Dai Stihó

Looking back at the texts and messages, he sees hints and suggestions from months ago — but for him, it starts on a Monday afternoon.

It's twelve thirty in the afternoon and he hasn't gone to work yet, because it's a fairly low-key weekday and there's nothing particularly demanding his attention there. She IMs him just as he's about to head out: she was feeling crappy and stayed home, and she's hating it — being alone with her thoughts isn't doing her any favors.

It was, unfortunately, his advice that she stay home if she wasn't feeling great — mentally or physically — and he furrows his brow for a moment before offering to grab some food with her. Her reply is quick: 'I'm not hungry, but the company would be nice.'

So he heads over and knocks on her door, she invites him in, and six hours later, he's missed work completely.

Instead, they've spent the entire time talking — he's learned a lot of her past and history, and has also shared some of his own, though it was a bit like pulling teeth, she says, later.

While sitting in class afterwards, he gets a text from her: 'For real, though - thanks for coming by'

He smiles, then stifles a laugh as her follow-up flashes on the screen: 'You're a really good friend. Don't worry - I won't tell anyone'


This, he thinks, could be the start of a really good friendship.


Their background is this: they're coworkers, they've hung out a bit outside of work, but they only recently started talking extensively (because of a crush he had on one of their mutual friends, amusingly enough). But this meeting — six hours, where they talk about love and loss and childhood troubles and there's complete honesty — is something that's much deeper than the interactions they've have before.

It also sets the tone for their future.


A week later, and he's picking her up from the airport: she's coming back from helping her boyfriend move down to LA. The two of them have had a rocky relationship for a few months now, but she wanted to give her boyfriend one more chance — and it seems like her boyfriend sees (at least for a few days) the error of his ways, because they're still in a relationship when she gets back.

He picks her up and drives her home, and then, on her front steps, they talk for a few hours, well past midnight — about her trip, about life and sundry, about hopes and dreams. Time passes, and it's getting late, and suddenly he realizes something that's been bubbling under the surface for a bit now: he likes her.

As soon as he realizes, he's caught in a dilemma — they've been incredibly honest with each other, not dodging questions and putting all cards on the table, as she puts it. And yet, for him to say anything would be a terrible time; even if she had broken up with her boyfriend — which she hadn't — now would be far from a good time.

And yet, that demand for honesty remains. It eats at him, and so even though he realizes that it's going to be the wrong move, it just won't let him leave without telling her the truth. So he does — sort of, awkwardly, not making eye contact and mentioning that it is, in fact, the worst of times — and lets her read between the lines.

Normally, he'd be telling anyone else in that position that it was a stupid crush, and he's an idiot for giving it voice, for making it awkward and screwing up a friendship.

But there are two things that are different, here, for one main reason: the same honesty that compels him to tell her also gives him hope that it isn't going to mess everything up, because they'll be able to work through it.

So he does. And then, after going home, he texts her about it, knowing that he couldn't just leave it like that, and spends an hour with her in a conversation where she brings up her negative past experiences with friends that disappear as soon as it becomes apparent that they're not going to get what they want, and he tries to show that it's not going to be like that. And he asks her to trust him, and she says she does.

Here, he thinks that whatever it is they're building, at least it's being built on the truth.


Every story she tells touches on a different facet of her life — the way that her parents raised her, the journey to college, the trips to the Middle East, and across it all, the relationships that make up the fabric of her life.

He responds in kind, sharing stories of moving frequently, of the horrors of middle school when younger than everyone else, of finally finding friends in high school, of his lackluster college days, of his family, of his relationships, too.

There's always something to talk about, always a story yet to be told.


The next couple of months pass with little fanfare but much time spent together — hour-long walks at work, meals with each other, and almost inevitably a few hours spent on Sunday night, by phone or in person. Even when they're both traveling — him to Boston, her to Chicago — they still talk just about every night. She eventually breaks up with the boyfriend, because he never starts to treat her well, but she still loves him — it's never more clear than the night that she calls him and asks that he come over because her ex and her just had a phone conversation, and she wasn't doing okay.

He goes, of course, and is her metaphorical shoulder to cry on for a few hours, and his heart breaks a little — perhaps surprisingly not because she's crying over another guy, but simply because she's crying, because she's hurt, because she's unhappy.

