John J. Walsh IV

I have been asked to write an article for the debut issue of the new quarterly arts journal Line Zero. If all goes according to plan, Martin Abel will be contributing artwork alongside my words. More information will be posted later!

Last week, the city of Los Angeles officially celebrated Ray Bradbury Week in honor of his ninetieth birthday. All across the sprawling urban landscape, plays were performed, films were screened, and books were signed. Circumstances, unfortunately, dictated that I could not attend any of these incredible events, but my heart, as always, was ablaze with the same reverent passion as their participants. As upsetting as my absence was for me, I knew that, much like Christmas, the most important part of any celebration is keeping its spirit alive and well all the year round. In this case, it is stoking the flames of inspiration every day for the remainder of a lifetime, and beyond. That, truly, is how you honor Ray Bradbury’s incredible contributions to the world and universe.

It is the beyond portion of the above sentiments that has been captivating my thoughts as of late. This can, of course, be strictly defined as one’s legacy, but I believe that the term’s connotations unwittingly limit the scope of endeavors to only those that are retold and printed in history books and literary journals. Bradbury, beyond a doubt, will have such a legacy, stretching as far into space and the future as his own imagination has taken him and us. However, not all of us will have the historical literary clout that Bradbury has earned over the course of his thus-far seventy-eight years of writing. And yet, he still issues to all who hear his words the same decree that was given to him at age twelve by Mr. Electrico: “Live forever!” How do we do that?

I unknowingly began contemplating this very question when I began working on Of Sirens and Sand. I suppose it was inevitable the moment I put pen to paper, for the very nature of writing was born out of a need for at least a certain semblance of permanency. Indeed, the core inspiration for the book was my inability to capture in some physical (and therefore permanent) medium the beautiful images that were quickly rotting away in my mind. I was, in essence, trying to make my memory live forever. Over the course of writing the six stories, two vignettes, and single poem that compose Of Sirens and Sand, I discovered what I decided was my personal lesson to be taken from the experience, and the secret that I believe is the key to truly living forever: Realizing that our work is never done, even in so-called death, and the torch must always be passed to another.

We pour our love, our spirit, and thus ourselves into our creative endeavors. When I hand a copy of my manuscript to someone to read, I am giving them more than just the words on the page; I am scooping out a cup of my core self and asking them to drink. All of us have been the receivers of such an offer, because we have spent lifetimes building our minds out of ideas the same way we do our bodies from the food we eat. We consume and digest countless thoughts, notions, and philosophies, laying them down as bricks in the foundation upon which we construct our own tower to the unreachable heavens. In choosing these materials, we continue the work that was begun by their creators, make them a part of who we are and what we do. Through us, and our actions, they continue to live on, their spirit carried from the past and into the future.

I see this as a metaphysical, across-the-ages version of a subject I have touched on before (“The Creative Geode” & “The Tiles”): the need to make connections. Just as we’ve the biological drive to have our genes passed onto another generation, we also have the similarly intense desire to have our ideas (and thus ourselves) be integrated into the stream of time as it flows forth into the infinite future. This is because, on some level, we instinctively grasp what Mr. Electrico knew and Bradbury has been driving at all these years: there is indeed a way to live forever, through your ideas and the connections they make.

It might be argued that such a sentiment only holds true for those whose names history has decided are worthy of documentation, but I must respectfully disagree. The remembering of names and specific actions are indeed great honors, but hardly a requirement. Ultimately, names are meaningless. Anyone can know my name. It can be recorded, written, and recited for all the ages, but it is meaningless and empty without my ideas attached to it. Sure, legends will have their names and philosophies forever bound, but this is simply additional recognition. Who I am, the nature of my actual spirit, is contained more in my words and thoughts, and therefore my work, than it is in my name. In the end, “John J. Walsh IV” is nothing but a label on a container. It is what’s inside of that container that is most important, the stuff in which I dip my inked quill. Therefore, I do not concern myself with tapping history on the shoulder so that it might take notice and jot me down, but rather about making sure my ideas connect with people, whoever (and however few) they might be. This is my ultimate goal as a writer, not fame or widespread recognition. As creators, we must never lose this distinction, else we will most likely fail and fall victim to our own premature hubris.

