. Watch out.
Anyway -- what little things about your day remind you of a player friend? I have more than I can count, and wish I was sitting in a pub right now having handsome Aussies cheer me on with a hearty 'whoop-de-doo,' whatever that means, mate.
Dornaa’s tummy rumbled. There
just never seemed to be enough food: the forests were filled with beasts and
birds, and the rivers teeming with fish, but somehow the plates of hot food
never made it to the orphanage. The forests were dangerous, and many hunters
didn’t return. The fish were foul and oily. Even the
matron looked drawn and tired. But when it was story time, the matron always
seemed to magically find a treat—small cup of honeyed tea and a sweet biscuit,
and the blanket was always clean, and smelled of crisp wind’s kisses. It was
one of those spring days that one would imagine is perfect for future shamans:
all kinds of weather paraded through the sidewalks. Dollops of sunshine,
wind-torn white flower petals, and flung peaks of obnoxious raindrops. It was
the kind of day that made Dornaa think the gods were in a bored mood, and
couldn’t make up their minds. She was glad to see the sun at sunset today at
least; it was colder than it seemed, and the wind was just getting started.
“Dornaa, are you warm enough?” asked
the matron. She slipped her another cookie. Sometimes she worked in the
kitchens of the larger inns, and the cooks knew she needed food for the
refugees and orphans, and made a little extra. The warchief wouldn’t notice,
and certainly not the king. Dornaa was growing like a weed, in spite of the
fact there never was enough food. The matron did the best she could, often
going without, because she never wanted the children to know they were
forgotten. She believed they would be the ones to save the wreck of their
world, should such a time come.
And such a time always came.
Once upon a
time the gods of creatures made a flying one, called a moth. The moths were in charge of change, and
mystery. They were the creatures of great potential and hope. Oftentimes their
hope could be misguided, futile: they contained one fatal flaw, and that was if
they saw a light they were bound to fly to it, even if it killed them. They
would fly to lanterns, candles, and one even tried to fly to the moon! Sadly,
it died in exhaustion, but hope never dies. Moths are exquisite creatures,
strong like kites, just as brave, and mixed with moonlight, and sensitive. Moths
did not just pop into existence because the gods said so. In order to gain
their luminosity, feathery beauty, and elegance of light, they must first go
through a metamorphosis, a great change.
It takes a
lot of energy to make something so beautiful and hopeful. Like all things of
hope, it starts off small. One green morning, a cluster of the tiniest white
eggs secured their potential to the underside of a spring leaf. The gods made
all the little eggs the same, and hid them under leaves so birds would not eat
them. The eggs hatched, and crawled, inching along, eating anything in their
paths. This was another reason the gods put the eggs on leaves: they were born
on their breakfasts! (Dornaa giggled at this: the thought of waking up on her
porridge was funny!) The eggs were now hundreds of caterpillars, each eating to
his heart’s content, all day, and all night. They needed all the food they
could chew to grow. They ate the leaves, they ate more leaves, and they gnawed,
and chewed, and swallowed. And they grew plump and plush. The caterpillars’
force of will drove them forward, and that something spectacular was in their
future. Unnamed hope pushed them. Each knew his or her purpose, and that the
hunger that never seemed to be satisfied someday would be. They felt like fat
caterpillar, however, Ka’Wi, was never content. If he saw his brother or sister
eating a tasty leaf, he chewed his way over there as fast as he could crawl to
snatch it from their mandibles. If he met a friendly ladybug or singing
cricket, he growled unnecessarily to ward them away from his food. The ladybug
was just looking for aphids (who had problems of their own) and the crickets
are omnivorous, so if anyone was in danger it was Ka’Wi. Crickets have other
songs to sing, and paid Ka’Wi no attention.
His birth branch
stripped bare meant Ka’Wi needed to go look for other food. Green tea leaves,
and silkweed were his favorites, but he also loved fool’s cap and rain poppies.
Rain poppies made him feel sleepy, so he tried to stay away from them; they
just slowed him down. He wanted to stay awake to eat. And eat. And eat some
more. Insatiable and Irritable were his two allies. Insatiable kept him eating,
and Irritable kept others away from him.
By this time,
all his brothers and sisters were covered in their own bodies, attached to
branches and twigs, becoming whatever it was they were to become. Ka’Wi couldn’t
care less. All he knew was they were not in his way anymore, taking what was
rightfully his food, out of his abyss of a maw. What he did not see what that
he had grown so large, so ponderous of bulk, he could barely move to the next
cabbage patch. He moved so slowly with all the extra weight, so laboriously, he
became mired in routine.
One day, he
found a golden lotus. He didn’t so
much find it as it rolled over on it. Its sharp leaves and pointy petals belied
its glorious beauty, its fragrance, and oh—the taste. He wasted no time but to
chew it down. He…he had never tasted anything like this before. His taste buds
exploded in ecstasy. His mind soothed, and rapturous joy surrounded every
spiracle, into his very soul. He must have more. He lumbered his massive bulk
over the meadow, hunkering each segment, as he never had before.