And there, with her, after learning about her life across the past few months, through phone calls after midnight and three hours on any given weekend, he's starting to see the shape of her life. She's learning some of his, too, in a way that few do.

They talk a lot about equality, and the strong desire and preference for it, and at one point in time she asks him whether she's being too needy — she says that she feels uncomfortable that it always seems to be her leaning on him, and if he'll ever need her for anything. He responds, rather flippantly, that her sample size is too small — it's only been a few months, after all.

But then he adds, quietly, that he enjoys every moment he spends with her; it's not exactly a terrible burden he's bearing, and in a lot of ways, he's leaning on her, too. And he is — she makes him a better person.

Another night, and it's time to leave again, after spending a few hours helping her through a protracted mess at work involving teams and transitions and entirely too much headache, after a few stories that she hasn't told anyone else, after a few vulnerabilities shared.

They're talking about something, and he's about to leave when she asks him why he likes her.

And he tells her, because what else is he to do? He stands there, for a second, and then he looks up at her and says that sometimes you meet someone amazing, someone who feels right, and you just want them to be happy. That she deserves to be happy. And that he wants to help, in any way he can.

Here, he thinks, well, maybe there's something more to this — but he doesn't dare say it out loud, not even to himself.


There's a conversation where she says to him, "I let him in, and I gave them all of me, and he didn't like what they saw and left and left me with nothing," and he understands, too well, and his heart breaks a bit more for her.

All he wants to do is hug her and promise her that it will never, ever happen again, and how could that guy — how could anyone that loved you — hurt you like that?

But that is also the nature of love, he knows, and he resolves, simply, that he will not be like that. Even, perhaps, if it happens to him.


He mentions why he likes her from time to time, and she tells him he's being masochistic from time to time, and then, on a Tuesday night, they have a fight — their first.

It starts with her telling him that she doesn't want him making a goal of her, that it makes her feel less secure about their friendship, and that when his expectations aren't met, it's going to be shitty for both of them.

He protests, of course, but he's also confused — what's changed since the first time they had this conversation? He thinks she's being rather curt, and figures that this conversation would be better over the phone anyway, and calls her.

But after a few seconds, she simply says that she'd rather not do this, and hangs up on him.

For a moment, he sits, stunned, and then reacts the only way he knows how: he accuses her of shutting him out. It's unfair, and he apologizes for it later, but in the moment, he snaps at her, and she retreats, saying that his actions are making her insecure about their friendship, and as it escalates he wonders, briefly, if all that they've built will be destroyed in a single bad night.

He still doesn't understand what prompts it.

But after some more back and forth, she takes a few minutes, and he uses that time to write something to her:

"I didn't have any expectations, you know. I just cherished our friendship for what it was, enjoyed every moment. I didn't go home wishing that things were different, I didn't think that I deserved more of your time or energy. I just thought that it was a good thing, and that it was equal, and that it was shared. And no, it's not to say that expectations wouldn't have come, but I was pretty vigilant about guarding against them. And I thought that you shared a confidence that it would persevere, despite whatever challenges, despite time and tide. Maybe I'm just arrogant enough to think that I'm different, or maybe I thought that you would trust me when I promised that it would be okay. Yes, maybe there would've been hard questions to ask one day, but the questions wouldn't have been disappointing. Or maybe they would've, but I think a few disappointing answers do not a friendship break, and are perhaps the coin to pay for the passage."

And then she comes back, and writes something back, and mutually, they take a step back, they take a breath, they apologize to each other. And then she calls him, and they're almost okay again, but for the fact that he figures that he might as well get the pain over with now:

"You're never going to like me the way I like you, are you?" he asks, softly, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it anyway.

"I don't think so," she says, and his world collapses a bit, despite all of his words, all of his bulwarks, all of his anticipations.

The next day is hell.

And here he thinks, well, maybe none of it was worth it at all, and that the closer you are, the more hurt you get, and all this honesty bullshit bought him, what, exactly?


There's a recurring question that they've asked each other more than a few times — sometimes she's the one to raise it, sometimes he is.