In this same vein, I harbor no delusions as to my own place in the universe; we are all so small against the backdrop of Creation. Yet, I cannot ignore that we make up some part of that infinite fabric: threads that may be finite, but can be stitched and lashed together to form a string that stretches far beyond our own individual reach. Our spirits carry forth as far as our ideas’ connections. Against common conception, it is not who you know, but who your ideas find. The creative efforts we pour out of ourselves may not reach an audience of millions, but all they need is to connect with one other person, who can make it a part of themselves to be passed on in turn. This is the nature of creation.

In fact, it is this very nature that has led me to the realization that our work will never be finished, no matter who we are or what we do. There is always another story to write, another picture to paint, one more song to be sung. The inevitable death of our physical bodies always draws the line somewhere, and rarely (if ever) where we would draw it ourselves. It forces us to reevaluate how we fit into such a strange and seemingly random universe. If, by definition, the soul is immortal, and we’ve poured that very soul into our work, then we live on in those it affects, no matter who they are, and the great chain continues.

The lesson is simple: put everything you have into that which you create, and even if you think it has no effect upon the world, put it out there anyway. Toss messages in bottles into the sea and let the currents of time carry them. Let your ideas find their own connections; don’t force their direction. If you’ve truly put yourself, your spirit, into your words, your brushstrokes, your musical notes, then they will find their way.

Seventy-eight years ago, that was exactly what Ray Bradbury did when he sat down to write his stories. He wrote to preserve some part of himself and his love in words, and then tossed those words out into the world. Some sixty-odd years later, a bottle landed in my hands in the form of Dandelion Wine. I popped the cork, drank deep of its words, and it changed my life forever. His philosophies were the magic elixir that granted me the secret of immortality:

Do your work, that thing you love above all other things, pour your entire soul into it, bottle it up, and toss it into the universe’s infinite expanse. When it washes up upon another’s shore, when your ideas, and thus yourself, make that connection across time and space, you will continue on into the future. It is in this manner that we can all hope to live forever, even if our names do not long outlast our bodies.

And so, with ninety amazing years of life to celebrate this year, we all wished Ray Bradbury, “Happy Birthday!” In return, he decrees as he always has, “Live forever!”

I know that he will. And, with his words as my guide, I do believe that I shall as well. I raise this bottle in toast, and then toss it into the digital sea.

As I’ve stated before, I am not really what one calls a gamer. However, several of my good friends are, and so sometimes I am exposed to games that would have otherwise never crossed my path. This usually gives me a chance to dabble in certain titles every now and then, allowing me to get a sense of them without having to endure the time-suck of having to actually play an entire game through. It’s a relationship I’ve come to enjoy with gaming, as it allows me the luxury of only investing my time in the kinds of games I feel contribute to the enrichment of my own life, while still getting to see what else is out there.

While this is indeed my general modus operandi, every once in a while I allow myself to get pulled into this world a little deeper than I usually would. I was recently provided with one of those rare occasions when, during an overnight marathon session spanning seventeen hours, I watched friend, writer, and videogame journalist Brian Rubinow play the Xbox 360 game Deadly Premonition. The event was organized under the title “Where the Squirrels Sound Like Monkeys,” which is absolutely an accurate descriptor, and should give you at least a decent indication of its Ed Wood style low budget nature.

Make no mistake, low production values are exactly why this game was being played, especially in this manner. Employing a Mystery Science Theater 3000 approach, Brian figured having an audience of (fellow) sarcastic commentators would make the grueling experience a more bearable one.

