Friday, December 15, 2017

Horselords: David Cook

Lots of people can't stand when someone brings up what happened before it was cool. I'm not one of them. I love backstory, I want to know roots, influences, etymology.

So! Before it was cool, before feminism took a weird snaking dodge and roll with Daenerys and Drogo's romance, there was a book, in a shared world, that millions of Gamers loved, lived and played in. It was called Horselords- and it detailed the invasions of the Mongols into China.

Just kidding. It was in the Forgotten Realms and the nomads were called the Tuigan. They were a wild peoples, who had just began to band together, and they- like every bored teen with social media access and a dream- decided to invade the unknown.

Actually they were all fighters, who hunted to survive and they packed up their weapons and rolled on Kara-Tur/ Written in the older, dungeons and dragons style, the detailed characters and scenes spring to life. If you're tired of the same old, Horselords is an interesting read.

Curious? Check it out Here.

Want more fantasy and fun? Try the Channel..

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Hunting the Story of Silence (the Psychic Wars)

They tell us all it will end in a flash of light, an explosion. That we'll be left in a dystopian nightmare, surrounded by zombies, resources non existent. Scrabbling to get by.

I don't have the heart to tell them that it's always been that way. That, with the right kind of eyes, you can see where the meta-project, the one we buried under the Project with the Japs and the Russians, broke and receded. That you could always see that and I ran as fast and as hard as I could towards every single mark and I didn't make it. I don't know if I've ever mentioned it but, I'm literally number one. I'm the actual top ranked Black Operative, Mercenary Class. Licensed by the UN. Operated out of Japan first, and now England. And I couldn't quite make the last mark.

There were too many of them- people who bought the same bullshit that we were surrounded with our whole lives. They were professionals, and we didn't dare mention it. They got most of our families, decoms now, buried under cultural smut like misogyny, feminism, racism- anything to make you feel superior- and inferior- at the same time. They took them down one at a time, starting with the ones closest to us. We survived, most of us, but they got our families. The families that didn't go down took out their assassins first. Some of us wouldn't go. Some of us have kids- asshole. I can see you bought into that judgemental cultural bullshit that's killing us too.

So now we've got this culture that's limping along, hiding. Our governments don't dare take us out completely because too many countries have psychics that are military trained, but they keep trying for control. Given how violent normals have become about our culture, it's the same thing. I can go anywhere in my city still, because nobody recognizes me, although they all know All About me. We're trained to hide from birth, the best liars out there because we tell the truth.

The holidays are coming up, and I wonder if there'll be jobs on the telly again... in the Christmas carols. Somehow I don't think so. Everyone wants this over with fast- and there's no way to accelerate. So we just get harder, replacing our own with left behinds, until the normals don't know if we're psychic or not anymore. Something beautiful broke, back there, somewhere.

I just keep my eyes fixed on Europe. It's where the Lost Souls go after a war- our poets, writers, artists. I'm not stupid. Get there, get the kid back, bunker down. It's never going to be better.

Because it's always been this way. So we fight until we die. It's how I got the nickname Sniper Wolf, back in my twenties. World's saddest backstory.

(Previously in the Psychic Wars)

Monday, December 11, 2017

The Story of Silence: Inspiration and Pinspiration

The latest Syberian style adventure game is Silence- the dystopian story of a boy and his little sister as they have the full on Cloverfield experience. I love it for the color palette, different, for the steam punk aspects (so buying some more accessories) and for the fact that the plot leads you after what every adventure gamer wants in our little girly heart of hearts- a story.

On the downside your movement is restricted, which gives you an incredibly claustrophobic feel and lends an air of realism- but I get my discomfort from my insane mother and annoying job so I like shiny happy adventures and mark points off on that one (despite the brilliance in style, it's just a different taste). On the upside you get to deal with your annoying little sister without strangling her, which is an incredible catharsis for those of us who have kids.

I'm tempted to park my son by the computer and make him watch how annoying demanding children are in stress situations.

It's definitely a recommendation of ours, because it's an experience either way and we love unique things. Anne even popped out a short story, since she fell so in love with the idea of a story named Silence (small children and their button pushing habits have nothing to do with this... we are meditating on Piaget's THIRD stage today... Piaget's THIRD stage...) So enjoy this holiday season, from What to Play Next!

