Blog Post #20 Deep Thoughts
Sa. 3/15/2025
I’ve been doing Morning Pages. From The Artist’s Way. My older sister is leading a Discord server in the 12 weeks detailed in the book. I haven’t read the book, nor done much related to it, but I did start writing three pages of anything most mornings.
Let’s begin.
I can’t change the past. So I can’t make myself have gotten up earlier today. What I can do is provide positive reinforcement for the beginnings. I got up around noon today, and instead of reinforcing bad behavior by feeling badly about it, I started my morning routine. I stretched, I meditated, now I’m writing. When I’m done writing, I’ll read. I haven’t checked my phone. I haven’t listened to anything at all. I wish that I could’ve seen the sunrise. But the sun will rise tomorrow, and every day after.
The farmer’s daughter was named Angelise. Were she and her father in the Epilogue? They must’ve been. But do people have children in the Epilogue? How could that be? Or perhaps, the farmer, his daughter, and the tragedy that befell them occurred in the Mortal Realm, and the response to the tragedy was so potent that the Epilogue responded, creating a champion of vengeance to try and right the wrong. And Angelise would then be in the Epilogue, because that’s where dead people go. So Sir Babbage is roaming the realm, searching for the culprits— but the plot twist is that he might encounter the living spirit of Angelise, alive now in this fantastical realm. Or he might hear of a hexling bearing her description— long before encountering her. Once he hears of her, the quest could be trying to find her.
I like that.
How can I make the “smear” of alla prima affect the “image” captured? That is going to be the biggest challenge, I believe.
Sangamore. There’s a street called that near Oly’s dorm building. It stuck in my head for days after first seeing it; I did not write it down— I just couldn’t seem to forget it. My memory’s been markedly better recently. I think it’s because I’ve been prioritizing my focusing power, and training my memory by forcing myself to; I often hold ideas in my head for a time before writing them down.
I’m excited to play No Rest for the Wicked. It has an intriguing stylized art style that I’m considering replicating for Pareidolia: Unbound. Not super painterly, but similar. And the shadows and hues are exaggerated, but not overly done. Also, the environments are verdant and varied, and no procedural generation is used— which isn’t really necessary, but it’s a nice philosophy to use; every pixel is created by hand, which is a level of craftsmanship that I appreciate.
I’m going to record most of Macbeth’s lines today. I still need to read them. I also need to do the House texturing assignment. It’s late. I need to rewatch the part of that lecture from over a month ago, to figure out an easier way to create tiling textures. I’m also going to make more Bitchin sauce. I got soy sauce, which should add that extra touch that liquid aminos lacked. I’m going to start with one bag of almonds, so that I have the second to add per necessity— regarding the flavor and texture. It’s almost 1pm.
I want to write something. In Writer’s Camp, we wrote freestyle for 15 minutes at the start of each day. I didn’t have trouble with it, back then. I just need to train myself to do that again.
I get to play Baker Gyld again tomorrow. I set a copy of Wanderer’s Guide to Dromknost atop my dice bag. I’m going to gift it to Liz.
I really hope that No Rest for the Wicked isn’t too challenging. It does say in the description that it’s a “precision combat” game. It has a different perspective than what I’ve been playing. Still 3rd person, but zoomed out and from above, at an angle. I’m going to play a melee build. I think that’ll be easier with that perspective. In FPS games and, even, closer perspective 3rd person games, I tend to play ranged builds. I struggle especially doing melee in FPS games. But the perspective of No Rest is reminiscent of that game that I played as a child whenever we had to go to Best Buy or Staples. I would camp out in the computer section for the duration, and grind through level after level of dungeons of this game, the title of which I forget. It was kind of a hack n slash.
I really do want to catch up in Texturing. But I fear that it will take a few more assignments. This current assignment is about creating textures in Substance Designer, a node-based program that absolutely baffles me. How do you create the shapes that eventually form the basis for the texture? It’s ridiculous.
I introduced myself as Mori at Ninja Warrior training this past week. As I was leaving, Coach Eric said, “Bye Mori!” and I felt an odd expression— surprise, or shock?— cross my face, before realizing that he was talking to me. I wish that I had introduced myself as Moribund, but I feared that it would be too strange. As if I tend to care about being perceived as strange.
