That time when I became a fangirl...and found a family

Several months ago I wrote this in a note to myself for a future blog.

           Guys, I think I'm in love.

           Well, nerd love anyway.

           Fangirling, ok? I'm a fangirl. A rotten, filthy, shipping fangirl.

Like countless others, I am consumed by the story of Vox Machina. For those who don't know, this exceptional group of actors/voice over artists/awesomely cool people have a long running Dungeons and Dragons campaign that streams weekly on Geek and Sundry's Twitch channel. I started watching because so many admirable, knowledgeable people in the Nerdrealm were complimenting the wonderful story telling, and exceptional improv acting of the group. As it happens, I have been a fan of D&D for many years, but have not had the opportunity to play for quite a while. This seemed to be a fun way to watch some really lovely actors have fun with one of my favorite games.

Oh boy, was I ever wrong.

It is so very, very much more.

There's a community... no, there is a FAMILY... of people who call themselves Critters. They are in Switzerland, Australia, Germany, South Africa, England, America, and in so many other parts of the world. They tune in from around the globe to watch the continuing saga of this group of friends that most of us have never actually met.

It's the story, you see. The story connects us all. We are all part of Tal'dorei. We are all under the threat of the dragons of the Chroma Conclave. For those few hours each week, we are all whoever we imagine ourselves to be on this plane of existence . And we all know the legends that are spreading about the group of heroes called Vox Machina. We hear them in the shops and in the taverns. We spread the latest news to our friends. We ask, "Is there any word from Emon? Any information from Draconia? What of Whitestone?" We cling to tiny particles of information - a name, a place, rumors, someone's fevered dreams or an oracle's predictions. We share them quietly with those within our immediate area, and toss them out into the void to be spread across the planes. We hunger for news of our heroes. They are the embodiment of things that are still good and right and true in our world. They show us that no matter how dark the times, the tales of people trying to make the world better and safer can inspire others to extraordinary deeds. Our heroes make the hard choices, push themselves further than we common folk ever dare. They accept the burden and the cost of heroic tasks, because to do otherwise would strand this world in a consuming darkness. We have hope, because we believe this is true. We share their stories. As they are bound to each other, so are we bound to this network of extended family, spread far and wide.

In our real lives, away from the game, away from the story, many within this family have seriously challenging circumstances to negotiate. We all have difficulties and sadness. We have hurts, and disappointments, and tragedies, as well as brilliant successes and immense happiness. We have shared all of these situations across the miles, through social media, through art, through words on a digital page. We share our own lives just as we share the tales of the band of adventurers we have come to admire. So when we experience a loss, it hurts. We have a collective, visceral response. "How dare the story betray us!"  "It's not supposed to be this way!" Our reactions are swift cries of pain and hurt and outrage into the ether. It is the rejoinder of the hive-mind, thousands of voices crying out as one against the dagger-thrust to our soul.

But we know, even as we seethe with anger and weep with loss, that there is always good to balance the bad, light to counter the dark, rapturous joy to banish the utter despair. We are not seers, we cannot predict where our collective story - for we are a part of the tales now - will go. We are bound to the story, and like the heroes of legend, must see it through to its end. We know, in our innermost selves, that our heroes are as hurt and damaged as we are. We have already suffered the loss of one of our greatest champions, and the near-loss of others. We do not know where our story will go, but we will bear witness...because we must continue to tell the tales of mighty valor and supreme courage, of the deepest bonds of friendship and love, of this small group of friends who, when faced with the destruction of their home, stood as one to face down the evil. Who took up the search for vestiges of power, when they could have stayed within their home, helping others to survive the terror that commands the Cloudtop. Who manage to find moments of love, laughter, joy, and silliness, even when the world stands on the edge of chaos, reminding us that even in the darkest times, the connection of our spirits grants light.

The story has enveloped us all. We are their Greek Chorus - the comment makers - the ideal spectators. We have the responsibility to show the right emotions at the right time, and to aid in furthering the journey of the characters. We are not individuals in this regard, we serve the story as one voice.

