Video Games and Creativity

I was having a conversation with a friend last night about violence, video games (other platforms, too, but mostly video games), and raising children. The topic arose when I remembered a short story that I had written about 5 years ago, based in the Halo universe. I explained to her that Halo was a shooting game that I fell in love with in 2001, when I was only 14. She expressed her strong feelings that there would be no playing of violent video games in her household. I dissented heavily and, thus, a debate! And who doesn't love a good debate? All we needed was a judge to determine the winner, but since there wasn't one I will use my completely biased opinion and say that I ended up with the upperhand.

Her reasoning, like many others, was that violence in video games is glorifying and can 'nurture' young minds to think of such acts as fun, thrilling, and without consequence, therefore making them more likely to do such crimes in the future--in real life. She used examples like Columbine, where the killers were hardcore fans of the famously violent shooter--Doom. I even have my own example: the DC-Snipers used Halo--the very same that I love--to practice their sniping skills before their spree. In my rebuttal, I think that taking away video games is treating the symptom and not the core problem. If the Columbine killers didn't have Doom to play all the time (or were even devoid of violence in entertainment at all), they would still be able to hate due to the ridicule and teasing they endured at school. My argument is that it takes special minds to latch on to violence and not only love it, but transform it into something they want for the real world. Even if they didn't see violence on television, play violence in video games, or drool over those big budget shootouts in movies, their personalities would still latch on to any negativity around them. If they were walking down the street on a perfectly sunny day with bird-song and sweet air, they would only really feel joy when they'd see that poor squirrel get caught up in car-tires in the middle of the road.

Also, growing up in DC, I've more-so seen the people who have grown up around REAL violence and REAL consequences turn toward that kind of lifestyles themselves, so I'm not sure how much I agree with the notion that that no-consequence nature of video games has any negative effects. Again, it all comes down to some other, larger factor that will affect how these experiences are interpreted, digested, transmogrified.

I could go on about this, but I guess you get my point, whether you agree with it or not. In my opinion, the best strategy is moderation. This is because I believe that video games, television, movies, etc, etc, etc, add to the developing mind in some way, especially the creative mind. The first real short story I'd written was the Halo one, and you can find Part I right below this post. Halo didn't teach me how to write, but it did contribute to my pool of experiences. I don't want to offend anyone that has been in real combat, real battle, and I'm not trying to say in any way that playing such games gives me the perspective needed to imagine what the fear/exhilaration/heartache of war is really like, but I see it the same way that someone who writes science fiction probably read a lot of it in their youth. None of us have ever experienced what it's like to fight aliens, but we can experience what it's like to fight aliens in the imaginative worlds of others and, thus, add to our own creativity.

In the end, I'm not praising violence in videogames. I don't think that a game where you just pop people in the head to see how far the blood can shoot has any value. That's just violence to be violent. But a unique experience with a compelling story may have violence because that is a characteristic of that universe, just like a character in a book might curse profusely because, hey, people like that exist.

So, would I let my 14 year old play violent videogames? I'd let him play Halo. And if I see that he's reveling in the violence even after the console goes off, I'd think of it as a sort of blessing that I was able to detect that he has some much more innate problem that needs working on before it can develop further. It's moderation and monitoring. But hopefully that deeper issue won't exist and he'd get something out of it that could one day be valuable and, if not, at least fun. Besides, with the way video games are going with technology, in another 20 years the things our children will be playing will be so unique, immersive, etc, etc, etc, I wouldn't want to deny a blooming mind of such experiences.

Death Valley (Halo Fan-Fiction written in 2004)

Sparks of colorful light could be seen from miles away, with nothing but the stars to share witness of the mayhem that took place below. As the drop ship flew off into the night sky, the fading roar of its engines was replaced by the sound of battle, the sound of war. The night air was damp and humid, the rain pouring down in waves, making visibility poor, something that had not been considered beforehand. As the team drew closer to the battleground, cries of war and agony could be heard, the last screams of the slaughtered chilling the soul of all who listened. The soldiers, although equipped with the latest battle gear and the best technology that the United States Marine Corps had to offer, knew that their chances of survival were minimal. Some of them that had survived previous battles knew that much of it was based on luck and that this day their luck could surely run out. The ones who were about to engage in their first battle knew that their training could not possibly prepare them enough for what they were about to experience. They glanced at each other, some with fear in their eyes and others with bloodlust, and then looked ahead. The battle was just over this hill.