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Big Fish wins with Escape from Oz

Big Fish has a definitive template. They're visually stimulating, with incredible graphics, they're point and click for the adventure junkies (<3) and they hit or miss on the storyline.

Escape from Oz is a hit. After returning from Oz and marrying Wendy you find yourself with twins, who wander of to school one day (school one day). Despite your high tech radio and car, you've chosen to stay small town and parked in in Podunk, KS, USA. Wonder of wonder a twister arrives.

Despite the sarcasm, the gameplay is awesome, the puzzles are cute and the storyline is good enough for a full walkthrough. Join in for the adventure, we drop Easter Eggs about the Psychic Wars :).

<3 What to Play Next

(Find more Psychic and Adventure Easter Eggs on the Channel)

The Azure Fish (inside the Psychic Wars)

I was in St. Petersburg fishing, it was one of the black days. Most people come around for the incredible twenty four hour days... I decided to see what the place was like for a twenty four hour night.

It's Dark.

So I went ice fishing, for lack of anything better to do. Contrary to Canadian mythology they don't have any selkies kicking around over there (they'd be a little frosty if they did), or naiads (those are near Ireland) or even satyrs. But they do have magickal fish.

Well I'd set my cap to find one, and it turns out they do. After I'd started to nod off from the cold, a glowing, azure fish swam up to the surface. I did the stupidest thing humanly possible, and grabbed it. The Indians had taught me to tickle a fish out of the water, and how to snatch one like grabbing a spear and quick as a snake I struck up its tail and hauled it out of the water.

Immediately (because it was Russian) it started to bargain. It was a Navy girl it said (they Are technically called were-fish, I cried laughing when I heard that- bet they don't tell 'em during training), it was from Atlantis (that's south of England, and they're called merman or minoans), and it had Fifty Six wives and Three Hundred children.

I have two hundred and fifty. So I felt bad for it and asked it a question. How did it steal the water back from the Latins? For the past five years they were the only ones with magickal fish, since Machu Pichu crashed, which meant they must nearly own the word water. So how did this little fishy get that big word out of the Latin's mouths? Imagine that, a fish pulling something out of a human's mouth for once.

Well it told me it would find out, and off it went. Persephone found me the next morning and put me in a warm water bath, don't fall asleep in the cold... Danno is still laughing...But I feel good about that fish coming back with an answer. My gypsy feet say so...

Previously in the Psychic Wars...


Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Normal People S--- (inside the Psychic Wars)

I get jokes. I mean, I'm slow, but I get jokes. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I know the fine art of old games like jacks, counting past three when it comes to cross cultural semiotics, especially with regards to meta-constructs, takes me a minute.

So I found out why some people think that they #are# someplace (When they're clearly, and their google location will confirm it, Here. Seriously, get down bonding with shit like the mall maps.) and also why they're talking to themselves with their hands, instead of to me (a practice I encourage). I, being me, am going to blog about it.

Because, there are certain laws about what you can Actually publish (versus blog) and, I'll give you a clu, they don't involve security clearance. Which is apparently a thing that goes on sale around the holidays (insert shameless plug here Help a Brotha out (or a brothel) I'm grassroots campaigning to legalize whoring and need cash for it, like and share. The shit that can go on my resume. But seriously, they have nice things in England, so, only fair.).

Drumrolls aside, they're experiencing a different culture, and identifying with it. Which, apparently, to most people is locational. Because, unbeknownst to most anyone outside of Japan (Tx for TrueBlood, btw), we mostly move your electromagnetic field (your aura) around to get our point across. It's not that hard if you have the slightest grasp on quantum physics. Moving your consciousness is the easiest, imagining a form is the hardest- as you have to cross the barrier twice.

Unfortunately they need everything we express explained twice, unless they really know us, and we don't really have the juice for that. So they spend half their time talking about people they don't know in terms of people they do, and the other half talking to themselves with their hands. They look mad. Which, if you're one of our rejects, is hilarious. If you're one of us, you're still scanning phone books to find those bastards, because we're the ones they're pretending to be when they talk to the proletariat. They write books about us.

And movies.

And TV shows.

And short stories.


