A nerdy rant I figured I'd copy to here

originally posted on Bell of Lost Souls:

Nothing is original.
What makes GW so fabby is the *way* elements are combined. I mean, from a starting point of 'Dune meets LotR IN SPAAAAAACE' they put together the wonderful and beautiful original 40k meta-backstory of the warp, birth of the gods, creation of the Emperor, fall of the Eldar, and it all fits in with the most crucial thing that makes the 40K universe unique in sci-fi - decline. Almost every other bit of sci-fi is about hope, growth, and potential. The intro to every 40K book outlines the fact that *this* universe is the opposite. 'Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods."

As a result, a lot of the 'sci' in 40k's 'fi' is secondary. Thus, the wonderful IG, pragmatic utilitarians to a fault, who destroy their foes with things that work and can be mass-produced, and billions of lives. You want shiny hi-tech humans, play Elysians - or Battletech.

I like the point Ghost made about the lovability of cliches as well - if it weren't for the easily-summarised '-punk' combinations of archetypes, nobody would get into the game in the first place. It's what they do after that counts.

And Anonymous, my life is a void since Battlestar ended, a void I fill with Dan Abnett's books. To quote Dorrel, and give a link to the above GW quote, "Galactica is a reminder of a time when we literally looked backward for protection." That's something both creations share, and what makes them more believable. To loosely quote an essay on BSG, it's the lack of scientific realism that makes it more approachable. (A space-faring human civilisation that has evolved separately from us for at least 5000 years somehow ends up with a nigh-identical political and military culture? Not likely, but leads to applaud for the show's 'hyper-realism')

If the 40K universe wasn't built on existing historical and cultural archetypes, hardly anyone would give a damn about it, and nobody would be able to relate to it. Hard sci-fi is an obscure niche in the world of fiction, sad to say, and the majority of people still tar all sci-fi as being somewhere between hard sci-fi and space opera. It's BSG and 40K that cheat, say 'sod the sci' and as a result are made of awesome. Totally original things are usually totally obscure.

I think I'm rambling now, so that's me done - apart from to say, everyone should read Ravenor Returns. Hellblazer meets The Bourne Identity in a broken future, where a Brass Thief murders 300 troopers in 15 seconds with his rhyming swords (what's a rhyming sword? Not going to tell you. But it's awesome) only to be detonated by a man called Revoke using Un-words. MADE OF AWESOME.

creativity is fun!

This is a nice little work of art I created - well, directed the creation of, since paddy did all the technical stuff - for my friend Tom for his birthday, which is today (happy birthday Tom!). It's part of a running joke we've had for about two years, based on a scene in Ultimate Force which could be interpreted as The Kempmeister suffering a breakdown and entering into a fantasy world due to his wife and kids leaving him.
Naturally, this delusion then extended to the entirety of the events of the series Ultimate Force, and then onward to all of reality as we know it.

(On the slim off chance that Ross or his lawyers find this, I'd like to say it's just a joke, and I have muchos respect for anyone who'd throw himself balls-first into warzones for the entertainment of the goggle-eyed viewers of Sky One, so no offence intended!)

and here is the piece in all its ineffable glory!

this is not a livejournal

...

Have there been any scientific studies into the emotional content and significance of music?

I can only (wildly) theorise that there is a form of resonance at play.

Wave-particle duality states that all matter can be modelled as waves, and vice versa. Air pressure can affect our bodies in various powerful ways, if not as obviously as the brown note. This is not to say there is a definite solid link anywhere; but my theory is that music intersects with the brain on a fundamental level.
Your sense of hearing, even more than sight, is hardwired into your subconscious, to the 'animal' centre of your brain to provide early warning, fight-or-flight responses to external stimuli without the time-lag required for complex reasoning. When we listen to music that suits our mood in tempo, chords and individual notes, this becomes imprinted upon our brain as the sound of that moment - especially if the moment is associated with a strong emotion, love, happiness, or stupidity - it becomes the 'warning' of that moment - a more enjoyable parallel to the sound of a big frikkin bear approaching through the woods. The same can be said for negative emotions, which is why I will become violent if anyone plays 'lick it' or similar tunes to me.
This also gives proviso for music not suiting your mood - the waveform of the music is a discord with your internal patterns, distorting and undermining your thoughts, causing you to wish to switch it off.
Finally, it explains why 'The Rip' feels like heroin might to me just now.

part the 2

I never could get the hang of mornings.