This was a smart move, as there is much to hate about the game, especially judging it by normal gaming standards. The sound effects are terrible, the small collection of music is usually completely inappropriate given the events unfolding, and the action (survival horror) portions of the game were so repetitive as to become some small portion of hell, if Andre Linoge’s description of such is to be believed. There is no way around the fact that, as a contender for what traditionally defines a great (or even good) game, Deadly Premonition is pretty much a complete and total failure.

Yet, I cannot dismiss it so quickly as not having been worth my time. As an interactive story, there lies amongst the failed mechanics and shoddy craftsmanship something that has gotten under my skin and into my heart. I constantly wanted to know more about the townsfolk, to take additional side quests to understand their strange stories better. Indeed, after the initial shock of just how strange this game was, I became consistently curious to discover what lurked about its corners.

Granted, these opinions (and all that will follow) come from someone who never once touched the controller during the game’s run, let alone spent the entire period being solely responsible for each and every action, so take my thoughts for what you will. I, for one, know that Brian has found no redeeming values in Deadly Premonition. I certainly thought likewise early on, and even in writing this review I have had moments where my brain has piped up to state that I know this game is terrible. And yet my heart still draws forth these words to tell you that there is something to be admired.

My best argument for this, aside from my compulsion to delve deeper into the game’s bizarre world, comes in the form of a particularly (and relatively) well-designed level, in which you play as the original Raincoat Killer. Much of the game had been spent driving across town to get from mission to mission. This level came at one of those junctions. Of course, I expected to jump once more into a car in order to drive to the community center, which I had honestly forgotten was also the location of the town’s clock tower.

Instead, we are suddenly back in time, unexpectedly playing as a character we’d really only heard about in earlier dialogues. At first, our goal is unclear and the change of setting is rather startling, leaving us to wonder what to do. A strange but beautiful version of “Amazing Grace” begins to play and the clock tower’s bell chimes in the distance. In the center of the screen comes the subtitle “(1…).” We keep trying to figure out where to go. Another chime and the screen flashes “(2…).” It isn’t until the third chime that we realized that they are counting up to an aforementioned ominous thirteen, and that the clock tower is our goal.

All of those points that had before been merely backstory came rushing into the foreground, made important by our having been dropped into a past that beautifully connects with the present. And so we head toward the clock tower, sparking axe dragging behind, as “Amazing Grace” plays and the chimes count up and we move closer to an honestly intriguing future.

It was at this moment that I understood the game. You cannot approach Deadly Premonition with your mind; this game is all about heart. Even as my brain shouts that there is nothing worthwhile in this junk heap of a title, my heart sees its vision. The people behind the game certainly tried to cram more genres into a single game than I’ve ever before seen attempted, but they clearly loved them dearly. Sure, their execution was off, but everything they did, they did out of love. This was not some blatant attempt to rip off the public of some small fortune of cash.

And though it is undeniably clunky and flawed, I firmly believe that the bones that make up the core of the game and its story could (and indeed should) be redecorated and reworked, creating an end product that would be a shining example of the very best that gaming has to offer as a storytelling medium. Think of it as a rough draft, an initial concept, on its way to becoming a polished screenplay. Much like Neill Blomkamp’s short Alive in Joburg was tweaked (and expanded) to become the hit film District 9, I feel that Deadly Premonition could be remade into a bona fide videogame classic. The vision is clearly there, it just needs the time, money, and additional talent to make it a reality.

So, while I cannot in good conscious recommend Deadly Premonition as a great gaming experience, I do honestly offer it up as a study in what great gaming can aspire to be: bold, daring, different.

Original.

It has been some time since I’ve read a book and been compelled to formalize my thoughts on it in the form of a review. Renda Dodge‘s Inked arrived at my doorstep a few months ago and waited patiently in the reading queue stacked on my bedside table. Slowly, it rose to the top, unassuming and quiet. When its time finally came, I held few expectations or assumptions, save what was printed on the novel’s back cover:

Tori Liddell has struggled through her twenties suffering from undiagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder. She documents her radical lifestyle changes and shifting identity through the colorful tattoos covering her body. After years spent disconnecting from family and widening the rift created by her absence, Tori returns to small-town Oregon to help facilitate the care of her mother, recently diagnosed with AIDS. At her homecoming, she faces her own mortality, the inevitable loss of her mother and the interests of an enigmatic neighbor. Tori also confronts the realization that things and people are not always the way she remembers as she searches for the meaning of home in the rubble of her past.