T. 3/18/2025
Finding Mason was always supposed to be a backup, to guide me to who I was— in the event that I received another serious brain injury, and forgot myself. But that presupposes that I know who I am. But I’ve spent the past ten years developing my social skills. And that practice was ultimately other-oriented. It was all about making myself someone that everyone could love. It wasn’t about making myself someone that I could love. What would I be like if I had spent those ten years developing me. I recorded a voice memo recently in a new voice, saying that, ultimately, there’s a sharp difference between Being Loved and Being Worthy of Love. And often, they’re mutually exclusive. I talked about how if my dad drastically altered who he was, so that we could love him— I still wouldn’t love him. Because no one should have to change who they are at their core to be loved. And that that change would be desperate; it’d be about feeling not good enough. Not everyone is worthy of everyone’s love. But the people who are worthy of my love— and the people who will come to know the Me That Loves Me— are the ones who are. I’m not sure if that makes sense— or would make sense— to anyone except me. But I know it.
And a large part of this Morning Page practice is in developing that Me That Loves Me. Because if I know one thing about Who I Am, it’s that creativity matters to me. And Morning Pages will help develop my creativity. It’s also about losing my creative filter. It’s about writing what’s on my mind, when it’s on my mind, because creativity is all about the moment; it’s all about the Self. No one can create what another Self creates. I’m not saying that “no one can create what another person creates”— because that’s done all the time. But what a Self creates? Well, you can’t imitate that. Or rather, you can imitate it, but you can’t replicate it. Because a Self is individualistic. There’s that old adage of modern art: someone skeptical sees a dot and a line painted on a blank canvas, and says, “I could’ve done that, but this piece is worth a thousand bucks.” But yes, they could imitate it; they could make it— but could they make it matter? Could they make it matter to themself? Could they imbue the meaning of the original artist into it? Obviously, no.
I have this philosophy that if I knew everything about a songwriter— everything about their life— I could predict the next song that they write— every line; every word. It’s the same thing about how you could unravel the depth of the universe from just one cell. Everything about how the universe works, you could infer the rest of life.
But, A) it’d be impossible to know everything about anyone— it’d take an entire life just to study that, in real time, and B) you’d have to know everything about the universe just to predict that one song. Because even if you knew all of the personal details about a songwriter, you’d never be able to predict the external stimulus— the inspiration— that makes them write that next line. You can tell the entirety of the universe from just one cell, but you can’t tell one line from 99% of the universe. Because creativity is not about the Self, not really.
Creativity is about how the world influences the Self.
I’d thought about being ready for a relationship. I’d thought that I’d never be ready. I’d started my current relationship, and, about a week in, I entered a depressive episode. It wasn’t related; that just happens to me pretty regularly. Like clockwork. And in that episode, I thought— “I’m unfit to be in a relationship.” But, like clockwork, that bell will chime regularly throughout my life. So I will never be “fit” for a relationship. Not with that mindset.
I’d thought that I needed to see lots of people to “find myself.” I’d thought that I needed to see the entire world, and that limiting myself to just one person was unrealistic. But I really can find myself through singular dedication. It’s breadth versus depth. But not even that; because just because I’m in a relationship with one person, that’s not my relationship with the world. I am not one relationship. I am not one person. I am not one blade of grass, rustling in the wind. I am that singular cell that can describe the entirety of the universe just from its laws of physics.
I started introducing myself as “Moribund”, “Mori” if you’re feeling familiar. Some people respect it— remember it— some people call me “Mason” still. I’m fine with that. I think that I’m still trying to “find Mason”, even going by “Moribund.” I’m trying on this new pair of identity jeans, seeing if they fit, because the legs underneath? Well, they matter more than the fiber arts that clad them.
But who is Mason?
I’m still trying to figure that out. “Still”, as if I haven’t just started. In reality, I have just started.