Approaching a jagged boulder jutting up from the soft earth, Sergeant Michael Weathers shouldered his PSG-1 sniper rifle and took cover at the very top of the hill. He hesitated for a moment as he looked on in awe at the scene in the valley below him. The awful sounds that he had heard were now supplemented with visuals, visuals that burn themselves into one's brain and stay as an inexorable memory for a lifetime. Thick, black smoke billowed from the small, raging fire that engulfed the downed UNSC ship, which lay wrecked in the middle of the ongoing battle. Scanning the area, Weathers saw that there were about six Marines that were still alive and fighting. They were using the smoldering ship as cover and dodging plasma fire from enemy weaponry. The Elites outnumbered them by a factor of three. They were smart creatures and seemed to be looking for a way to lure the surviving Marines from their cover. They were quick and agile, instantly shooting with dead-on accuracy at any soldier who could be seen through the cover. Bodies, of both Marines and Elites alike, lay scattered all over, red and blue blood covering the terrain below. Weathers could make out three small craters, one of which was still glowing green from the blast that created it. He figured that these were caused by fragmentation grenades, the last one a result of the alien explosive devices that were often utilized by the enemy Elites. Weather's deduction was proven correct as he noticed the several detached body parts littering the battleground. When he came into eye contact with a decapitated head of a fellow Marine, which stared at him, unblinking, unmoving, only dust and echoes reflected in its gaze, he came back to his senses and realized he was wasting time. He directed his attention to the six remaining Marines. Although battered and bruised, most of them seemed to be in fighting condition as best as Weathers could tell. One Marine's uniform and gear was soaked in blood, both blue and red, and his left arm abruptly ended in tattered and torn flesh, hanging loosely and dripping, only a few inches from the shoulder. The one-armed Marine still had life in him, however, as he would come out from his cover every so often, taking bold shots at the Elites, yelling out expletives all the while.

Weathers observed all of this in a matter of seconds and then concerned himself with the task at hand. His job was to carefully snipe out opposition while the rest of the reinforcements went, guns blazing, into battle. He could hear the commanding chief barking orders to his squad. Weathers checked that the safety was off, loaded a fresh clip, and looked through the 4x magnification scope. Everything glowed green as he viewed the battle in night vision. He could hear the war cry of his fellow Marines as they charged down the hill, their assault rifles blazing, stray bullets ricocheting off the impenetrable metal of the downed ship. The Elites, at first surprised to see the new arrivals, quickly regrouped and began to retaliate. One of the commanding Elites lifted his armored fists in defiance and then began to aim his plasma gun when his head exploded.

Weathers, who was known for his sniping abilities, grinned at the headshot and quickly began to focus on other targets. When the original surviving Marines saw that help had come and realized that a sniper also looked over them in the hills, they gained new hope and emerged from their cover and engaged in full fledged battle. They spread out over the terrain, exchanging gunfire with the Elites. The shields of the Elites shimmered in the night as the bullets of the several assault rifles made contact. Their shields could keep them from harm, but not for very long. The Marines were relentless with their gunfire and the shields of the enemies began to flicker and die out. With this, cries of pain ripped through the air as three of the Elites in the front line were torn apart.