Inked is a window into the life of a woman trying to overcome herself, her choices and a psychological affliction etched under her skin.

This, retrospectively, defined the book’s basic parameters well, but did little to truly prepare me for what I was about to endure: a mind-screw. I don’t mean this in the sense of some magical or shocking plot-twist but rather in terms of my own mental journey. Not since Brave New World have I come away from a novel so unsure of myself, so full of self-questioning. This is not a bad thing.

Dodge has done an amazing job of grafting her character’s narrative onto my brain in some form of reverse literary bio-feedback. I, on the surface, share very little in common with this tattooed protagonist, and yet I continually found myself in familiar spaces inside her head. These situations may be different from those I have experienced, but each mapped to the appropriate place, keeping me inside of the story.

Tori’s perception of past and present is chief among Inked‘s poignant life observations and the most widely-relatable aspect of the novel. Through this, Dodge expertly weaves a tale of mental distortion, of fuzzy edges and false assumptions. Just as Brave New World befuddled my sense of morality in regards to the function of society, Inked has brought into question my own believed control over the world that has passed by me and through the filters whose accuracy I have never before scrutinized.

Although dealing largely with personal realities and perception, this is not Fight Club. You will find no imaginary alter egos in Inked‘s pages, but rather another version of yourself, seen through a secret window in the back of a woman’s mind. You will find your own perceptions challenged through her eyes and through her trials, coming back changed by the process.

Dodge has crafted something truly incredible by her pen, and I’m going to have this story on my brain for some time to come. Needless to say, I highly recommend this book, and that you keep an eye toward its author’s future. I think we are going to see much, much more wonderful work from her.

How I long for October, for golden leaves and brisk nights, when we might dance on the precipice of death, with summer youth still coursing our veins. Never else will there be such a celebration! A month-long parade of boyish charms and ancient wisdom, culminating all in a single eve, when we fear not that dark reaper, for we become him, slip into his course, dry bones and swing the unholy scythe as if drunk on church wine. But nay! We’ve something more sacred than the courage of any blessed bottle electrifying our excited nerves: Life! Were we ever so wonderfully aware of it? It is our march through the dying season that will make us alive, free us from our fear. We will be as kites, carried on autumn wind, transported above the coming blanket of winter snow, to land softly in spring’s blooming garden, longing once more for October’s embrace.

You will not have our dreams. You will not control our lives. You shall be victorious over nothing and no one.

We are the great conjurers, the grand inventors of the future, and your petty lack of vision will not limit our infinite journeys.

There is something out there greater, larger, far bigger than anything you could ever imagine, and it is ours for the taking. We are the opened-eyed ones, and we see what you will forever fail to understand: There is no limit to our souls. We’ve no boxes within which to contain our lives, no boundaries to hold us back. We will go where you cannot follow.

Forward.

For there lies joy, knowledge, understanding.

And a happiness you will never have.

We are the nobodies, the statistically insignificant never-weres, small pebbles relegated to the seabed of the world’s great expanse. We’ve no mountains to our names, accomplished no great achievements to be gloriously trumpeted in the annals of history. The unwritten epitaph upon our sodded-over mass grave seems destined: Here lie the unknown ones. They made no difference. Let them never be remembered.

But we’ve no such fate.

We are the butterflies that silently roar, growling with a sound of thunder. We pound the pavement, lay foundations, move ever-forward with passion stoking our hearts’ driving fires. The boots of society seem fit to make us the downtrodden, but we are the grass that grows and carpets the hillsides, emerald green and made of the sun. Billions of blades.

