Buster Swords and Fairy Dust

Apparently my so called fool-proof plan has a couple of flaws I’ve only recently been privy to. Like any well thought, even blueprinted, plan, its downfall is always the human factor. The purveyor himself admits that sticking to the plan is very difficult. The main protagonist: pride and that endorphin-induced state that clouds all objective judgment. Brilliant.

Here I am thinking I’ll be getting some major frags under my belt and the next thing I do is revert to the old pattern, that old rut. Old habits die hard they say, and repetition turns it into something mechanical, automatic to you psych majors.

And speaking of old habits, those far-off destinations seem to be one of the qualifying factors again. Either that or I’m just looking for an excuse for a long drive.

A couple of friends have pointed out some of my trademark propensities that they fear will never disappear. For one, there’s my inability to be conventional, marred, unfortunately and through no fault of mine, by an expression that just happens naturally. All the better to take the unconventional approach, then. Two; an Achilles’ heel, or perhaps Peter Pan’s bane would be more appropriate. Pixies, you see, though bereft of their wings, lose none of their charm, and it’s got nothing to do with the fairy dust.

The youthful sage says it best. “Don’t change.” Evolution doesn’t take place, after all, if nothing needs fixing. I guess I'm 'Shy That Way'. My inaction has always produced fruit, and while it may not be to many others’ liking, it finds place in my garden, like a charming barren fig tree.

As for that shiny new 7-in-one Buster Sword of a weapon. Well there’s always the possibility of a book — something I can live ‘vicariously’ through, as one pixie is quite fond of saying.

Touché then.

Desperate Measures

Forgive the extended metaphor and cliche. In video games, fighting games to be more specific, the last ditch effort to salvage a terrible round is always the desperation move. Unblockable, powerful, and only requiring the little strength you have left, these measures ensure you have a fighting chance. They bring down the opponent's enormous advantage to a manageable size, and assuming you have enough strength left, allow a victory that, just a couple of moments ago, seemed impossible.

All's fair... You know how the cliche goes.

I’d like to believe in a newfound weapon I could soon be brandishing. More than this, I’d like to believe I can apply it properly. I’ve just witnessed (or read rather) its potent power; not from press releases but straight from the mouths of its hapless victims. (Well, not really. They fall into the trap willingly.) Next to seeing drifting in real life, the effects are truly awe inspiring, heavily depending, of course, on circumstances similar to mine.

Perhaps the debate is not a matter of application but more on its moral weights. Indeed, the primary prerequisite is losing your old self and donning a new mask. But there’s still the very Hollywood Superman / Clark Kent complex – a question of who they’re really infatuated with. The purveyor or this new found philosophy says that these laws are ingrained in each of the psyches of the enemy; that though the numbers are in our favor, it’s still an uphill battle. Does that justify the charade then? Perhaps it’s more a matter of pride and my unwillingness to accept the fact that who I am isn’t good enough.

It all boils down to what I’m willing to live with; honest misery, or a sweet white puffy lie. All know that the former has tried but to no avail. Is the latter, then, a worthy sacrifice?

At times I’ve embraced the Machiavellian way. Sometimes, though, I still pause to think if honesty still has value in this day and age. Life Down from the Hill has already proven it a bogus hypothesis. Selling out is suddenly profitable.

Or perhaps I’m still wishing things turned out my way, instead.

Back to Simpler Times

I’ve been bitten by the nostalgia bug lately. Blame it on the old school issue that’s coming up. They say regression is a form of escapism, a release from the pressure of current times. Though, who wouldn’t want to escape in tumultuous times as these?

I’ve been regaling quite a lot with video games. No surprise, then, that I’ve been asked to wax sentimental about the earlier Pentium 133 games. Back then, my computer could hardly hack the requirements. These days, I’m finding it hacks them a little too well. So well that my computer refuses to recognize inferior programming code.