All the while, the Elites returned fire with their plasma guns, which propelled small balls of melting hot plasma that liquefied whatever it came in contact with. "My ear!" screamed a Marine as enemy fire grazed his head, turning his ear into a sizzling, smoking goo. He bent over in pain, reaching to his newly acquired wound and going into a hysterical fit when his hand was badly burned from touching the scorching hot mess. A bolt of blue-green light soared through the air and suddenly ended the Marine's cries as a hole the size of a softball was burned into his chest cavity. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The opposing Elite's victory was short-lived as Weathers promptly sent a bullet into his right ear, blowing the left side of his brains out. Weathers rotated his gun and viewed a side fight between a lone Marine and two Elites. The Marine was dancing around a boulder that rose just above his head, ducking behind it as plasma fire sizzled past him and left big black smoking marks in the tall rock. Weathers quickly took out the stronger looking of the Elites, and the Marine down below used this opportunity to take advantage of the surprised alien. He tucked and rolled, coming up in a kneeling position and fired his assault rifle full blast, aiming at the head of the Elite. Pushed back by the onslaught of bullets, the Elite stumbled and was unable to steady his gun for defense. When his shields were exhausted, the Elite was struck in the eye, the bullet passing in and out through the back of his spiked head easily, leaving a lifeless lump on the ground with blood oozing from the orifice.

Private Charles, who had come straight from boot camp, was running out of ammo and to reload in the open was almost certain death. He began to back up, seeing his fellow Marines being turned into burning corpses all around him. Right as his last bullet left its chamber, Charles dove behind the still smoldering ship, a plasma bullet just missing his head. A Elite had spotted him taking cover and pulled off a green object that was attached to his armor. As the grenade left the Elite's hand a shot rang out through the air and the Elite fell, dead, but Weathers had been too late. The incendiary grenade flew with unbelievable accuracy and landed right beside Charles, who had just finished reloading and was about to rejoin the battle. He didn't even have time to react. His eyes widened and his mouth opened to scream and then an explosion shook the night. After the smoke cleared, all that was left was a green glow and a flaming skeleton, lying motionless under the stars.

Weathers cursed under his breath and steadied his rifle for another kill. He spotted Mendoza, the one-armed Marine, crazily shooting into the crowd of Elites. "Yeah, you like that? You want some more?" he yelled. "This one's for my arm, you bastards!" His shots lacked aim, but somehow found some of their targets and three Elites fell. One of them, however, managed to dodge his fire and jumped into a roll, firing his plasma gun and obliterating Mendoza's right leg. Mendoza let out a scream and fell to a bended knee, still firing wildly. The Elite let out a roar as he realized he was out of ammo and quickly unveiled an alien blade that seemed to be molded into his armor. He began to run toward Mendoza at full speed, bullets ricocheting off his still intact shield. The ground around him erupted into small puffs of dirt as Weathers and nearby comrades desperately tried to take down the mobile Elite, but he was too fast. Mendoza did not falter in his shooting, and his last words echoed in Weathers' mind: "I'll die like a man, you cowardly beast!" His death was quick, the Elite decapitating the injured soldier with expertise, the speed at which the blade sliced through his throat making it painless and without flaw. The Elite stopped to claim victory over the dead one and the right side of his head suddenly shattered under the force of the bullet that ended his triumph. Weathers was having a bad day, and it was just about to get worse.

My Pen Sings A Song

Light Movement of fingers
Summon to life an unknown story
Adventure’s song playing upon
A canvas of white:
Electrifying

He isn’t real. Neither is she. Or it.
But they are real to the soul of my
Pen
Flowing out of the dark subconscious of mind
And into crafted fantasy life.
Like a child escaping from a pushing wound.

They lived a short time
Crumples of torn and ravaged white paper
Haunt the wastebasket
Ghosts of millions of stories
Never brought forth to light
Maddened, but never truly gone

I ignite heroes
Bring forth dragons for adventure,
Exterminate the fruits of a heart made evil
Evil I conjured
Vindicate the poor
Poverty I gave

If only the world
Was as attentive as all strokes
Of a black pen across endless white
Then life would be just like a snowbird
Free in the purity of the arctic tundra.

Persona Poetry/Juggernaut!

