James Cavin Writes

A tiny bit of Vim for you today! Just a morsel really, but I have been very sick. I have much more written, but it is still in the throes of revision. (There are some interesting pitfalls to navigate when writing an epistolary narrative ((that is, a story made up of letters or journal entries)*), and I am afraid that I fell into several of them in the segment with which I'm currently struggling – but more on that when I finally post those chapters!) *Yes, our parenthetical statements are so profound that they possess their own parenthetical statements.** **AND footnotes!*** ***Seriously, it's like a Russian nesting doll in here.**** ****Yes, I recycled this joke from the New Game+ Journal in Defender's Quest. My apologies if you are one of the 3 people who's read it before. In the meantime, I hope you can enjoy our poor brain-damaged-eunuch-scribe-turned-grave-robber's latest adventure. While it may not be our hero...

For my birthday, my brother gave me a MIDI keyboard controller... and a head cold. …The world is not prepared for the sheer volume of hallucinogenic-rock-organ-synth-space-electronic currently barreling towards it. To get into the right mind space, I've been consuming a steady diet of cough syrup, 9 Inch Nails, and the GameCube soundtrack to Metroid Prime (supplemented with hourly naps and the occasional foray into Vangelis and/or ambient sound scapes from Thief: The Dark Project. Oh, and Conan the Barbarian.) It's been an interesting time. For the longest time I thought of music as a kind of alien, magical world that belonged to other people – I could enjoy the things that came out of it, but to venture into it myself was totally impossible. This might still be the case, but I've got enough cough syrup and overdrive buttons to not notice. Seriously, you can hook an amp up to anything in here. Oboes, clarinets, saxophones, NOT...

Bam! Pow! Zap! Other sounds of beeping and blooping digital destruction! From Spacewar! all the way back in 1962 up to the present day, an overwhelming number of videogames are devoted to (or heavily feature) violent combat of some kind. It's something for which modern social critics and game designers often feel a kind of shame. “Surely, this is what's holding us back from true respectability as a grown-up medium,” we whisper in the shadowed booths of hookah lounges and bratwurst bars*, "This must be what makes us not quite as good as movies. Why are we so devoted to violence?” *Or wherever we hipsters nest these days. It’s easy to write this off with a simple "because teenage boys are the primary demographic, and teenage boys are awful." However, I think there’s a little bit more going on under the hood here. A quick aside: What do we mean when we say “game”? For our purposes, I'm go...

Happy Friday! For those of you to whom reality provides an insufficient amount of psychedelic, grave-robbing shenanigans amongst the rusting hulks and inhuman powers of the fallen future, I have another slice of Vim! ...Poor Grit the Quill is out of the snake-siege and into even greater insanities. If you'd like to start the narrative of our brain-damaged-eunuch-scribe-turned-tomb-raider/something-less-than-reliable-narrator from the beginning, you can find the first two chapters here: ( Read Part One here. ) ( Read Part Two here. ) And now, without further ado, Part 3! PREPARE YOURSELVES FOR WEIRD. The stone is sharp. They bring the infants up by helix steps to cast them down upon its point, and in that fall they read the fate and future. Such was my dream that I dreamt as we lay below the moon-glowing mirk and waited to be killed. The old wound hurts greater than the new. These are not my thoughts. They were germs on...

Thanks to an unexpected bout of insomnia last night, I am currently operating with approximately 3.5 hours of sleep. I also have 39 pages of rambling, incoherent, hand scrawled notes for something called The Cleverest Beast , which apparently felt very compelling in the wee hours of the morning. I have transcribed those notes here because, you know, why not? Without further ado, I give you the deranged ramblings of the Hyde-esque antimatter alter ego who apparently takes control of my faculties once I cross the insomnia event horizon: Here beginneth the account of Zombie James According to an interesting article sent to me by a friend, Franz Kafka believed that insomnia (from which he suffered most of his life, in case you couldn't tell from his million yard stare and/or the fact that everything he wrote was a waking nightmare) was a great artistic tool. I don't know how much I wish to base my life on Kafka's (for one, I'd like ...

I've got another bit of madness for you! For some reason, I've been in kind of a swordfish mood lately… (Is this what being trapped in an artistic rut* feels like?) *On the plus side, my swordfish-themed-cover-art-skills seem to be improving. Anyways, this one's definitely a rough draft, so if there's anything that feels like it ought to be cut, just say so! Without further ado... At 3:37 PM, Thursday, 37 years ago, the stuffed swordfish over the mantle piece began to weep. The tears were black, slightly viscous, and described by those present as smelling strongly of sandalwood and turpentine. When the tears had not abated by 4:42, but had instead begun to pool on the hearth in what threatened to be a permanently-staining manner, Madame Z_____________ sent for the priest (the local gendarmerie and Madame Z_____________'s lawyer having already been summoned but failing to arrive in a timely manner.) The priest...