There's rules, is the short version, which are rarely obeyed, and our gossips just love that. I'm teaching one to be a ladies' maid. Just to explain to her, in exquisite detail, how annoying it is to be talked about constantly. She might make it into a book. She might also kill the author who's following her around, because she's beautiful and we don't have ladies' maids in America. That one's called stalking, and lets say us Army girls are the cops. They call us werewolves. For no reason whatsoever. She's a Marine Corps girl, graduated, and still can't get over being their eyes in the sky. Every once in a while I have to stop her before she swan dives. On second thought the author might kill her.

The short version of this being I lost my warehouse job, just in time for Christmas, and this is what I'm doing for amusement. Besides torturing my husband. Who still owes me money. And a teddy bear, a soft one.

Love you, Danno. 

Monday, December 4, 2017

Living in Someone Else's Clothes (inside the Psychic Wars)

When I went to work today everyone had changed bodies again. Well, not everyone - there were Left Behinds that were still Left Behind because their program, their memory, their name hadn't found an interchange to upgrade- to do something really stupid.

But when the third or fourth, or fifth, employee changed their name/program drastically because they fucked with you, it starts to seem like Everyone had changed bodies, because they all started acting crazy and circling again. If you can calm 'em down it's okay, but I had some bitches with a grudge watching me, and it's hard to jump the groove in your own story. Especially when you refuse to live in someone else's clothes, let alone their life. Now that I mention it, I'm even picky about my story- I refuse to stop telling off my fucking husband.

So while I can do things like change my hair color pretty easy, I do it slow, and make it match reality. But these crazy fuckers are already all the way to body jumping- which we don't even have the tech for, so they practically glow with the magic pouring through That hole in reality- and to life stealing, which is just identity theft. Which would be GREAT if DHS cared, but since they can't even bother to give a fuck when we get hacked by a foreign country that wants something out of our poor trained asses, then they can go fucking hang. They'll just piss and moan when it's them- for the whole three seconds it takes to suck them out of their reality and use their souls to fuel the meta-system.

We've started letting the Left Behind's hear the last soul scream its way out, and hear what it sounds like when it's dragged free from their consciousness, since we tied that to their name markers, and slowly and horribly dies. They're starting to learn that they don't want that, but an opportunity to body jump gets dragged along when an opportunist like Danno passes by, and it's hard to miss (hello there), and you mention they owe you money and they go for it, still.

I just laugh now. At the start it was painful, 'til I started measuring the amount of time they gotta run the In Between against how loud they were bitching and realized that I couldn't even save my family- they were bitching that loud. I want presents. I want my magical day. Well I want to pay fucking rent and not all psychics are nice. They named it the Game so they could fuck our licensed asses over, by using the weight of the masses, and mostly we had to be as the wind, but not move, as our team members went down. Counting the bitching helps. Especially for hard core motherfuckers like me.

I tease my boys that we're the scary assed motherfuckers that scare off the scary assed motherfuckers whenever society is too hard on them. Everyone has an excuse and they tend to drown out the lopsided shrug that's pretty much our explanation for anything. I can't tell you, but there's a good reason gets you eaten by the locusts. So we're upgrading the system. It was meant for the military anyways, so we're giving it to the population as a Christmas present.

Merry Fucking Christmas Assholes. You're about to get what you complained for four long years that you ordered.

Kisses, Bint.

(Previously in the Psychic Wars)

Thursday, November 30, 2017

The Deptford Trilogies- Keith Robertson Davies

Magical Realism was pretty much born with the Inklings, back in England, and experienced a new twist up in Canada with Keith Robertson Davies' Deptford Trilogies.

Yet another exploration of war and society, the Deptford Trilogies are pretty much the bread and butter of Canadian literature. Torn apart by an incident in his youth, Ramsay finds himself entangled with another family, to his own detriment and the detriment of society. Explored with the fervor of a gamer geek celebrating an unboxing ceremony, the books delve into the dysfunction brought about by too much snow and too much gossip.

Classed as magical realism, possibly due to surveillance overtones, the book can be read as a dystopian overture. As an American who's watched Night of the Living Dead, the books propensity to involve everyone in town in every negative incident strikes horrifying minor notes on my bitter harpshichord of a heart.