I am not a 'poet,' persay, although I dabble in the art from time to time. What I like about poetry is also the most intimidating: its lack of rules. Also, it is hard for me to determine just what 'good poetry' is. I've taken my fair share of poetry courses while at Stanford and, whether workshop or lecture, people could agree that one poem is brilliant while the next is trash...and they'll look the same to me! Sometimes I'd wonder if 'good poetry' (kind of like writing sometimes) was more defined by the authors than by the actual writing. I truly thought that if you would take a 'shitty' poem and slap Robert Frost's name on it, people would call it a masterpiece. They'd take the elements that make it so shitty and analyze it, saying that the author deliberately wrote it in a way that seemed to lack quality as a sort of commentary, therefore making the piece and his writing ability even more amazing! But I guess, as I've said, that this can be applied to other types of writing, but with the lack of rules in poetry, it just seems like anything goes.

When it all comes down to it, the question, I think, should be about what kind of emotions and reactions are pulled from the reader by the poetry and then you can measure its personal value then. I say personal because if I cannot understand a Robert Frost poem or extract from it all the imagery and metaphors that others can then the poem is dead to me. Whereas, on the flip side, I might be able to connect on some unthoughtof level with the simplest of poems.

I just wanted to background a little bit some of the things I feel about poetry. I think I just wrote some mumbo-jumbo that poured from my mind, but isn't that a kind of poetry in itself?

To get to the topic of this blog post, in one of my poetry classes the assignment was to write a poem from the perspective of someone else (a persona poem). I decided to write about my roommate and fraternity brother. Because of the judgment that may seem to shine forth from this piece, he shall remain nameless. But I thought it was an interesting exercise (if not a little entertaining, especially when I showed it to my roommate) that made poetry writing, for me, just a little bit easier. Sometimes it may be hard to write true to yourself, as we all have hesitance of self-criticism, or, more accurately, making our self-criticism accessible by others. But by pretending to be someone else as you write (I'm just now realizing that the personal posts in my blog have reached some type of theme: becoming someone else when you write....sounds like it would make for a great novel, huh? Too bad Stephen King already did it) you can open your imagination up to a new sect of experiences but also apply criticism (or praises) more readily to those thoughts, mannerisms, moralities, etc, etc.

So, and without further ado, here is my persona poem. My roommate's nickname was, at his peak, the Juggernaut! That and this internet phenomenon inspired this piece.

Juggernaut!

Author: Justin Key

I am the Juggernaut

Bitch

Women flock to me

My fanclub of willingness

All at my disposal.

I am unstoppable.

If sex were a war

Then my army would be undefeated

300 Spartans of Love-

Making

Oh

Before I forget

Please don’t leave your panties

On my floor

Again

Don’t cry

There is hardly any time for tears

And the sooner you smile

The sooner we can do it all

Again

The Juggernaut forgets what love is

Only lust

No pain (except for that good pain)

Only pleasure

I am the Juggernaut

Bitch

It’s not really that hard to understand

Now come, sit next to me

Its OK

You’re in good hands

Just please

Please

Be out by morning

PS: I'm afraid if I continue giving in to my urge to post from my archive of work so quickly, I will soon run out! But, new material everyday, but I guess I also don't want to put it all up for grabs, eh?

The Morning Came

“Life ain’t no crystal stair”

That’s what she told me

Told millions

They all listened

It sounds nice

Poetic diction but not useless fiction

A crystal is bright and pure

Clear cut and serene

Life ain’t that

Vague years ending as death nears

Unheard, blocked by the sound

Can you hear it?

The pain of a billion cries

(Yes I said a billion)

Yet we all have the want to live

A will to live only for what?