It’s the “Mason” that is the legs beneath those identity jeans. “Identity” is, in essence, performative. Who we are changes with each person who perceives us. And “us”? That’s an external perception, as well. But, I believe, that there’s something to be said about dedication to the craft. Weaving those jeans, harvesting the cotton— pricking my thumb on the sharp stalk of the plant— immersion is the way to go. Whenever I write a D&D campaign, I do everything. I write the plot, I write the homebrew mechanics that create the characters, I do the voices, I manually craft the 3D battle maps, and the world that houses them. And in doing everything, I am, therefore, prepared for anything. When I say that I “write the plot”, I outline the external factors that will influence the Player Characters. That I know so much about the motivations of the NPCs, that I am prepared to pivot their actions in response to the PCs’ actions. It’s not railroading; it’s worldbuilding the nation through which the railroad runs.
Now, how do I immerse myself in “Finding Mason”?
I think a majority share is similar to building those NPCs.
That I need to know the world first, and then the motivations. Motivations of how the globe turns. How the sun shines.
In this analogy, am I an NPC or a PC? Am I a DM?
Is it more empowering to be a PC or a DM?
Is it about being empowered?
Who has Player Agency?
Val recently released a video on that subject, and how the GM taboo of seizing Player Agency might not be black and white. It might not always be wrong. Because if the GM portrays the response of your Player Character in a way that is true to that character, that’s still consistent with the Player’s will.
About that. I have a Player, Nathan, who developed a semi-religious order called “The Sun’s Will” for our Oulde World oneshot. It’s crazy, because Nathan related “will” to the two primary meanings of the word— motivation and an endowment— and based the origin myth of the order to that— saying that the sun endowed the order with the purpose and the power. But what’s actually crazy about that, is that I had written in my commonplace journal, months ago, that dichotomy of “will”. And Nathan came in, and used it. I hadn’t shared that note with anyone.
I wonder if writing a will for myself could empower me. Could I endow myself with certain boons, and feel the sacred duty of carrying them forward? Could I move forward with my life, having received those boons, and do justice to the person who gifted them?
Who would have done the gifting?
In the Mindvalley meditation that I’ve done most (I forget what’s it’s called, but it’s about six prompts that Vishen guides us through), Vishen finishes with having some “higher power” protecting us, guiding us, through our day. He says that for atheists, we can imagine some older version of ourselves looking down on us, endowing us with protection and guidance. He has us imagine a sphere of power encircling us, drawn by that higher power.
I always had trouble with that bit.
Because I can’t imagine myself old.
I can’t imagine aging.
I can’t imagine dying.
For someone like me, who doesn’t experience time linearly, the Future doesn’t make sense.
For a couple weeks, a long time ago, I was obsessed with ensuring that my mom never dies. I went to the library, and I checked out an armful of books on religion, metaphysics— anything that could help me. The key, I thought, was releasing ourselves from that linear time. My mom actually asked me recently if I believe in reincarnation, and I said “no”. Because I don’t believe in death. Now, I’ve known people who have died, but it’s like reverse object permanence. They’re still here. I’m still here, and they only ever existed through my perception of them. And if I can still perceive them, then that Boolean remains true. Immortality then, is about sight. And boy, can I see.
W. 3/19/2025
I have begun to notice that I fall back— lazily, sloppily, even— upon the idiomatic phrase, “fuck it”. And from a mere objective, semantic basis, “fuck it” doesn’t have much going for it in terms of merit. The whole presupposition is that things are already bad, so saying “fuck it”, I’ll do this [anyways] could not, would not possibly make it worse. And I’ve heard my inner voice saying those two words with increasing frequency. And it’s always regarding things that aren’t good for me.
I had this other idiomatic phrase, ages ago. “I’ll take any opportunity...” But the difference was that I ended that phrase with “to improve myself”. See, from the first half, one would reasonably assume that it was on the same moral level as “fuck it”. But I took that semantic level of weakness, and I turned it into strength. And it worked. For a time.
So how can I take “fuck it”, and turn it into something good? Because it’s already there in my mind. It’s already asserted squatter’s rights. Resisting it is a sure way to ensure that it persists. But if I can add a choice handful of words to transmute the immoral crutch of that phrase, and turn it into something that props me up... well, that’s where the magic happens.
I could combine the two.
“Fuck it, I’ll take any opportunity to improve myself.”
I could just alter the meaning.