One singular voice.

From one exceptional family.

Tiny anarchists

I have a revolving group of tiny versions of me living in my head.

Don't laugh too much, I've been building this explanation of the female brain for a long time. In my head, there's the Nerdy Scientist, the Flirt, the Serious Writer, the Child, the Lonely Chick, the Teller of Bad Jokes, the Outgoing Socio-Political Type, the Grown Up Woman, the Fixer Of Things, and many more.

Today, the Anarchist Punk is dominating everything. I like her a lot. She is a tiny thing who survives on a diet of caffeine, painkillers, and angst, wears giant combat boots with her black hoodie sweatshirt and grungy jeans, and paints her conversations with a stream of profanity that would make Miley Cyrus say "Woah, that's just unnecessary". She doesn't like anyone. At all. She knows that they don't like her either and she's just fine with that. Anarchist Punk stomps around a lot and makes a lot of noise, and she really doesn't like it when I make her bite her tongue.

My little Punk would like it very much if there weren't quite so many rules because she's fairly sure she knows how to function without every single moment of her life being dictated by someone else. She really dislikes people who feel the need to overshare their personal lives. She would like to eat cheesy poofs and oreos and drink Mt Dew for almost every meal, and she doesn't much care for hardcore diet and exercise freaks that can't just enjoy a greasy burger with extra fries and gravy. She loves loud music, hates overprotective parents, and often contemplates the best way to dispose of the bodies of her true enemies.

I absolutely adore her.

Then again, that's true for every one of the versions of 'me' in my brain. There are many flavors to a personality, and this is how I picture all of mine. 

Scammers, creeps, and figuring it all out

Ladies and gentlemen, I was scammed this week.

Out of over $400.

Yeah, I know. Made me want to vomit as well. That hurt. A lot. I think eventually I might get it back, but I'm not holding my breath for it. Bigger and badder beasts than I are handling that. Things have been bad lately, financially, and I thought that was the final straw in the chaos that is my life. As it turns out, it was a blessing in disguise. This scam happened on Wednesday, and I was an emotional wreck over what happened. Today, I got another phone call and when those odd little things cropped up in conversation, I knew it was happening again. The caller informed me that I was being sued for check fraud and theft by deception. I know, I was stunned! I live on a tight budget, I know exactly what money is coming in and going out of my account. I asked for information, which he could not provide, and then I asked for time to trace this supposed transaction via my bank records. He acquiesced and I agreed to return his call at 5 pm. Here is where it gets tricksy, little hobbits, because yours truly has an iPhone. With caller ID. The man said "No problem, I am in the central time zone also, I will be in the office."

He called from New Jersey.

Now, boys and girls, this is why the previous scam is a blessing. I did not hesitate for a moment to search for every piece of information that I could connect to any information I had on this person calling. He had given me the name of his "client", and I began to trace them. Turns out, there is exactly one personal loan company with the name that he gave, and they're in Tennessee. I place a phone call.

"Yes, hello, I received a phone call earlier today about..." (lady very politely interrupts)
"Ma'am, I already know what you're calling about. It's a scam. Please file a complaint on our behalf with the Federal Trade Commission."
"Wow, you guys must be getting lots of calls about this!"
"Yes ma'am, we get at least a dozen calls a day."

A DOZEN calls a day about this ONE scam, children.  Lesson learned. There are bad, bad people out there and they don't care if they ruin your life. Don't let them win.

Flashbacks and what-if's

I've become more accustomed to events and people from the past cropping up unexpectedly in my world. Once, a phone call or message from someone that I haven't spoken to in months or years would have thrown my brain for quite a loop, spinning wild yarns about what I did wrong, what they did wrong, what kind of person they are or were...  But not now. Now I can observe these things with  more detachment than I ever thought possible. Self-awareness rocks.