Off in the
distance he caught the glimmer of a golden-white flower. Another one! Just as
he approached it, a gathering druid swooped down and snatched it. As much as
this angered him, he decided he should remain calm, there would be another. A
day and a night went by before he found the next one. As he humped over to the
lotus, a vermin leapt up and stabbed it with his atrocious front fangs of
incisors, laughing hysterically when he saw Ka’Wi begin to scream and sob.
Another day, and another night went by, and one more day: Ka’Wi went back to
the place where he found the first one, and by that time another had grown! As
far as he could see, (which was usually just straight ahead to the next meal),
no one was in the skies above, and nothing popped out of a root-hewn hole: it
In the skies above his myopic obsessive bulk, the light of the full moon became hazy
and dimmed simultaneously while something shimmered the light and air around
him, a lenticular dream-like dance. He went in a trance...the lotus...the lotus was his, nothing or no one was in his way. He did not see above him was one of his many sisters, a transcendent moth. “Ka-Wi! What has become of you, my
brother?” asked his sister. “You have not changed, except that you are just
bigger—we all become what we were meant to be, and fly in the night and dance
with the stars. Oh, Ka-Wi, what happened?”
He looked up
at his lovely sister, her antennae feathery and graceful, her wings singing to
the wind. She landed on the golden lotus, and gently used her long, straw-like
tongue to sip its nectar, waiting for Ka’Wi’s response. Infuriated, Ka’Wi lunged toward the flower, barely missing his sister. In horror she escaped to the skies. The story of Ka’Wi’s unremitting
greed spread through the whole valley. The gods heard of it, and decided to
punish Ka’Wi: they gave him the name “the Gorger,” and made him keep guard
forever in one spot. He could not move, nor could he change, or learn to fly
with his brothers and sisters. Their lives were shorter than his, but by far
more interesting. To remind him of his greed, just out of his reach, forever
and a day, they planted a golden lotus on the mountainside, where the sun and
the moonlight would strike it day and night, so all he could feast on was the
The moral of
the story is:
It is not
wrong to wish and want for more in our lives, as long as the more we seek is
for more joy, beauty, and hope.
Dornaa broke her cookie in half and
gave it to the matron, with the biggest, sweetest smile. The matron smiled back,
then pretended to yawn so the water in her eyes looked like a reaction to
How does this have to do with WoW? I wonder sometimes if Hyperbole was somehow related to I Like Bubbles. Probably not. In any case, I loved Hyperbole long before I played WoW. Yes, I can say I knew her when. Just yesterday, a colleague and I were discussing the many, MANY, typos, misspellings, and grammatical errors we encounter from published items from a supervisor. Keep Calm and Proofread is our new motto. We don't want alot, I mean a lot, of bad things to happen to people.
This morning's Random Tuesday Morning Thought must be brief.
I cannot seem to get this blog to look the way I want it to: you know the whole definition of insanity thing. Keep doing the same thing and expecting different results...Google blogger has a myriad of choices, but none of them seem to tweak just so, or do what I want. This blog has become noisy, messy, and well just not very satisfying visually.
In a pique over just "too much damn stuff," I trashed every screenshot on my desktop, and put some in folders. As I dash off into the great, wide Tuesday, this will give me something to doodle and thumbnail sketch during meetings.
Curious: are there things you do to sneak WoW thoughts in your day when you're at work or doing something you're supposed to be focusing?
I had this nagging sensation (no, there isn't a cream for it, I checked) that perhaps, just maybe...I could help rally some folks to do the previous tiers' content for fun and prizes. So, battletag buddies and guildies - I realize I'm very good at the 'big idea' but not so good at the execution, so let me know your thoughts. Lately Navimie and Crimson have been posting their epic sojourns to get the goodies, unfinished business on my part. I mean, I was this close, THIS CLOSE, to downing Nefarian...come on guys, whaddya say? Let's put on a show!
Patch 5.3 is on its way, and for those of us who are deep into altaholicism, we want to thank Blizzard for enabling our addiction! But there's a catch.
There always is.
A couple of things I need to clean up:
Godmother (oh this is so cool) just wrote a post about getting her bow with a CRZ raid. I need to know if this really works in current content, because I heard that it doesn't. I need some clarification on this one. However, I wasn't perusing her blog for tidbits about battletag and bows* (the poing-poing kind, not the tie-in-hair kind), I was looking for a previous post about 5.3 changes, and I found it. (By the way--her blog--I humbly bow (bah-owe not boe) to her--dang, if only I wasn't so busy writing about bad massages and cheating otters, maybe I could make something of myself...) Anywho....found it: Hound Dog. She mentioned the possibility of all three of our specializations being open and available.
Since we're not getting the use of all three of our character's specializations, which in the cases of Druids, Shamans, Priests, Paladins, and oh, gee, just about everyone, would really enhance the game experience, I propose this: when we get weapons or gear, please--make it account bound. Please.