They're talking about the fight, and she says, "We got to that point because we were allowing ourselves to get into a mode that wasn't platonic enough. I don't have fights like that with friends, nor do I want to."

And he ponders for a moment, and asks the question again:

"Do we spend too much time together?"

But for both of them, the answer is always no — even though they've spent a lot of time together, it's always been enjoyable, always been worthwhile.

Today, she says something else: "Maybe too much of a certain kind of time. Not that either of us doesn't like it that way, but the question is whether it's appropriate or sustainable."

And he says, "Well, I think it's fine—" and she's quick to respond that of course he would, and that it's not a robust philosophy.

But he understands, suddenly, the difference between their worldviews in that moment: he would rather live fully and take the ups and downs, the triumphs with the tribulations, and fight to expand local maxima, even if it means expanding the minima as well.


A few days, or weeks more, he recovers, and more importantly, he remembers.

"Corinthians", he said, that night. And after their fight, he wrote something to her, from the Bible verse, though not the usually quoted one: "It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

And that is what he holds to, what he remembers — the way she laughs, the quiet gratitude on her face when he says goodbye, after a night spent distracting her from a bad memory or rough day, the way she sticks out her tongue, the way she slightly furrows her brow when she concentrates, the mock-exasperation when he's being obtuse, the banter shared, and all the moments in between.

He holds to the moments she's helped him, too — the times she's held him accountable in a bet with a classmate, the times she's kept him honest, made him a better person, and cheered him up when he was down, simply because she knew he was feeling down, simply because she chose to.

And he takes a moment to think about it, about the big picture, the long road to Eden, and not just the last five minutes or five days, and realizes that he's not everything to her, and may never be. But he's a close friend; he can make her laugh, he can bring her tea when she's sick, he can help her ease the pains of heartache and headache, and that's enough.

He's not everything to her, but he's a close friend. He loves her, and he wouldn't change a thing.

We sit here, facing each other across this coffee table, mugs in hand. A moment passes, and then another, and one more — and nothing happens.

"Isn't it getting to be that time?" You'll eventually ask, and I will ponder the sentiment for a multitude of moments. And just when I know that you're about to tell me that, in fact, I'm definitely running out of time, I'll start speaking, and after a few words, we'll suddenly be somewhere else and the fake-familiar construct fades away, irrelevant, forgotten.

Where we are instead — well, that's why we’re here, isn't it?

It may be an endless, rolling wave of sand dunes, as I point towards the horizon, describing the silvery ships that will soon come to rain death on the defenseless colony behind us. But look closely, and you’ll see one of the pilots does not fire; she’s the one who will lead the fight against her former comrades. We'll explore her past and see why she joined up, and then turn our eyes to the future, and see how she'll start — and end — the revolution.

Another week, and it may be our future we’re walking through, yours and mine, ravaged by war or uplifted by technology, as we journey through the fallen/rebuilt/floating testaments to humanity's yearning for the stars. They are astounding creations — and yet, in the grand scope of a story, are simply set pieces that the characters we're concerned with will flit around. In story after story, we see that even the problems of just a few people do, in fact, amount to more than a hill of beans in this crazy world.

We'll dive down even further, and go inside someone's mind — a soldier, or maybe a poet — and learn of the struggles they face in their particular age and time, be it a speculative far future or historical distant past, and experience their lives as they surpass their challenges or fall victim to their trials. We'll see that conflicts inherently crystallize not around lofty ideas like freedom and liberty, but instead on specific people and their personal journeys — a small child who has his parents taken away; a brother who is estranged from his sister; two friends who fight on different sides of a war.

My goal is to tell you an interesting, provocative, different story every week. It will almost always be fiction and it will generally be fantastical, but those are guidelines, not rules. There are no rules — and no roads — where we're going. There, is, however, a hope — that eventually, when you return to this world, the real world, you'll leave the one you just left with a touch of regret, and a desire to come back for more.

Hey guys,

I'm doing this thing again for the holidays. I'm heading out to Austin, Texas, for a week, and I'd like to get some writing done. Last year, it was a mishmash of requests, and while I still owe some people a few (which you'll see in the next few days, I promise), I also think it was also some of my best writing — including a long form steampunk fantasy, a science-fiction exploration, and, of course, love and loss.