The knowledge that the end will still find you

Another day when judgment will ring true

But ‘joy commeth in the morning’

That’s what the good book says

Its morning now

I watched the stars melt away into a blue abyss

Reflecting the world’s tears in their sparkle

Saw the sun rise into the sky

Its massive weight not even able to

Lift my spirits

Felt its warm breeze on cursed skin

And heard the birds sing

Yet my heart sings a different song

One of nighttime sorrows

And apocalyptic mornings

The Move to LA: Driving

School's over. Summer's coming to a lament-filled close. I feel like I just got home, fresh diploma in hand, ready to catch up on 1001 hours of sleep debts, and now it is August. And, technically, the second week of August, at that. I have caught up on sleep (more or less), visited family, friends, sparked new relationships, and now I have about a month until I setting out on the road for California. When will I return? Who knows.

Typical post-grad story, huh? Well, not quite. There's a lot of 'growing' that

needs to be done in the next month, so to speak. I don't necessarily mean maturity-wise, but rather there are certain things that I lack that most 22 year olds have. Like a license. And a car. I would say and a job, but I don't think I am much behind on that one.

I grew up in DC where pretty much everything is accessible by subway train and/or metro bus. On top of that, my mother hasn't driven since her 20's. I remember, like most teenagers, being eager to attain my license when I turned 16. Had my mom print out the information so that I could study for the test and everything. I forget exactly why, but procrastination crept up on me. And then, before I knew it, it was time to go to college. While at college, I considered my inability to drive on of my best-kept secrets (or maybe it wasn't...you tell me, guys). I definitely had the desire, but not the time. The years rolled past.

So the summer after my senior year found me carless, licenseless, and, ultimately, LA-bound. Bus and metro (does LA even have those?) just wouldn't do. I had three months to catch up. I visited my cousin, Neil (who lives down in Martinsville, VA, where my mom grew up) with the goal of learning how to drive in a week. The first day we went around and around and then in and out of a parking lot for a couple of hours, learning the basics, and then the next day my cousin decided it was a good idea to just put me on the open road at night. All in all, I'm still alive, Neil's truck is in the same condition as before, and Neil was usually more nervous than I was. Oh, and I learned how to drive (minus parallel parking).

Now all I need to do is make it official. Because of my ripe old age of 22 it seems that I could very well go in this Monday to get my permit and then come back Tuesday to take the road test. To be honest, it took me a while to find this reality actually written out, whereas before I had just seen webpage after webpage talk about the requirements for 'under 21' that I assumed these didn't apply for someone my age. I also guessed that the absence of specific instructions for me age group was due to the assumption that no one would ever need to look for that info. The plan now is to go in and take written test this Thursday the 6th (and with questions like "when is the road most slippery: 2 hours after it rained, right after it has rained, 5 days after it rained, or 1 week after?" I think it's safe to say I'll pass), practice driving a little bit more with my permit and learn how to parallel park, and then go in for road test on Monday the 17th. Kinda scary that someone can actually go from never touching a steering wheel to a licensed driver in less than 2 months, huh? Believe it.

Then that very weekend I'm making a trip up to New York and will probably get a rental car. What better way to try my new driving then on the streets of The Big Apple? I predict that it will be like my cousin Neil, whereas someone else will be a lot more nervous than I will be. Just look at that picture: isn't it just beautiful?

And then there's the part of getting a car. I've been looking with a price range of about $3-5k. I've already found some interesting things and have already almost been the victim of internet scamming. This whole car search doesn't seem to be that difficult, though, and I honestly think I'll have one in my possession right around the same time as that license. But then there's car insurance, tags, gas, blah, blah, blah. What a joy.

By now, after reading all of this, you may have forgotten the scariest part: the cross-country trip. Yep, the plan is to drive 2855.76 miles from Washington, DC to Stanford (spending a couple weeks at my alma mater before heading down to LA) during Labor Day Weekend. Don't worry, though, I'm not taking the trip alone. And I figure it's a great way to purge myself into a driver's realm: everything else about this transition has been on the fast track, anyway.

All in all, I'm excited about this. And this is just Part I of my Move to LA post. The next will be about the job search. I think I'll post it under 'Horror.'

Short Exercise Screenplay - Admit One

INT. BEDROOM - DUSK

ERIK, a fifteen year old boy, enters his bedroom in a hurry, not bothering to close the door. He is wet with rain, but doesn't care. He hurls his bookbag and jumps to his computer.