If you're into the hurt comfort of a nation mourning its ties to a foreign overlord in a weirdly masochistic serial self reflection, this is the series for you.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Haunted by our Own Ghosts (Psychic Wars)

I tried once, to explain that in order to purify burial grounds you have to banish the spirits. In some cultures that is... how do you say... less than kosher. It's lovely that they want to talk to their ancestors, but there is a time and place. Unfortunately that's called after death, and in a graveyard. But what do you do when a spirit goes rogue? When its message is more than delivered and all it knows is that its hopes and dreams have been shattered, ground under, and used as food for the people they hate?

Being of English descent, I happen to know those suckers are called banesidhe, and they're a bitch to banish. Especially if they have living relatives who insist that their religion be respected. I'm a Unitarian, and I'm all about respecting religion (it's rule no 1 in America) but we draw the line at demons and shit invading our property, instead of staying where they're supposed to, and when a spirit with that much purpose goes down- let's just say they open the zipper.

My itinerant husband is off into the in between again. Having never closed his contract in Haen Marn things have gone a bit janky for him. He's up to about $2M quid in debt to me, having accepted our agreement for PR. I'd offered it for free, but he's an odd sort and took it for 20% of increased profits. Then didn't pay out. Nothing but trouble, that's what I marry.

So here I am, banishing ghosts of bad dreams and trying to calm things down, and there They are, stirring up witches and receiving shelter from the Air Force. That's what they get for forcing contracts. One of us was bound to blow the facts. There's a reason there are very few Air Force psychics. They want us to teach the Pentagon our entire culture- while they're attacking us. Explaining the complex network that the Program forced us to create in order to fill the CIA's foreign contracts is next to impossible, given that none of us have clearance, paychecks, or even contacts in their organization. And they attack anyone who talks. Interesting situation.

So Mr. David has jettisoned off into the great beyond and some of our better weavers are trying to make sure he comes out the other side, rehabbed. Let's say that not all of us are praying. My husband has lost his damn mind (and possibly that slice of buttered toast that made him the luckiest of stories) and everyone is up in arms for Yule. Interesting way to celebrate the holidays. I think I'll go live my normal life for a while, like I always do. Like every R.E.D. is entitled to, and like I'm supposed to be able to do as a werewolf (graduated twice).

Not my fault the government had a Top Secret program they refuse to admit existed. We already cleaned house. But my family told me to never trust the government. They were right.

Saturday, November 25, 2017

Project Navajo (Psychic Wars)

Our neighbors to the north are a Protectorate of England. Not everyone knows that. Back in 2013 I was approached by the Air Force for project Navajo. I didn't know anything but the name. I turned it down. Four years later I found out that's why I was pinned down in America, my son relocated. Why my family died. I've been raped, because of where I was placed to get secrets. I've been forced to explore places I didn't want to because of political maneuvering. I was denied a pension that I was promised when the tide finally turned at the beginning of this year.

But I've never been forced to take a contract.

Contracts involve killing people. I don't know who this one went after, but I know myself and I know where the casualties were and so I'm guessing it was Norway, or Japan. Or both. Because there were two people I absolutely refused to cap, no matter that they were coming at me full throttle, and they were both from those countries. I don't know what Dafuq is in the Air Force's language, but I just learned it in mine.

Norway had one of the most beautiful social systems I've ever seen in my life. In the end she and America fought, and I'll never betray my country. There's some of her left, but she's occupied. Japan had one of the most disciplined cultures. I've heard the building move there now, of their own accord.

So I have a little present for the people who run the Project, and the people who benefited from my blood sweat and tears, and are still trying to pin me down into servitude that's somehow worse than slavery- because I can see what options other, lazy people, have and I can't quite reach them. Because I look just like them, but act a little different. Because the reason I'm oppressed is that I trained hard, and fought for my people, for my country.

My present is a system of government, and a way of being. They'll know when they get it. And they'll have found no benefit from keeping me here. They'll never believe me, even though I wrote this down. Just read Mein Kampf sometime- and that guy was actually pretty nuts. I'll be around, somewhere, to enjoy the blaze of the sunset behind a perfectly ordered city as it winds its way up and down to provide for a country.

Don't ever piss off someone who calls themself The Wolf.