Sunday morning I received an apology text, begging for forgiveness for a wrong that I had settled in my own mind many months ago. I had determined that the person would simply never change, that this hurt they caused was a function of who they are, and since I was in no position to do anything about it at the time, there was no need in being concerned over it any longer. It hurt, I don't like to hurt, so I settled it in my head. I proceeded to remove this person from my phone contacts, from my social media outlets, and removed any reminders of them from my everyday existence. Properly purged of reminders of that particular pain, I moved forward.

I realize this sounds cold and not particularly nice. I am self-aware enough to know that things that work for me don't work for everyone. I decided a long time ago that I am ok with the fact that I am not a particularly "nice" person. I don't think that I'm a particularly negative person either. If there is an issue, I am all for being logical about it, setting out what the problem is, and finding a solution for it. If figuring out the issue is a little uncomfortable, then it's probably best to get it over with even more expeditiously. Why linger on someone or something that has caused pain?

That apology text brought on a long discussion of what the other person's choice had cost both of us. It did not end a friendship, necessarily, but it did end my trust of that person. At one time, that would have hurt a lot. Becoming self-aware of what goes spinning around in my head means that I see it for what it is, a change. Only a change. And change is neither positive or negative, it simply is. When one can accept that change is going to happen no matter what we do, the changes that do happen to us become much easier to work with. In this case, I wished the other person well and assured them that I hold no negative feelings toward them, but that the deep, trusting friendship we once shared was a thing of the past.

Self awareness opens a mental lock you never knew existed. Choosing to accept change for what it is is fantastically liberating.

Techno-babble

I know people who live their entire lives in cyberspace. No, these people aren't 'hacker' types, they're not even computer geeks of any caliber. They're just average, nice, normal people.

And they're becoming addicts.

Before you say anything, dear reader, I'm aware that this is a fairly hypocritical statement for me to make. I'm writing and publishing this blog on a web-hosted open blogging resource because I want to insert my opinion into the public consciousness. I do see a difference, however. I'm aware that my level of dependence on internet-based information is increasing to a pretty disturbing degree. I recognize when I'm overloading on input and consciously take myself off-line periodically. There is absolutely nothing in the world as liberating and soul-relaxing as a techno shutdown.

The people that I am most concerned about are those who tweet, post, and photograph each moment of their lives. I've also noticed that very few people with whom I interact can make it through a meal or a conversation without checking their phone or tablet for information updates. I have become acutely aware when I am guilty of this same action. Can we not even hold a conversation without saying "Hey I saw this really cool thing on this really cool site! Look at it!"  I know for me, this is a huge problem. I have decided to train my brain to see my phone as a tool rather than as an umbilical cord to the rest of the world.  This object was created to make some things more convenient in life, and so I am trying to treat it the way it should be treated. At the moment, my phone is my radio. When I go into my lab to work, it will also be my camera and email service, because both of those tools are required for my work.

Will I be tempted to check Facebook and Twitter to see if anyone has said anything interesting lately? Absolutely. And I will check both. But maybe by becoming aware of what I'm doing, I can reduce the 'need' I feel to compulsively check both.

People all around me are becoming information addicts.

I'm one of them.

The madness of writers

There are some times when I know without a doubt that my inner self is a born writer. News articles, random conversations, snatches of overheard voices, and the musings of my subconscious have all been hinting to me that there is a story to be told.... Hey you! Pay attention! The universe is trying to show you something important!! This is my life lately.

It happens sporadically, once in a while, and has been incredibly rare of late. A remnant of thought from a dream will linger with me through the day. An idea will peck at the edges of my brain, begging for time to be savored and contemplated. More often than not, I don't have the time to sit and think... there are things to be done, work to be finished, university politics to be played, students to direct, or one of a thousand other "important" things.