Bricks in the wall, they cry, for they do not see. Bricks, no. Tiles in the mosaic, yes, for there is a picture to be painted as we align ourselves with no other force than shared love, the blind ambition to put forth into the universe that which begs to break free from the ribbed cage of mortality. What is mine is yours, and yours, mine. Ours. This is the glue that binds, active, alive, firm against the solvents they will surely throw.

Alone, we are nothing. Together, we are everything.

Although I was unable to be there in person, I was blessed with the opportunity to write the introduction and some poetry for Martin and Hannah Abel’s recent wedding on May 29, 2010. Being trusted to capture their love in my words was an incredible honor, and (with their permission) I want to share that which they inspired with their across-the-earth romance and timeless love.

Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon. On behalf of Hannah Bairnsfather and Martin Abel, I would like to welcome each and every one of you here today to witness and celebrate the occasion of their marriage.

As their closest family and friends, your presence is of great importance, because you, more than anyone else, know how their love, and now marriage, came to be. You have beheld a relationship that would not be conquered by distance, would not submit to the great stresses that threatened it. And now you witness their commitment to the life-long promise to always cherish, strengthen, and nurture their love.

But you are also seeing evidence of life’s mysterious wonders. Three years ago, who could have imagined this day? Who could have known how fate’s wheel would turn, how the gears of the universe would align, against all odds, to bring these two souls together? It all began, innocently enough, with a hyperlink. Martin, sharing his artistic talent with the world, caught Hannah’s attention. Though she had, at that time, not drawn for years, she harbored a similar passion, and struck up an online conversation with him. That moment, so simple and unassuming, was the inception of all that was, and is, to come.

In spite of the thousands of miles that separated them, they came to know each other’s warmth. Each inspired in the other a sense of true and honest joy. Hannah began drawing again. Happiness abounded in their lives and their love began to blossom. Distance, though daunting, did nothing to retard their feelings.

Finally, through the kindness and generosity of friends, the time came when they were able to meet in person. They both will tell you how special that moment was. Though they could not know it then, through their nervousness, in that first embrace, they felt the future. Their future. The future to which you are now bearing witness, at this very moment.

While they traveled when they could in order to be together, it wasn’t until two years later that Hannah was able to permanently make Australia her home with Martin. Those two years were hard, filled with difficult goodbyes. But they persevered, beat the odds, and now stand before you, on their wedding day.

And so that is their story, in which circumstance gave way to shared passion and led to this day: the start of their married life.

However, marriage is a bond that can only be forged in the fires of truest love; the mere heat of passion does not burn nearly hot enough. Knowing this, Hannah and Martin, together, have built their relationship on a sincerity that fosters acceptance, openness, and trust. They understand that marriage is not the throwing out of parts to create a perfect whole, but rather the merging of two wholes to form a perfect bond. They respect all that completely embodies their partner, honoring each other’s individuality as well as accepting any and all faults that are contained within. No matter what the road ahead of them holds in store, Hannah and Martin are together, forever.

Just as their love has instilled great joy in each of their own hearts, so too has it stirred the hearts of others. Throughout the ceremony today, Hannah and Martin would like to share with you poetry written for them by their friend John Walsh, who was inspired by the incredible love he saw unfolding before him.

This segues into the first poem, which is from Marty’s perspective, before the giving of the bride.

“Now We Are Here”

For the entirety of my life I had waited,
Searching to find you, my dearest love.
I knew you were out there, somewhere,
With a heart that shone as the stars above.

On the other side of the world you resided,
So far away from the dreams we had seen.
But we have worked long, so very hard,
Destroyed that space which was between.

And now we are here, together at last
At that grand and most wondrous time:
When I fall completely into your arms,
And you forever into mine.

The second poem, which is after the giving of the bride, is from Hannah’s perspective.

“Together Forever”

Time has long stood between us
And held us beyond arms’ length,
But still our love continued,
For our hearts had the strength.

At last I’ve found my way here
And into your loving embrace,
To feel the warmth of your body,
Bask in the glow of your smiling face.