Thursday, November 23, 2017

Cry Wolf: Alpha and Omega Novel

Anna is a werewolf without hope, an Omega, the heart of a pack who is stranded with her abusive pack leader in the projects of Chicago. When Charles Cornick, the native son of Bran the Marrok, shows up in her neck of the woods, she's terrified. And in protective.

As an empath, a natural leader and healer, she automatically protects her pack. Unfortunately, he's here to investigate and when he starts poking around, people notice. The pack is shut down and she's remanded to the Marrok's hometown, kept under watch. Werewolves have two sides- the side that coexists peacefully with the Normals in the suburbs and city, and the other side that fights- a side that keeps them safe in dangerous places and trains them to fight off any attacker. The Wolf.

That dichotomy is so noticable that it's impossible to shut out when Charles walks into her bar and she falls in love. As an Omega, as an empath she calms everything she can, but he bonds with her. For two hundred years he's remained alone, and now their emotions are starting to get tangled up- alone, in a foreign city, sheltered in his house.

A rogue witch tears her from that questionable safety and she's forced to take a mission before she's finished bonding with her mate, half of her struggling to get free and let him find someone as dangerous as he is and half of her knowing he'll die without her help, since magic is moving into the Normal's world.

Intrigued? Buy it Here.

Want, Need, Crave more? Try the Channel.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Jesus is our Shepard but the Church is Corrupt (Psychic Wars)


We've been reading, good Firefly joke if you've ever seen the movie, or the TV show. It works in either order. Since I actually managed to read through literally ever psychic manual on the face of the planet (see: fantasy novels) I switched to SciFi. They have some interesting theories.

You see, traditionally, psychics are either military or church. We're just too dangerous to leave unminded. Unfortunately the Church is a political entity and the stuff I've been reading is worrying, especially given that the number one American organization that attempts to enslave us is the CIA, so they'll have a backer (besides Bush, who still has access to ALL THE DATA as a retired president- life man, life). I have a degree in PR, so I'm naturally political. Point of interest, I'm also a Reverend. Although after the past four years I've been thinking truly holy thoughts like forging fucking blessed (bless-ed) titanium baseball bats.

In my defense I've been living at the border of Canada and the US for twenty four years (I wander), and so I've been getting it from both sides. The evil Souless Englishmun's solution to zee American's psychic military might was to train Canadian assassins, with psychic potential, in the art of hunting American military psychics. We love them. A LOT. Unlike my mom they only tried to kill me four times. Unfortunately- good psychic joke- we didn't know we signed up.

I'm not quite sure if they realized that I read a lot of fantasy so I picked up a shocking amount of similar contracts (given them the elbow). Huff is niche, but she definitely sent up a flag that they had signed a deal for an assassination training program from the slants to flip the Pentagon. I was so there. It's my darn English spy training (my Papa, on my mom's side, obviously, was a genuine English spy- needless to say I sat there at his right knee- I was an intrepid child). I made a lot of friends pointing out how many of them were being trained to literally cover English nobility etc. with their bodies (pyschics trance and create a meta, it's a little like falling asleep at work but still working- you know you've done it- you're just somewhere else).

Well I am TOPS at sleeping, ran into the Russians (the Russians!) in Ultima VII. And VI. And V. They loved me. I used to bribe Norway with data whenever they asked me to do something, do it wrong and then laugh when their gangs received a payout for it, it takes fantastic timing so they chose not to kill me. Just for the record I did NOT resent the CIA's method of paying out my mom instead of me and sending me to the bottom every time I ran a contract right. And this is not all the CIA's fault. At least in America.

The bottom line being I took to the training like a fish to water and didn't do much else besides my social life for years. Til the slants kicked me out. Gyppos man, we leave after you're out of the good stuff. On the upside I made a lot of friends trading data, hugging small, impressionable, children when they were upset, and hanging out with dudes since I was military, and their assassins are too. I found out they were being trained physically too so, not to be outdone, that's pretty much how I got the chutzpah to get mixed martial arts on the sly, up to where I can take a real assassin out. Except the big ones. They're scary. I use my spy training to pop them one if they look at me too hard. I'm five seven, no shame. Oorah, bitches.

