Play me

Games give an agency and power where there is none.

I can exercise heroics, aggression, spontaneity, without earthly consequence.

Opportunity is flung my way and Escapism lends it’s hand.

I can explore the imperfect brain-child of imperfect creators, see the seam in the sky.

Imagine another medium that drinks you up the same, where you can plunge into sea or long grass, where your actions can fill and animate the body of a character.

TV can break the fourth wall, address you, look you in the eye.

Books can call you “dear reader” but I can’t put my hands to use around Rochester’s throat, I can’t bang on the other side of the attic door for Jane to hear as a bump in the night.

 

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String of self

I just typed in “you”, searching for YouTube and “you are an experienced monk” came up in my recent searches.

Bewildered, I remembered that I’m not the same person as I was when I searched for that.

I had different priorities clearly.

I’ve remembered now, what it was about, and that’s a line of continuity that runs through past and present me.

The self is more brittle than it seems.

Stiff necked abandon

Post-fantasy purples and blues,

purpley-reds that spill on my shoes,

Metal fingers shakes the hinge loose

Questing the best thing on which I can use my time, energy and effort.

I creep through, light-footed.

Cruel black gauntlets, a pirouetting villain in a swish of graphic silk.

Platform

Layers

Snaking layers

Dropping through gaps in moving layers

Turbulence

Graphic sideways view of multiple swapping options

Drop.

You see the side of me

I flip to go backwards

From face on I’m a black line – the same when I face away

My limbs a jarring representation of real ones.

My hopping form gives the illusion of movement.

Layers slide on.

NPC – Part 1

My legs swung forward from the hip. I was agile. I didn’t feel the familiar and expected groaning of my calves, instead I felt happily strong and capable. I flew across the landscape without tortured breath or heaviness and I felt free.

I crawled round the house in the semi-darkness, resting often from the labour. I sighed as I plugged back in.

Looking around with alert bright eyes, I clenched my fists as I looked over across the small settlement. I climbed down from my vantage point.

Shanty buildings with a shiny sheen greeted my eye. A cliché in a chequered dress swept up pointlessly outside the cartoonish inn doors. A wind passed through as if to better animate the scene for my benefit and it tousled the cliché’s hair and gently parted the doors to the saloon. A ridiculous tumble weed crept just past her feet and she looked up to give me an empty smile.

I looked around to see if any other characters populated the area. There were none, so I walked my ridiculous cowboy walk over to the chequered caricature. Before she or I could speak I unwillingly tipped my ridiculous hat.

The sun beat down on my dirty face and it was the first time I’d felt truly uncomfortable there, as I prepared myself for speech. I wished her a good afternoon without incident and she gave me a “Howdy stranger, welcome to The Slanted Gran” in return. The name of the place appeared in my view and I felt an endorphin boost as if I’d achieved something, simply by “discovering” this new territory. Her mouth shaped the words so distinctly, with such purpose. Her eyes remained dim. She smiled at me blankly while I chose what to say.

She didn’t seem to notice I was a woman in typically masculine attire, despite the apparent time period, she didn’t seem to notice a lot. She just goofily grinned at me, her windswept hair moving in unnatural, lagging fragments.