So, here we are again: No promises for Christmas Day, but I will say that these will be delivered before New Years (likely one a day, because I've gotten more organized). Give me a prompt, as detailed or vague as you'd like (with or without a genre/word count), and let me know if you'd like it posted here or emailed to you.

No refunds! No returns! I may refuse if you ask me to write something that I have no idea whatsoever about (but I'd much rather do research and try and make it good, so this should be quite rare). Insert other disclaimers here, yadda yadda yadda.

I feel like the new friend feed may be a bit icky because it doesn't respect personal themes, which presumably people pick for a reason... but on the other hand, it geekily allows you to navigate posts through the traditional vim J/K keys, which I find super useful (other places this can be used: Gmail, Google Reader, reddit with res). 

[As an addendum to the addendum, apparently I'm more inclined to slice-of-life posting while on business/recruiting trips where my usual distractions aren't availble to me. It's not likely to continue, for those of you missing the fiction that usually inhabits this space.]

This last weekend, I went to the semi-annual gathering of about 70,000 people in Boston for a convention known as PAXEast — The Penny Arcade Expo, East Coast. It's a three day convention that attracts gamers of all types, showcases new and unreleased games, and has panels by some of the notable people in the industry on all sorts of topics in gaming. But that little blurb doesn't do it justice — it's a bit like describing Woodstock as a gathering of people that like music, when it's so much more than that.

One of my friends didn't know that this was the third time that I had attended (and first time enforcing, but more on that later) and only learned that I had gone. He texted me this: "What was your favorite event/booth, did you meet mike and jerry [the guys behind Penny Arcade], would you go to pax west, and recite a detailed anecdote of the moment you realized holy shit."

The last part really starts to capture a bit of the essence that makes PAX so special. There is (at least, for everyone I've asked) a point over the weekend where everyone has that moment, though when and where it happens varies depending on the flavor of the gamer. For some, it's getting that exclusive access in trying some of the newest unreleased games from huge publishers and talking to them; for others, it's talking to indie game developers and learning what the journey is like to go from gamer to creator; and for others still, it's joining a tabletop session and spending four hours with complete strangers that are welcome friends by the end.

My response to my friend who texted me was that it wasn't my first year, which essentially allowed me to dodge most of the questions. But after thinking about it some more, I realized there's actually been a 'holy shit' moment all three times that I've gone, and that these moments build on one another to why PAX is something truly unique.


When I was young, being a geek/nerd wasn't cool. It may be cool to be nerdy now, but back then, it was literally something that neatly placed you neatly into the category of 'loser'. The prevailing atmosphere was that gamers were antisocial, icky misanthropes that should be shunned. We weren't often prom kings and class presidents, and saying, "Oh, I spent the weekend playing Chrono Trigger, which is amazing," was usually met with a confused look, at best. My parents forbade me from gaming and took pretty much every opportunity to tell me it was a terrible waste of time and that I was throwing my life away; in order to play anything, I had to sneak it in before they got home, and occasionally after they went to sleep.

I didn't have many friends up through high school, until by chance I overheard two classmates having a argument about Starcraft. I don't remember what it was about specifically, but I remember butting in rather vehemently (and possibly obnoxiously) to rebut one of them, which somehow led to an invitation to a LAN party to prove my position. That led to regular LAN parties (and the internal moniker for our group of friends as the 'LAN clan') and finding, after incredibly lonely and depressing elementary and middle school years, a group of people that I could genuinely call my friends. Gaming made the difference between four more years that I would have spent alone and some of the closest friends I have today.

That was a crystallizing moment for me — I had finally found people who I could freely talk about my interests with, even if the rest of the school (and my parents) actively thought that I liked stupid things. After the LAN clan, I realized what the internet could be, and since then, I've steadily connected with people through various online games (including World of Warcraft), leading to having friends in cities across the country and world, all because I wanted — or needed — to find more people who were like me.

But even with friends made online, we were still hundreds of miles away from each other. PAX changed that, and gave us an opportunity to bring online gaming groups together, as well as play games with complete strangers that soon became new friends that I would keep in contact with.