The computer CHUGS and SCREECHES its startup and Erik is impatient, but we see that what he feels most is anticipation. His befreckled face lights up with blue. He smiles and begins to type and move his mouse. Soon, he looks satisfied. The printer begins to print.

Erik's room is the size expected for someone his age, but the content is not. The walls are covered with Harry Potter posters and the shelves are lined with HP collectibles and at least two versions of each book - one a worn-out paperback, and the other a pristine hardback. He gets up and starts rummaging through his closet. He pulls out a white shirt, a burgundy vest, and an orange striped tie.

Erik, now buttoning his shirt, pulls open one of his desk drawers and removes a small glasses case. He slips on the glasses inside and adjusts them in the mirror while simultaneously applying his tie. He grooms himself to match the Harry Potter poster, reflected in the mirror.

Erik opens another drawer, only for one thing: a folded robe.

Erik, now fully clad, goes over to check the printer. It prints grudgingly slow and has been going at a low WHURR this whole time. He taps the desk impatiently, but nothing can bring down his excitement.

Erik then takes a shoebox from the closet. He looks around, as if someone might be in the room with him, and then slowly opens for the final piece: his wand. He practices. A jab here. A crossover there. He suddenly remembers that he is actually missing one more thing and grabs a wizard's hat from under his bed.

Erik sits on his bed, watching his printer go so slow. There is nothing else to do but wait. He glances at the time. Growing more impatient, he waves his wand towards the printer. Lightning cracks, but no thunder. Erik pauses...and then...smiles. The printer is finally finished.

Erik grabs the printout. He looks at it--just to make sure. It says "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Friday @ 5pm, Admit One." He puts on his hat and leaves.

INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

Erik, no longer wearing his hat, enters the room and inches the door closed, careful not to make a sound. The room is dark - he is hard to make out.

As he steps into the soft ray of moonlight entering through the window, Erik trips over his trashcan. He catches himself from falling, but the tumbling trash is like a firecracker in the dead of the night. He pauses for a long time.

There is nothing but the soft HUM of the computer.

Erik SIGHS relief and backsteps to find the light switch. Lights on.

Erik's cape is wet and caked with mud. The left shoulder is ripped and hanging. His hair is matted, face dirty, lip busted and bloody. But he looks more fearful of alerting his parents than of what he just went through.

Erik pulls something from under his robe. It is his wizard's hat, but it looks like a filthy dog has gotten hold of it. Erik is suddenly angry and, in two swift movements, throws the hat into the corner and rips the nearest poster off the door--one of Harry about to catch the 'snitch.' He quickly calms and begins to looks more sad than anything. He takes off his robe in defeat and lays it by the mangled hat.

Erik checks himself in the mirror. He grimaces at the cut on his lip and a bruise on his forehead. He tries to squish the bruise on his head to form a lightning bolt, but no luck. Then he suddenly remembers. He looks horrified as he rushes to his robe to fish out...his broken wand. He groans. He tries to use it. The broken half, hanging on by a string, just swings lazily. This is the straw that breaks the camel's back. He retires it to his desktop counter.

Erik changes to pajamas and lays on the bed. And thinks. He looks over to his shelf full of books. He seems to consider. Finally, he rolls out of bed. He picks the first hardcover: "Harry Potter and Sorcerer's Stone."

We see Erik reading through at different stages. At some point he glances up at the wand. He imitates spells with just his hand. He closes the book, hesitates, and then goes to take out some tape from his desk drawer to fix his wand. He looks doubtful and gives it a few uninspired flicks. Nothing. He pulls out his movie ticket--still intact--and then has a spark of determination. He stands strong and gives the wand a serious wave. Silent lightning, though the moon still shines. Erik smiles.

As Erik sleeps that night, we see his robe hanging to, the hat beside it. On the counter, where a sliver of moonlight stretches across, is a newly printed ticket. "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Saturday @ 5pm, Admit One."