Before the suns contemplated rising, before even the Army though it was time to be up & at 'em, and certainly before any rational human being's criteria for what constitutes morning had been fulfilled, I found myself stumbling away from the safety of our camp after Sergeant Feil, half of me dressed and the other half asleep.
The broken ground and unbroken chilly wind of the meandering hanging vale he forged down did little to aid my composure. Rehearsed explanations rebounded off my fuddled brain, the occasional phrase piercing a little into my awareness, and I grunted acknowledgement as the issue of bland wherewithals and by-your-leaves tapered off; "...Which is why I though it best to raise you as soon as I was able, Sahir."
I finally tugged my tunic, scarf and sword-belt into some form vaguely worthy of an officer, and as I looked about our path to gain my bearings my brain finally caught up with my ears. I nearly cried aloud as the cold dagger of despair stabbed into my belly.
If I had read his meaning, near impossible as it was not to, I had slept through events most terrible this night.
That dreadful dagger thrust deeper as Feil's pace slowed, and I found myself near-feverish as the moonlight illuminated dark shapes in the gloom amongst the rock and thorn some hundred yards ahead of us. Feil stood to one side respectfully, his bearded visage inscrutable in the half-light, and the weight of my worries dragged me downward. Closer, I was able to discern the high cockaded caps of a handful of Grist's Dragoons, on foot, gathered 'round a cluster of low shadows, and flanking them, a cluster of horses and a scatter of mounted troopers. The wind and valley walls brought mutterings and chucklings to my ears, which died away swiftly as my booted foot lost its battle with the odds and slipped on an outcrop, announcing my presence. Their identity was not lost on me, and the fact they had doubtless already informed His Lordship was in no way comforting, but it was that pitiful huddle of dark shapes they guarded with loaded fusils that dispelled the blissful disbelief of the early morning - and any hope I had left that there was some misunderstanding. For there, on the unwelcoming rocky floor of that forsaken valley, with hands and feet bound, lay half a dozen men; my men; deserters.

Full understanding ground my pace to a halt and, finding myself utterly incapable of trying to meet the pleading eyes I knew the captives must have fixed upon me, I turned my focus instead to their captives. Speaking slowly and enunciating clearly, I addressed the still-mounted dragoons and asked whom was in charge.
"That'd be me, begging your pardon, Sahir." One of the mounted troopers spurred gently towards me, stopping close enough for me to smell the saddle-sores, and, lifting his right leg out of the stirrup and over the pommel, smoothly twisted side-on in the saddle to show the stripes on his shoulder - The change of angle doing nothing to improve his countenance, I can tell you.
I hardly noticed at the time, such was my anxiety for the fates of my men and my future, but that Dragoon Sergeant must have been a true veteran, a born soldier, if you will; nobody of lesser skills could have spoke with such copious quantities of professionalism and insolence in equal measure.
"A good morning to you, Sahir,' he spoke, with a drawl verging on sarcasm and a grin audibly brimming with relish, 'I do hope you slept well. Alas, myself and my boys, now, we haven't slept a wink - have we lads?"
He swivelled that damnable smirk of his beatifically downhill, and was rewarded with a supportive chuckle from out of the gloom.
"Lucky for you, Sahir, that we were awake enough to spot these little piglets and round 'em up before they got too far; and lucky for us, too.' He shifted in his saddle, getting more comfortable, then leaned down toward me to deliver the punchline, 'The lads haven't seen a good pull in weeks!"
That sergeant had the measure of me, and no mistake, for even as he threw his head back to bellow a great laugh, counterpointed by a wail sent up from one of my poor damned lads, he still kept one horrid little eye on my face - to his satisfaction as an appalled expression gripped my features. The wail drew my glance onto the captives in time to see the butt of a dragoon's fusil fall like an axe-blow and cut the sound short.

---
more opinions welcome...

I am an emotive jellyfish

The combination of extensive quantities of musical wonder pouring deep into my essence, a mild hangover, too much coffee, and some kind of nicotine withdrawal are giving me the bitch-twitches. I feel I should gel my hair into an unflattering fringe.

I am as flighty and terrified as a hummingbird on acid. My metabolism is slower, so it takes longer to leave my system. I am, however, free from a lot of baggage I once carried upon my head. I am enjoying this while at the same time I am scared. I am teetering on the brink of feeling OK. I appear to be writing in a self-absorbed stream of consciousness. I should go back on livejournal. Last night I met girls I used to fancy, and they bored me, it was petty but I had to exorcise teenage inadequacies. I'm probably going to make it worse today. I need to wash. I need to run. I might just retreat. I might not. Maybe you'll see me there.

Much more importantly, I had a fun concept, a Jamie-Hewletty vision from Slumdog, which I will fold into a future rhetorical enterprise. The world needs more fat men on scooters with sticks.

I need to write more. I need to get out more. I need a new job. All good things come to those who make the fucking effort.

rant expired.

it's been a wee while

today I've been in Fife for my grandad's 100th birthday party. This is an event of no small importance, as through his personality, he has been a firm patriarch to an extended clan of considerable size.

On display, we had four toddlers, four juniors, two preteens, no teenagers (that's probably for the best) about a dozen of my peers (all but me, malc and amy with kids) and a whole load of beloved ancients. We were regailed with an abbreviated transcript of Grandad's life, and I was able to look through some fascinating old photos, articles, and even see a genuine 100-year-old birth certificate.

Most fascinating, at least in this yet-more-abbreviated context, is the fact that in the past 24 years never once did I find out his name is not Alestair, but in fact George. Due to his father also being called George, he naturally was always referred to by his middle name; and the strange spelling comes from the registrar for Tighnabruaich in the 1909 era. Originally born George Alison Bennett, his parents returned to the registrar's office a few weeks later to request that he may also have the middle name of Alastair. To this irregularity the registrar agreed, but only on the condition that it was spelled in his preferred way - Alestair, instead of Alastair, so as to not have the Gaelic origin. Thus 100 years of confusion and patient explanation was born!

That's enough for now, more in the near-future.

Most retarded ninja move ever

I'm catching up on some mad-ass Naruto action, and a goodie-mook just turned himself into the door of the building he's staking out. This is a good idea because they had blown up that door upon their arrival, thinking their target was there, as ninjas do.

So that's it folks. Don't change into a door that's likely to be exploded.


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