My first 'holy shit' moment at PAX was when I got into the expo hall for the first time. I think I actually stopped dead in the middle of an intersection, which might not have been the smartest idea, though I wasn't the only one standing there in slack-jawed wonder. There was a continuous human stream of people flowing around me, flashing monitors all around showcasing the latest and greatest games, and snatches of conversation ranging from playful arguments on the age-old question of which game was better, friends telling each other they should go check a specific booth, and every once in a while, just a simple 'wow'.

But the most notable thing I remembered was this: everyone had a smile on their faces, the same 'I can't believe this is real' smile. And my 'holy shit' moment was realizing one simple fact:

Everyone here shares my interests.

And that realization was was immediately followed by this one:

I can be myself.


A few weeks before the convention, Robert Khoo (the business vizier of Penny Arcade) asked on twitter whether or not there was interest in him doing a question and answer session, something that has never happened. Apparently the demand was high enough, so he announced that he would be having one: midnight, where it would be competing with the concert and the general fatigue of most people having been at the convention for over twelve hours at that point. I don't know how many people he expected would show up.

At midnight, eight hundred people filed into the theatre, and for two hours, Khoo answered everyone's questions, with a standing ovation at both the beginning and the end. He covered the apocryphal story of how he started working for Penny Arcade, how new ideas are implemented, and general advice on how to succeed.

And I had been there for over twelve hours at this point too, so the details are a little bit fuzzy (though I hope to God someone recorded it) but I remember him answering a question on how he decides what to do and why more or less like this:

"There's a core demographic of twenty four to thirty five year olds who identify as gamers as a large part of their identity, and with everything we do, we want to add value to this group, this core demographic. Everything from Child's Play to PAX to the PA Report is done to provide more value to them."

And that mention of Child's Play brought to mind my second "holy shit" moment. Specifically, this video here, from PAX East 2010. I don't think you can hear the sniffling over the standing ovation, but I'm pretty sure you had to be dead not to have tears in your eyes at the end.

This question really gave me a brief glimpse of the future that Penny Arcade was creating, where gaming isn't stigmatized but accepted as simply another form of media, one that has the capacity for critical discourse as much as any other art form. Child's Play is only part of the long game here, as is the PA Report, but the fact that part of what Penny Arcade is doing is actively creating a better tomorrow for gamers — that was an incredible moment.


The final moment was less of a specific moment and more something that occurred through the weekend. You see, this year I worked as an enforcer, one of the volunteer staff that does just about everything that needs to be done at the show, including line manangement, entertainment, security, setup and teardown, and more.

I volunteered because PRD posted a call for enforcers on twitter, and it sounded interesting. I figured I was going anyway, and I thought that it was time that I gave back for some of what PAX had given to me.

What I got was one of the best experiences of my life.

Khoo calls enforcers the spine of the show, or, to quote, "without enforcers the show would just be a steaming turd." All I know is that it was an absolute blast in just about every way imaginable. I was working one of the theaters (Arachnid, for those curious), and got to see amazing talks (including the Ben Kuchera on PA Report), take lots of pictures, and drink applesauce through a squirt-tube. Less facetiously, I was able to direct people to where they wanted to be, keep everything safe and fun, and generally give people the same experience that I had as an attendee.

I also got to run a 64-player Starcraft II tournament that went off without a hitch (and was won by a SCII semi-pro player, which was quite cool).

It's hard to describe exactly what makes it so awesome — much like the atmosphere at PAX is something that needs to be felt, so is the camaderie of the enforcers. We were everywhere, and even if we didn't know each other or hadn't met, there was nothing that we wouldn't do for each other. I remember one of the other enforcers dropping by with food on a supply run Saturday afternoon after we had just started areally busy panel and me blurting out 'I love you' to him by instinct — and getting one in return! I remember someone coming into enforcerland (where we got to rest) after the show had closed Sunday and saying that expo hall needed more help tearing down. Most of us had been on our feet for over twelve hours every day and were as tired as hell, and yet there wasn't any real reluctance — it was just the right thing to do, so we did it, and we did it together.