And smile we shall, forever and onward,
For we will never again be apart.
I’m yours for always, my love;
I give to you all of my heart.

The final poem, after the vows, rings, and declaration, is about their shared experience and the new bond of marriage.

“In Soul’s Embrace”

Across the world, your smile did shine,
Let me know that your heart was mine.

Over thousands of miles, your laugh did carry,
Brightened my day, even when I was weary.

You were many leagues across the sea,
But still your voice did comfort me.

No matter the body’s distance, I never did once resign,
For your soul was always close, snuggled next to mine.

But now time and space have been slain,
And our deepest love will forever reign.

There is nothing to stop us, not now.
Our bond will conquer all, and how!

The titles of the three poems, when read together, form the phrase, “Now We Are Here, Together Forever, In Soul’s Embrace.” I couldn’t think of a better way to sum up their love and marriage.

In addition to what I wrote for the actual wedding ceremony, I also contributed an untitled poem to a video with which Martin surprised Hannah at the reception. These words appeared alongside the art that inspired them, an original digital painting Martin did of the couple in their wedding attire, standing at the spot where he proposed. This was set to John Murphy’s “Sunshine (Adagio in D Minor),” resulting in an wonderfully emotional piece.

It was here that I did fall upon bended knee
To ask you, my dearest soul mate, to marry me.

It is here that my heart shall forever stay,
For I will cherish you always, as I did that day.

And though the great storms and rains will come,
Our love shall burn eternal, bright as the sun.

(Video @ Martin Abel’s Site)

Martin and Hannah, congratulations to you both. Thank you for inspiring me with your love.

He falls to his knees, throwing his full weight into gravity’s greedy hands. The muscles relax for just that single moment as he gives himself completely over to the relentless, unforgiving force. Each patella strikes the pavement; the blows fail to be cushioned by the puddle that has gathered there. His torso heaves forward, forearms slamming to the ground as he hunches over, sobbing. He jerks his head to the sky, mouth open, screaming. Eyelids clenched tightly against all the universe, he cries out, tears running down his face. The rain continues to pour, drowning the streaming products of his eternal sadness. “There is no hope!” comes the shout from his tired lungs. “There is no hope!” screams his aching soul. “There is hope,” comes the whisper in his ear, but he does not hear over his desperate cries.

The child whispers again. “There is hope.” She reaches out a hand. The rain streaks her face, but her eyes remain bright. “There is hope,” comes the soft promise once more. “Open your eyes; I can show you the way.”

The death knell that rings forth from his convulsing diaphragm deafens his ears to her quiet pleas. He pounds his fists into the ground, splashing dirty water onto his face. His eyes remain closed. “There is no hope!”

Just ahead, the sun shines and the fields are green. Though she knows the way, she remains at his side. “There is hope.”

You just have to open your eyes.

She stands before me, simply beautiful, unknowingly perfect. Rather than the sum total of some arbitrary list, it is her whole that captures my attention. Like some ancient and hidden treasure, she exists in great and stark contrast to the world that surrounds her: quiet against its loud, soft against its harsh, real in the face of its false fronts. Her backdrop, for all her wonder, is nothing less than death—brutal, unflinching, all-out war. Guns fire and bombs drop, unleashing a bloody, fiery mess. Her order persists in defiance of such chaos, begs the question: How?

How, amongst all this horror, does such beauty exist? Is it struck, founded, forged in the heat of eternal battle, or does it hide from that ever-hungry beast, alive in spite of its never-ending chase? I cannot say, only cherish. She is tucked away in my memory, a seed for something grand to be poured out of my mind at some as yet unknown and later date. For now, I am merely frozen in this simple moment, soaking in its wrenching briefness, an untouchable, finite eternity.

The moment breaks as she calls once more for my attention. I turn away from the World War II documentary playing on the television, take the receipt she hands me. She bids me good day and I return the courtesy. As I walk through the door into the world outside, I cannot help but wonder if it is all that different from the imaginary one I’ve just left.