No matter what I try, it’s always about compatibility issues. Some would but with some aspect of performance greatly debilitated. You either have to have a miraculously antique system to run it, or a heavily handicapped modern one.

It’s a lot like that in the office as well. The new struggle to work with the limitations of the old. The old in turn do what they can to keep up. It’s not always a pretty picture. No matter how hard you try to get the two to work harmoniously, the new will always have to slow down. It’s not like you can revert back to old school either. Progress forbids it.

It’s a matter of teaching an old dog new tricks. It’s not entirely impossible. Just very tedious — an act that can try the very limits of your patience. It’s the enthusiasm to learn that makes it easier.

And for the new? It’s always helpful to look back on old times, just so we don’t take for granted how easy we have it now. The farther back you look. The more you realize how simple things were. It’s amazing how our efforts to simplify things complicate them all the more.

The Co-pilot Named Chance

We’ve always been taught to approach limits cautiously. The final few increments before it are the sweet spot for any racer. Finding that sweet spot and staying on it as long as possible is the reason behind all that practice, and all that lecture about a car’s dynamics. Yet all the lectures and practice sessions in the world can’t prepare you for those freak moments that the limits are breeched, or in some cases, moved unexpectedly closer than anticipated. It only takes a split second — a variable missed — for all hell, or in our case, the tail end to break loose.

Perhaps from an avid amateur’s end the temptation of false presumptions is always there. While you’re working towards the outer limits, the few factors that can rocket you through that threshold are all too easily forgotten — it’s a chance/fluke that shouldn’t be taken for granted. It could be anything, really: the human factor, mechanical failure, a global event.

Perhaps the fallacy is working towards improvement in a presumed perfect environment; where all will fall as planned, provided you do it as planned. We often blame ourselves for not pushing hard enough, or pushing too hard when the time sheets reflect the deficiency. We succumb to our own pressures, constantly seeking that extra inch of road or momentum, which inevitably leads to a lower time. The much more random factors are suddenly overlooked. We presume we’re incapable of consistency. Whereas, our own instruments and environment are very much capable of suffering the same problem.

If there’s one thing I learned from the crash today (Thankfully, my colleague only suffers from a bruised ego resulting from fellow males' natural instinct for picking on weaknesses.), it’s that there’s another passenger in that car, besides the navigator. Her name is chance, and sometimes, she wants to get in on the action too.

Not Too Much, Thanks

I would have wanted to exercise proper unbiased judgment the other night, but apparently, that ain’t worth shit. Naturally, you’d want to please as many as possible, but unfortunately, that means some will have to get what they don’t necessarily deserve — all in the name of preserving the peace, of course. Forget the fact then, that I was there standing in the rain, trying to be as objective as possible. Kudos, though, to the yellow Terrano. You really deserved it.

These days, the just way isn’t the right way.

The ‘real’ golden rule seems more like it.

Perhaps I’m still suffering aftershocks from coming down from the hill. There’s a lot, after all, that those inclines shield you from. Or was it the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow I was sitting on? Sometimes it’s having too much of the real world too. You become cynical and eventually don this industrial hero complex out of frustration. Or perhaps it’s just too much righteous fiction in the case of my little misguided friend. Harsh and foolish commanders in real life combined with worldwide dominion and righteousness in the other brew a very anarchistic mix indeed.

At some point, you really have to become cynical and take it all in with a grain of salt, pull over the cloak of invincibility and blend into the background. Standing out has its price — easy pickings for predation. “At the end of the day,” as my good friend says, “all you really have to worry about is getting home, getting money, and getting laid.” Ah such eloquence. You’d be forgiven for reducing it to such a selfish act. Half the world is doing it already.

There are, however, instances, to the skilled and sharp-witted, where your will be done, provided the higher ups feel like they thought of it. It’s in the ‘pitfalls’ as Machiavelli says, that trap the unawares. Powers corrupts, and in some instances blinds. We are fortunate not to have so much, still having the good sense to laugh when the so-called leaders stumble.