“Fuck it.” I’m choosing strength. I’m choosing growth. Would that work? Could it, when “fuck it” already has such negative connotation in my mind?
…
The sun is rising.
I didn’t sleep last night.
But I finished Mercutio’s [fabric] clothes, and the overdue Texturing house assignment.
And I do not feel well. I would like to go to Ninja Warrior training this evening, but I fear that my legally-drunk-equivalent brain would not be safe driving there. Which sucks. Because I didn’t go to improv Monday, either. So I’m not really taking care of myself.
Th. 3/20/2025
Disclaimer: It’s not the morning. It’s 6pm. I just didn’t do it when I woke up (around 1:30pm) because I felt like being more active. So I made breakfast, I washed my face, and I went grocery shopping.
I don’t know. I don’t feel creative. To be fair, I spent the past half hour watching random, meaningless YouTube videos. I tell myself, I say, “The longer I can go without looking at my phone, the more power I gain.” But then one click turns into a minute, then 10, then an hour, and the next thing I know, I’ve drained my soul— the last dregs of hopeful productivity swirling dimly as it departs. I need to remember to publish a blog post tomorrow. I also need to get up significantly earlier, because I have a psychiatry appointment at 9:45am. I am dedicated to staying up afterwards. I spent $8 on healthier cereal. I was motivated to get up because I thought that I’d get Special K Red Berries cereal at the store. But it’s not healthy. So I got Three Wishes cinnamon cereal, which costs over twice as much. And I ate a bowl, but did not feel the inexorable drive to eat the entire box. Weird how that works— except not really, because Three Wishes is healthier, less sweet, and therefore, less addictive.
I really want to go back to those two or three days of getting up really early. It felt excellent.
And I really must. I slept for around 24 hours between yesterday and today. I went to bed after I got home from class, around 2:30pm, I woke up around 8:30pm, washed my face, then went back to sleep, and slept until 1:30pm. I don’t feel good. Physically, my throat hurts. It was difficult to swallow the juice that I had with breakfast. It felt like my uvula was suffocating me.
I really want to write a good story. I’m spending all this time writing— and I know, it’s not about producing a product— but I want to write a story.
“Sonderless”. An undead creature created by the living’s incomplete, nostalgic memories of the passed.
I’m reading my lore notes for Adam’s studio project. I didn’t propose it to him, but I had thought of a better name than “Archived”— which, frankly, doesn’t make sense, and is lackluster. The name’s “Bound”. A book is bound; a spirit is bound to a place. Just like Edward. I don’t know if Adam is using anything that I wrote for the project. I suspect not. Which sucks. I put a lot of work into it— and, more importantly, it’s actually really good.
Anyway, I’m going to play a game tonight. That is a must. I’ve bought too many games and haven’t played most of them.
…
Let’s brainstorm story ideas.
The Mongrel Sings. A castrated boy is used for his “songbird” gifts.
Something in a swemp.
The Pearl Manor story, with paranoid students and teachers alike being immersed in a mysterious setting.
Something with werewolves.
Something related to Oulde.
A monster hunter.
A magic system where “magic” is called “guile”.
Something in the Oulde setting— mixing Dark Sun, Wild West, and Mad Max.
A pirate story.
Something about Chance Gamble, at your service. Disgraced noble turned mercenary for hire. A witch kissed me and gave me a map with an ‘X’ at the very edge. My destiny’s waiting for me at the edge of the world, so I’m looking for a ship and a crew to take me there. Interested?
A magical shopkeep. Selling on consignment strange artifacts.
Also selling information, also sold on consignment.
Ok wait this is solid. Let’s expand upon this.
The Mouldy Underpass. A shop concealed within the wall of a freeway underpass. People who know about it can see the neon sign hanging above the ironbound door. Caged windows display strange artifacts. But the real secret of the shop is not found in the archaic items for sale on consignment, but rather in the tomes of ledgers hidden beneath the counter in a locked chest. See, people sell information on consignment as well. The owner of The Mouldy Underpass judges people’s information in specially-booked appointments. If she deems it worthy of the shop, she’ll agree to put it up for sale (for the people who know of that aspect of the shop, of course). If she deems it not worth her time, the contract that she and the “prospect” signed at the beginning of the appointment erases her memory of the information, and the prospect leaves, secure. There’s another, seedier consignment store across town. Someone sells information regarding a slew of murders— something that has stumped the police. But the clerk, a young man who learned of the shop in need of a job, is bound to silence. What will he do when people whom he knows start to die— in accordance with the details of the murderer? Is there a way out of his binding contract?