Simply put, I had faith that anytime someone asked for help, they needed it; anytime someone wasn't busy and could help, they would come; and everyone was doing everything they could. I didn't get to see every panel I wanted to, nor did I get to see all the new games that I might have liked. But I wouldn't trade the experience I did have — talking to Mike and Ben briefly, getting a quiet thank you from the attendees, and trading satisfied but tired nods with the other enforcers — for anything.

And next time, I know to schedule in an extra day on either side for the set up and the afterparty.

-

Wil Wheaton's 'Don't Be A Dick' is the first rule of PAX, and I think it goes a long way in explaining the magic. People aren't dicks here and those who are aren't tolerated. People who harass others are warned (and kicked out if they continue), exhibitors that aren't kind are asked not to return, and overall, it never feels like a corporate event to sell more games. It simply feels like a gathering of friends and family.

This was my sixteen year old brother's first time; my parents okayed his going mainly so he could spend some more time with me, they said. Instead, I don't think we saw each other outside of the hotel for more then 30 minutes throughout all three days; I was busy enforcing and he turned into a tabletop gamer right before my eyes, learning magic and competing with miniatures. I asked him, on the drive home, whether it was the best time of his life, and he didn't hesitate at all before saying yes.

One of my other friends stayed in the expo hall pretty much the entire time, with a few detours to the Dance Central freeplay stage, and I know a few more that simply panel-hopped without ever going down to PC or console freeplay. PAX is a lot of different things to a lot of people, but unlike elsewhere, our differences do not divide us.

Outside of the convention center, there was the giant sign proclaiming that PAX East was being held. And the subtitle neatly encompassed everything PAX meant.

It said, "Welcome home."

It's actually been quite a long time since I've written (fiction, at least) and I'm actually currently visiting family for four days (and in Arizona) and so I'm in a fairly good position to do stretch those writing muscles. Semi-inspired by joeymichaels, though I've been doing it for RL friends for a few years, but this is the first time offering to the internet community.

No promises for Christmas Day, but I will say that (barring unforeseen circumstances) these will be delivered before New Years. Give me a prompt, as detailed or vague as you'd like (with or without genre/word count/a specific line you want in it/anything at all), and let me know if you'd like it posted here or emailed to you.

No refunds! No returns! I reserve the right to first refusal if you ask me to write something that I have no idea whatsoever about (but if I think I can pull it off, I will most certainly do research and try and make it good). Insert other disclaimers here, to cover the fact that this is actually a bit scary to do.

Oh, and Merry Christmas, my friends; may your home be warm, your dreams close, and your family closer.

---

List:

For yachiru: DONE
Speak Easy (Steampunk)

For michikatinski:
"It was a dark and scary Christmas night." (romantic comedy)

For takenoko:
Waking Up In Vegas

For rejeneration: DONE (emailed)
From the Foundations

For joeymichaels: DONE
Controlled Burn

For beautyofgrey: DONE
'A crushed rose and an empty box'

For attheonesix:
Underground Kings

For _asherah_: DONE
Christmas after tragedy

For crimsonplum:
Something I said, or someone I know
(involving a flash forward/flashback)

---

This was long (as in, two years) overdue, but I hope it was worth the wait.

I mentioned a bit earlier in one of the topics that I was working on game design - today, we ended up posting it to Kongregate, one of the largest sites out there for flash game distribution. If you guys are interested, the game is called Convergence, here's a screenshot and link.



There are three separate levels - in the screenshot, you can see the toddler player-character in the first part, the young adult in the second, and the older adult in the last. It is, as you can probably gather, a little game about life and the choices we make in them, and it's certainly more than a little bit simplified. It's not aimed at hardcore gamers but rather as a stepping stone in a (hopefully) long line of games that are approachable and relate-able, and cause people to think about and perhaps connect to what the message behind the game is. In a non-trivial way, I think what we're trying to do is push forward gaming towards art.

As for this game, it starts with a platformer and then turns into something that incorporates more gameplay through narrative, and finally ends with a mix of our best art and dialogue for the finale scenes. There are three 'true' endings and two 'perfect' endings, and a host of achievements for doing well in the first level as well as making the right choices in the second.