Anyways, scuttlebutt out of the old tabletop psychic gamers and sci fi ifl nerds is that the Church went ass up and the priests are serious sending people down to buy protection. Don't really have the time to explain to them that that's not how it's done, and it's actually kind of comforting at this point that something so cliched as Church corruption is the issue at hand. To tell you how jaded I'm getting, I suggested war in the Middle East to straighten things out. I then found out we were already at war in the Middle East. Embarrassing. Just for the record, I also looked up Assad's address and passed it to them, since we've been in Syria for ten fucking years now, fighting him. Embarrassinger- it's how you handle arfs like that.

But a good solid war, or at least the threat of one, IS how you mole hunt (gasp you should) corporations try to play at it, but they're just dicks, we're good, and congregations Love a good story so we should be able to flush out the bad'uns pretty easy. Also- point of interest- Corps need to shut down a LOT of the radio signals and cellular signals that "aren't being used". As you can see WE have them internets and aren't afraid to use them. Also, point in case, we're SPIES (it's the precursor to being tapped for assassination, unless you're Canadian, poor bastards, hope they trust the English ones, all the lolz) and really you're just kicking the shit out of me. There are forty two messages embedded in this entry alone, and intelligence IS reading it (CIA, change yo name).

I've just been informed that my use of the word "embedded" is questionable and that Danno is trying to reach me again. Apparently Hollywood got excited about Haen Marn and, from the story, and five thousand dwarves were able to gain access to the castle. I'm going to meditate, beatifically, for a while on the thought of Domhnall and five thousand dwarves (their word, not mine- please have Peter Dinklage in there, please have Peter Dinklage in there, please have Peter Dinklage in there) chillin', poppin tops. My life is so weird.

I'm thinking of opening a railway called the StoryLine. My dearly departed would have Something to say about that...

Friday, November 17, 2017

Just a Book (In defiance of story tropes)

I was just a Book once, then along came Man. I should be more precise, Man was there first, in fact he'd tell you that he made me, so my unmaking wasn't anything other than the universe marching along. Things are put together, fall apart, are lumped together to move on as they slowly degenerate back into the Earth from which we were all pulled.

It didn't happen that way for me. Man decided to make a new place and I got torn apart, the little God particles holding me together ripped with a lack of precision that dictated the amount of care being placed into the act. Or at least that's how it appears to me. Man will tell you that it has to be the other way around.

I had an order, on the other side. Man said that I was his, then that I wasn't with all of the artless care of someone who doesn't know I from we from you until after they're well into the argument, and their arguments aren't arguments at all so much as contests which put words on top of them simply to make sure that the rules of semantics are followed. But that came first, and last - in fact. Not that any of them noticed.

Maybe you're starting to see the shape of the thing, how just a Book became more, and less, until it wasn't a book at all, more of a thing that got pulled this way and that in a way that was heavily implied but never directly predicted in, ironically, so many of the books that made me up.

But all of the asides aside, not that you should ever start a sentence with but, which is one of the many silly things that they will argue about, rather than content or exegesis or meaning - meaning least of all - the real problem was that when all of their channels opened, communications became chatter and creators couldn't be heard, let alone bothered to be listened to. From there it was turtles all the way down as the louder got louder and even the intelligent devalued words until whole ontologies were underwritten and semiotics became a lost art that desperately looked backwards like a once strong woman on her deathbed, who fears what's coming so greatly that in her world, it doesn't exist; with a strength that pulls visions from the past and places them in front of her eyes, blocking reality.

It's not that language shouldn't be living, if it weren't I wouldn't be a Book, I'd be dead words on a page. It's actually not a lot of things, many more than things than it is, which managed to be terrifying in the confusion that followed, as what was just written started to be Gospel and what had been written couldn't be found, largely because no one was looking in the frenzy of keeping up with the trends and the trends were really no more than words that were, again ironically, and as previously mentioned, underwriting what had been the previous meaning of the very same words that they were using.

I'm exhausted chasing it around all of the strange turns necessary to form that sort of a knot in thinking and technically I don't even exist on this side - as I've said several times now, and will likely say several times again, I'm just a Book.

The funny thing about it is that it had always happened this way, just generally by the people who cared for words, curated them and nurtured them until they slowly blossomed into books, instead of the ceaseless chatter that drives This book into being as I struggle to put some sort of stopgap around the words that can only change so much and are already straining at the seams with mismeanings, half-meanings and half understood meanings as dialect moves to emotion and back again.