Maybe the murderer is hunting down people who know another piece of key information, before it can be sold?
Magic is real. It’s called “guile”. Monsters are real, too. It’s modern day, set in a city that I know well. Kind of an Unsleeping City or Monster of the Week situation. Let’s get some character names.
Halloway.
Ranunculus.
Shale.
Silas.
Rence.
Sinclair.
Adeline.
Gard.
Raul.
Dr. Morgan “Morgue”.
Mr. Adlow.
Img. A friendly troll.
A monster called a “gluccus”.
Once someone puts a piece of information up for consignment, magic binds it to remain a secret until someone buys it. Only the prospect, the owner, the clerk, and anyone who knew of it before know of it. The shop itself stays secret for the same reason— it’s privileged information. Halloway, the clerk, learns of it from someone who used to work there— a previous clerk. Why did that person leave? Are they being hunted for their loose-thread information?
“Return to sender.”
Monsters stay secret for the same reason— it’s privileged information.
Ms. Aisen (“Ashen”) Adlow is the owner of the store.
Gratto is the troll guard who stands out front. Until Halloway learns of monsters, he just appears as a grungy man with a walking stick.
The other store across town is called The Gilded Hive. It markets to seedier clients.
The story is not about violence, but there’s a rune-carved ancient sword for sale in the shop, which Halloway takes with him to rescue Ms. Adlow near the end.
F. 3/21/2025
Instead of stream-of-thought, today I wrote just over three cohesive pages of prose for The Mouldy Underpass story. The beginning chapter. It starts at Donut Star, with the protagonist meeting with a friend, who tells him of a position opening at this strange store. Oh yeah, Donut Star is a low-quality donut shop on Washington, a street that I’m very familiar with in San Diego. When we were growing up, on weekends, our dad would take my sisters and I “yard-sailing”/“garage-sailing”— we would drive around and find yard sales/garage sales. We’d wake up really early and go to Donut Star, then, fueled by cheap sugar, we’d go find “scores”— weird artifacts being sold on people’s lawns.
I decided to set this story in San Diego, around the time of when I was a kid. As a factor in this decision, I knew that I’d be able to supply effortless detail, and really flesh it out. But what’s cool is that I’ll have this “real-world” San Diego paired with this fantastical side of the fiction. So I’ll still be developing a setting. A lot of people do this. Authors.
I was particularly inspired by the book that I’m currently re-reading, The Binding, and the book that I read last, Mr. Penumbra’s 24 Hour Bookstore. This concept shares a lot of elements with both books, but, I feel, it brings something new and fresh. It also has a reasonable reason why the fantastical side of the setting is hidden from the general populus— unlike the bullshit like Percy Jackson, with some veil being cast over the “mortals” eyes. The reason why most people don’t know about the store, or about monsters, or guile, or anything, is because that’s “privileged information”; someone sold that information ages ago to one of the consignment stores, who have it for sale to the customers in-the-know, but the price is so high— and its secrecy is so important— that no one buys it.
Anyways!
All of this is to say that I haven’t done much for Seminar work directly except consult with programmers, and brainstorm ideas for my alla prima mechanic. I have one idea of a relatively easy way to achieve part of it: my refraction trail has the maximum amount of screen-facing planes (16), so I can make the “lens” of the Viewfinder mechanic those consecutive planes, just taking “photos” and placing them immediately. This will work, except it won’t really visibly do anything— because it won’t factor in the refraction. I need to figure out some way to alter the geometry placed by factoring in the refraction; I need some way to make the visual smears add shapes and colors to what is placed. I haven’t the faintest idea of how to do that.
I also need to finish troubleshooting my base Viewfinder mechanic. By doing so, I assume that I’ll become enlightened in how to practically implement the trail-planar instant “photos”.