With this caveat: since no one would ever, EVER go into an LFR willingly on different characters (see Grumpy Elf's great posts on ROI (which I was just thinking about yesterday, Return on Investment) and LFR) unless they wanted to see how they'd fare with varying skills and the chance to get looty-loot. But you all know my heartache with the shaman, and then my experiment with the mage was a bust, and I am afraid to level up Luperci the Cataclysmic Tank of Awesomesauce for fear of making a mistake and being kicked repeatedly, and the hunter wears basically the same gear as the enhancement shaman, etc. But my hunter is different from my shaman, and my tank is still shiny, and and and...well, scroll down to why Thing Two Must Die.
Think about this: what if, like other pricey items in the game, we got to choose some choice items that we spent blood, sweat, and tears for, and have the ability to pass them along to our other characters? Think about it. I won the LFR healing staff on my shaman, but my priest and druid could really use it, not the shaman. I would be willing to spend 5000 gold on making it account bound, so I could go into LFR, have fun on other characters, and enjoy the game...crazy idea, huh?
Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, Darnassus
Let me share this (yes, I over-share, deal)
This past week I was on break. Not a vacation, but a break. A vacation implies doing something that is out of the ordinary. Through life circumstances, "out of the ordinary" was not in the cards. And I had a major epiphany about myself, or rather, a rediscovery of some painful self-awareness: I suck at "free time." Absolutely suck. In fact, because of some big things that happened this week, some big life events that I knew were coming at me like a freight train but could not celebrate or participate in, I had an episodic meltdown. The kind of meltdown that means crying at the doctor's office, reading e-mail spam and having big, hot tears roll down my face, and in general, the opposite of "getting a grip." It was losing the grip. And now it's Sunday, my break is over, and I'm trying to rally the procrastinated projects into some sort of militaristic order. Dammit, you bills! Stand up! Drop and give me twenty, maggots! Salute when I walk in a room, dirty laundry! NOW! But before I despair too much, or wallow in self-loathing, I am going to take stock of what I did get done:
1. Had some fun in Azeroth
2. Enjoyed my friends' company -- Best GM Ever: thanks for the trips to Ulduar, and always a pleasure to see you, too, Señor -
3. Heartichoke made herself a turbo-charged flying machine and added to the mount collection*
4. Wrote another story for my and Navi's fable collection and have the next two lined up...
5. Had the usual nice folks and asshats mix in LFRs, etc. /shrug
6. And the big news: I pared down to one account.
What?! What was that you said, Matty? One account? And you call yourself an altaholic!
You know it's tax day in the States tomorrow, April 15. I got my taxes done weeks ago, and now I just need to write the check and get it in the post tomorrow. Did I confess to you all that when the kind lady at H&R Block asked about dependents, I smirked to myself about 22 something alts who all need gear and RNG luck? Don't think Uncle Sam would understand about a shaman in Tanaris who is supporting 13 goblin priests on varying servers. Nope. Can't write that one off.
Thing Two Must Die
One account is a signal to myself, cross-dressing rogue, and my real dependents that I am curbing game time. One promise I have made to myself is to get out of Azeroth more, and when I'm there, enjoy it more. It was becoming like a bus man's holiday for me. What that means is my real-life job deals with its share of asshats, thieves, ninjas, foul-mouthed brats (all over the age of 18), lack of parental controls, back-stabbing co-workers, kindly guildmates, supportive and nurturing whispers, and a lot of professional training. Huh. So escaping to Azeroth was becoming more of the same. One of the worst moments this past week was when the good denizens of the Matty-shack damn near had an intervention for me. No joke. The language they used was that of the lexicon of family members I've listened to over the years talk to each other about addictions and cures. I could analyze all the reasons and methods Azeroth is an addictive pastime, but you all know them. It's like living in a casino. There are lots of little gold and silver coins that periodically bounce in your cup, and lots of shiny things, and oh yes....free drinks. (There are no such thing as free drinks--we all know this.)
So yes, I did spend some real-life gold on moving the characters I love from Account Two to Account One. I deleted many characters I've enjoyed but showed no mercy. Big-eyed, level-40 Draenei monk? Whack! Cute, demur goblin warlock? Thud! I have every class represented but warrior now, and I may change that. Not sure. I have Account Two paid for until April 30, so there may be a bit more shuffling, but for the most part, it's done. Zeptepi is once again the GM for The Wildings, aka Jefa. I kept Rökkr the Rogue out of sentimentality, since she is level 70, and my second character, but she may get a pink-slip, too. I still enjoy my server, Whisperwind, an older server with just enough population to make me know that if I want to start something, I can, but if want to be left alone, that can happen, too.
The funny thing was when I closed the second account, Blizzard asked me some simplistic survey questions, and I just wanted to scream, D. None of the above, because in those questions, it was like they didn't get it at all. "Not enough content" -- are you kidding? There is enough content to last a thousand player lives. But the content I want is to have one account, eleven characters, all classes, and enjoy them all in turn. They didn't ask me anything about character choices.
The upshot is I can't enjoy a game/hobby/addiction/passion/pastime that makes me cry, or anyone else angry with me. I thought about my own mom and how she relaxed on her days off, and it was reading the paper in jammies. I know that's what I've been doing to relieve some of the stresses of my job, life, etc., but it stopped feeling like "jammie time" and more like "cram it in your cram hole"time.
This doesn't mean though that I don't want to go to Blizzcon.