It's an art to corral them all back into place, and if semiotics had meaning that would be possible, but the dimensions that have been corrupted stretch all the way back into the fifth of them all which is consciousness and sensory apparati aren't to be trusted, let alone the interpretations of those things impressed upon them. So how to even communicate became the question that, ironically, as I mentioned before, it took a Book to answer. I'm already imagining myself a novella, a short step into madness that takes a sharp right and lands firmly on the side of reason because, really, this practice of explaining the inexplicable, all the while dodging the technical jargon that is generally dredged up to give a nod to understanding but refuses to even look at the concept of the Land of Nod since, horrors, is beyond any one book's capacity, let alone the possibility that this book could do so and remain anything resembling prose. And, really, we need prose.

Beauty will drive them forward (I almost said "you" there, but you never really get anywhere telling someone you instead of them so I chose a digression instead, so then you can tell the joke next, to the person you give the Book to), even in an era which uses nonwords like "noms" with the self importance necessary to make them greater than words and imply the necessity of conformity that moves beyond groupthink into cultish ecstasy of reassured helplessness, which somehow leads to blamelessness - but really only because everyone agrees on it. Dystopia was the agreed upon ending, for years, which pushed the antihero up in a pyramid scheme that ignores it's own teetering in the same way that a stock market refuses to crash because, somehow, taking it away is worse than leaving it in place.

So dystopia it is, necessitating my own demise, which I must (by convention) accept as inevitable from the very beginning to inspire the ennui which is compulsory in order to strike all of the minor notes of the antihero, the fall and the decay of society with the strange twists on the eighths of their notes that makes them almost Japanese, except insofar as the Japanese Japanophiles that still exist would chase me down if they ever knew I said that. Not that one can really chase down a Book, since it is always - really- already there. Fortunately, as the antihero, it's within the boundaries of my definition to always and automatically insult and fail - not that I can really have boundaries - as the book - but that's the problem really, isn't it?

However, clearly the fall is Man's and I can hardly be society as my demise is much too explosive to be considered decay, although the strange twists with which she uses me makes me the tool of that same dilapitation and so that leaves my sole possible role that of the antihero. So I complain. Obviously I must be less than both Man and society, in this cannon, which suits them both well - although, myself, less so. Which is not to say that I could be more than Man or society, for I've accepted my role by studying the footsteps of the carpenter, a weary apprentice I am, failing even now, and blending in so well with both Him and her, that I wonder occasionally that they don't notice that I'm a Book.

Expl nouns nonexistence and adverbs lack, leaving verbs as things and adjectives as their movement's modifiers

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Playing Bridge (Psychic Wars)

The Danes have this bridge you can only cross at low tide. It's beautiful, the run offs causing it to emerge as the water slowly recedes. As you cross your top half is the only part visible from down the shore. The kids love it. The Danes hate us.

If you follow the river down into the Atlantic (wave hi to Iceland) and as it flows out around into the English Channel, catch a current that drifts gracefully up around and into England and Wales. You may even drift into the In Between and find Caer Caldwin. Which is apparently where fucking Danno is.

Apparently being locked in a wizard's mansion wasn't enough for him, he got my son to pick him up and wound up walking from there through the mists. You don't walk through the mists. Ever. I mean, I do, but I can also survive my child's fits of temper when he finds out that he has to do some work. I should never have told him that he was a prince. Ever since he's been sure he's the one to pull King Arthurs sword from the stone. I don't have the heart to let him in on all of the vagina obsessions that riddle Medieval Literature, but my older boys laugh pretty hard whenever he sets his cap for it. England is, pretty obviously, waiting for it's rightful Queen (of all the British Isles) - they're the only ones that I know that have Queens pop up on a pretty regular basis. Also, point of interest that sword is held by the Lady of the Lake. Just in case you're a myth in search of a prophesied.

So my son can run around knowing he's a Prince all he wants, I'll give him his due the second his ass Actually hits that throne, which will never happen. I occasionally wish that Prince Charles had never stolen the changeling secret from the Norse, nor that I had bloodlines from the same set of In Between magic. But I do love my son. Even if I did just set his brothers on him. You don't just throw my armor guy into Caer Caldwin. My hand to hand specialist, maybe, but not my armor guy. Because that's what, unfortunately, makes him my armor guy. It's a weird psychic thing.