This one is different. It keeps returning. It is scattered, unformed, refusing to coalesce completely in my brain unless I sit and let it emerge as it chooses. Something along the lines of...

future society, a world united, ruled by technology, humans are implanted with monitoring devices at birth and live with a constant stream of data input into their nervous systems, scientists have found that without the constant input people have no reference for dealing with life and go mad....

But where to from there? I don't know how the story will develop. Will there be a revolution? Should there be? What would happen if there was no conflict? It seems like a typical dystopian future story, how can I make it different? Why do I need to tell this story? Is it a simple short story or will it develop into a fully formed novel?

This is why I love my life. Anything can happen, and usually does.

Rainy day remembering

It's raining outside my office, a misty cool drizzle that frizzes hair and makes everyone think of calling in sick for just a day. It's a curl up on the couch in my Citadel sweats and watch old movies kind of day. It's also January 10. Today would have been Coleman Atley Richardson's 36th birthday. 

I realized the date when I first checked my text messages this morning as I was getting ready. I would have to sit down and figure out the date he died, but his birthday is eternally etched in my brain. It was the first birthday I agonized over purchasing just the perfect gift to celebrate (a Jimmy Buffett cd). Cole was the first, the very very first, boy to ever pay attention to me "that way". He was a friend of a friend, and was introduced to me because we were both redheads and they thought we'd get along. I was immediately, instantly obsessed. Cole would drive up on weekends from Jackson to work with his uncle Joe's horses and get them ready for trail rides and rodeo competitions. He didn't know that at the time, I literally knew nothing at all about guys, or how to talk to them. I never got the chance to explain. I don't remember exactly why I broke things off with Cole, but I remember it was over some other girl and it probably was something made up by the girl who I considered my best friend at the time. Cole gave me the best present ever - a beautiful blonde lab pup named Atley. Cole went with me to my junior prom, when I had no idea I'd even have a date. We wrote cards and letters back and forth constantly when we couldn't see each other.  I have no idea if my mother still has those, but today I think I'd like to maybe find them. This was LONG before cell phones and text messaging. I can only imagine the phone bills we'd have had. 

I didn't see Cole or think much about Cole for a lot of years. After college, when I was working at MSU for the first time, I was also heading up a lot of things at my parents' church. I was there when a lady asked for prayer for Cole's dad, who was in the hospital with a serious infection and in pretty bad shape. I knew, in my gut, that I should call. But I was scared. I waited. Every time I was at the church, this lovely lady would give an update. I knew it would be simple to ask her for the room number and call the hospital to check on him. But I still waited. Months went by. Cole's dad got better and was able to return home. I still wanted to call, knew in the deepest part of my brain that it was something I desperately needed to do. But I waited. 

We were on a trip with the youth group from the church when someone called for another of the counselors. John and Cole had worked together, and John's sister called to let him know about the accident. Cole had been driving home late one night from a friend's house and had lost control of his car. I'm sure they told me the details of the accident, but the only thought I remember running through my head was this little voice saying over and over "I told you to call him. Now you never can." It was a little while later, I was still in shock I think, that John came over and said something to me about it. Something like "I'm so sorry, I forgot about you two. I should have told you first before I announced it to the group." All of that is pretty blurry. I remember sleeping on a top bunk that night, the last night of our trip, and trying so hard to get that one thought out of my head. I remember parts of the drive home, wondering if we would get there in time for me to say goodbye. I remember the funeral the next day, my brother going with me because no way I would have been able to handle it on my own. I remember wondering if his mom would remember me, and realizing the second she saw me that she definitely did. I remember hugging her and weeping on her shoulder and apologizing over and over and over. I only remember hugging my brother during the funeral, not anything the pastor said. I remember a grave on top of a small rise in the middle of a cemetery. I wish I remembered the name of the place or even how to get there. I'd like to go talk to my friend. 

Since then, I have been very conscious of listening to that inner voice when it tells me to do something. I missed out on the very last chance I'd ever have in this life to talk to the one person I would give anything to have five more minutes with. And on a rainy day in my office, I wonder what could have been.