It took us about four months to make, and we're pretty proud with how it came out - though of course there are always improvements to any labor that is made. There are a few bug fixes (holy crap, grammar mistakes;  how could we not catch those?) that are coming through the pipe right now, and I think there are one or two final updates/small easter eggs/edits that will be made in the upcoming week or so, but it's pretty much done. When we posted it tonight, we looked at each other and said 'wow, we did this, we made...a game. An actual game.' And I have to tell you, it feels pretty amazing - especially it's just the first of many.

I hope you enjoy, and as always we welcome all and any feedback.

"Why?" they ask. More commonly, they simply gaze in disgust, befuddlement, or amazement.

I can't really give them an answer they will understand, no matter how good of a communicator I am, perhaps storytelling at its heart requires the listener to be as involved as the speaker, and they have never encountered a choice like this.

Or perhaps I am simply not skilled enough with my words, not empathetic enough, and I can not lead them from what they know to what I understand.

She could, though.

-

I do it because of the...how did she put it? Really obnoxious, precocious children we would have. The ones that I say would rule the world.

I can see so clearly our children doing the thing where they do at age eight or nine and ask one parent for something and, when denied, go to the other parent, trying to play them against each other.

And I can see, without a doubt, our eyes meeting over the little one's head and sharing a smile, and then...we play with him - or her, drawing out the please and arguments until, because he is precocious, he realizes that we've just been stringing him along.

And he pouts, of course, and starts to work up to a tantrum until she comes over and kisses his forehead, smoothes the frown away, and then lets him have what he was asking for in the first place. Not every time, of course, but just this once, because we were teasing him and he deserves it.

I always said she'd make a wonderful mother.

-

"It is hard," a friend of mine says over the phone, and I interrupt — "I know; I've done some research."

"Well, your first step is to find a beth din. There's one in South Jersey, but I wouldn't advise it — they're Haredis, extremely conservative. There's another one in Elizabeth, I think..."

"Well...that's the absolute start of it, right? The start of the process, I mean. I..." pause, trying to put words to thoughts. "I don't want to jump into it and make a hasty decision. I need...a consult, in other words. Is there someone I can...speak to, without it being..."

"Well, that's sort of tricky...because of the way that—"

"I know," I interrupt again, never one for listening to how things couldn't work. I'm like House, I said to her once: I prefer to assume that what I believe is right and make decisions based on that. It makes more sense, certainly than assuming I'm wrong.

"But I can get you some numbers, I think."

And with a quiet thank you, I take a step to change my words into actions.

-

I do it because of the way that we have talked, honestly, always, about our hopes and dreams, about our futures and the challenges that we faced. I do it for the one afternoon we shared when we carried on the conversations from days past about what separates dying cultures from thriving ones, about converting and the cavalier way I always talked about it, about a thousand words over five hours that I don't remember anymore that simply boiled down to two people who loved each other spending time with one another.

-

I don't know how it'll turn out. There are so many uncertainties, so many challenges. A year is a long time, and the process, as everyone tells me, is hard. And perhaps one of us will have moved on by then, leaving the other clutching memories of a holiday afternoon. Or perhaps both of us will have moved on — that would be...second best, in my opinion.

I said once that I was unafraid, because even though the odds were against us ("don't quote me the odds", I told her) what we had, together, was solid, flawless. It was the only lie I've ever told her — I'm deathly afraid, more so than I have been of anything in my life, we'll be left with nothing but a memory of an afternoon. But it is not fear that motivates me, or even to avoid regret — I would never forgive myself if I could have done something to make this work and didn't.

I do it because I believe, above all else, in love, and a God who does not put burdens on us that we can not bear.

But it would be so much easier to shoulder if she were by my side.

Procrastination, forgetfulness, and a pesky time for work to become busy all of a sudden; these are the reasons why I missed the deadline. The former two are also fairly accurate descriptors of my personality, though they're balanced out by some other things like...insightfulness (well, sometimes) and...other...stuff.

In all honesty, though, I'm a firm believer in the old mantra of 'show, don't tell' and with writing in particular, I feel that the most important things are the words themselves. The less preconceptions that are held, consciously or otherwise, the better. So even if I had all the time in the world to write this first intro, and all the people in the world reading, I think I would still end here. You'll see enough of my predilections and prejudices, trials and tribulations in the upcoming weeks.