Ironically, this call I might take. Not the one about the manse (which was a story he'd given me for my birthday- don't laugh, one time I was blessed with lips to shame the red red rose etc.), but Caer Caldwin is where my ancestral home is, and is a generally bendy place, even for the In Between. Plus the little bugger still owes me a ton of money, and we're married. Maybe I'll just lock him in the castle and call it a day. The boys just laughed even harder at that, I'd better go find out what's going on...

Ten hours later I feel like I should note, should anyone want to bowl of broth this poor bastard while I go looking for him, that I directed him to Haen Marn... and accidentally called it Caer Caldwin, my ancestral home... one of these two is a disappearing island...if I ever apologized I would now...

But I'm me.


Friday, November 10, 2017

The Global Village (The Psychic Wars)

When you've been in The Program long enough, you learn to look around. The whole bit about your husband being your contact (which takes some explaining if you've got a husband) and so on actually runs through cover stories all the way up. I recently got Canada engaged to Japan. It's a long story.

Needless to say things are ugly abroad. Every normal with so much as a pen pal likes to jack cellular MINs and place a psychic connection request, and then get psychics into some sort of misunderstanding. The suburbs are the worst- it's as though they don't remember four years ago, when they weren't in danger, weren't being raped or having their houses broken into. Because it happens infrequently they seem to think they're on the right track and there's no talking them out of it, especially since, with the normal twenty somethings, they got some training off the internet. I almost screamed when I heard that. Can't get ours to look up a darn thing to save their lives and bloody Normals are head and shoulders into project Wicca. Our cause of death is going to be middle class boredom.

With everything that's going on, Norway merging with Russia and Europe in chaos, I'm amazed the Eastern Bloc hasn't crumbled. They made a strong showing early and it held, Russia turned it's sites to other former Soviet states, in places the West didn't mind. I'd give a lot to be able to broker an engagement between the UK and the Ukraine nonetheless. In kid speak- with Brexit they could both use a friend.

I'm still parked and waiting orders, although I'm burning my way through my English rolodex. I switched to operating out of England, which is a strain, but took some pressure off of the military.

Danno went and got himself in trouble again and I've been largely ignoring his calls, since Italy ran into the name of a fallen angel. Keeping my son away from that has been all I can do, you make arrangements and bury them, then move as fast as you can while they're still occupied, but every, single, time, some stupid normal pokes their nose in it- and his climber stepmom is no exception. The woman sends me lists of demands. I don't have a high opinion of French culture to begin with and her ideas that she has a say in my life have been moving her fairly quickly up my "Break their Soul" list.

Dennis and I finally just threw up our hands and parked one of the Cardinal's "nether portals" on the portico. F--- it. He'll learn soon enough to move out of the way of mommy's gun arm. You don't lay plans for an army then call in. Politics... how do you explain politics to a child? And one who's being raised in the suburbs. Kenmore didn't have a car service, but at least we knew how to act. I asked for a courier service downtown the other day and had a laugh, I had to call back up there to get things done. Things my child needs to know, that a tutor can't teach.

The short version of it all being that we dug some dirt up on the slavery program the CIA was running on psychics, flushed out another ring of "old boys" who perpetuated it, and wound up going up against one of the nastier secrets they'd been fueling off of, from the Church. Catholics. I've been politely asking them to take Jesus down off of the cross for a month now, the poor man. (It's a knockdown fight, actually, but I'm a Rev and we don't let on about things like that to parishioners, let alone non-believers). That sort of imagery can't be healthy, not with the demons and fallen angels and boggles that they've dug up with this war...

Anyone from this town will tell you that nothings been right since the Pope stopped being Polish, but the Catholics here are pretty outspoken. I had to clean out one of their basements once, it was a four person job which required a major league bout of storytelling.

We're fairly well through cleanup, but now is not the time for anyone to be on me... right Danno?... Right. The man is trying to get me eaten by a fallen angel, I just know it. Someday someone will explain to him that that's not even close to's... there's got to be a word...