?

Log in

No account? Create an account

6 to Z, 10 from A

~ cryptically stating something plain ~

It is I, Collector of Games
guess, psych
kaxenji
So......it may not have been very obvious through my intermittent posting here, but I'm crazy over games. I love games in general, but I do have a special fondness for card games and board games over video games. I like puzzling out how they work, and the social component of games is always a plus.

Anyway, throughout the years, travelling around and making friends, I've gathered quite a collection of games into my repertoire of fun. Some games are played more often than others, and some are rarely ever called up to action. Every once in a blue moon, there comes an occasion where a long side-lined game is suddenly required, and I find myself struggling to dredge up the meat of the games along with its skeleton. And so......

Why not keep a record of the games here? Typing them up helps me remember them better, and a cloud copy would be a useful archive anyway. Additionally, games are meant to be shared, and I hope the write-up of these games will come in handy someday, somewhere, for somebody out there.

You're welcome. ;p

The Games ListCollapse )

a spoonful of silliness
bonk, whut
kaxenji
A smattering of nonsense a day,
Keeps one's mind nimble and ready to play.
Tags: ,

Cliffhanger
bonk, whut
kaxenji
'Cliffhanger' is one of those words which I feel captures the essence of what it is trying to convey perfectly.

As you follow the path of a story, you can just see it coming up ahead - a cliff. A cliff of unknown depth. Most good stories have several of these cliff-faces, otherwise known as suspense-points, and it is rare to be truly blindsided by one. If you begun the journey knowing the story was incomplete, then at this point, you have a choice. Do you speed up and embrace your fate of dangling over an abyss for an inderterminate amount of time? Or do you slow down and find a more stable viewing spot and resist traversing those final few inches to the edge?

I tend to choose the latter because I know myself. Ciffhangers drive me nuts. Sometimes though, they just cannot be avoided. Whether due to one of those rare instances of an unexpected twist and drop, or just because too much momentum had been built up along the way. When that happens, I careen onto the edge. My mind spins with 'what ifs' and 'how comes', and I almost feel the suspense like a physical itch under my skin. It makes me restless and unfocused, and my regular train of thought is highly prone to being hijacked for a couple of days. One minute I would be working on an assignment or cooking or what-not, and the next my mind's eye is staring out into the depths over the cliff-edge once again.

And so I hang. My metaphorical muscles are tensed in anticipation, stuck in constant fight-or-flight, unsure what lies beyond the edge. Is there a heartless drop beyond the darkness? Is there solid ground underneath the shadows? It's all conjecture at this point.

Gyah. Darn those cliffhangers.

P/S: The particular cliffhanger I'm referring to at the moment is that of Daiya no A. I've been hanging on this cliff for at least a week, and it is still bothering me enough that I am actually writing about it now. I want to see Sawamura get that freaking ace-number sooooo bad. Thing is, I'm pretty sure it won't happen for quite a few chapters yet, and it is also not set in stone......but still! Gyah.

Necessity is the mother of invention
think
kaxenji
Necessity: Squeaky bike requires fixing. Annoyance factor aside, all that friction with the wheel-frame has got to be detrimental to the lifespan of my back tire.

The problem: The hook of my-wheel frame which connects to the screw of my tire-frame is loose due to some damage to the hook. As a result, it sits at an odd angle and causes the screw to be easily unhinged. The whole set-up just looks...precarious. >.<

Innovation in progress......

1st solution: Tightening the screw. [Status: FAILED. Pressure from hook eventually undoes the tightening.]

2nd solution: Cloth tie. [Status: FAILED. Cloth rips. Hook shifts back.]

3rd solution: Get a longer screw. [Status: Semi-successful. It holds better and seems less likely to disengage from frame. Still, moans from tire persists as the hook is still not staying where it should.]

solution 3.1: Use a sturdier tie than cloth to stabilize hook. [Status: SUCCESS (probable). Polyester string is thin enough to slip in between hook and frame, and its package claims that it can withstand up to 45kg of pressure. Current status looks promising.]


Side story:
For step 3, I had to visit a bike repair shop to get a suitable screw. The bike repairman was really kind. Though he didn't speak much English, and I didn't speak much Finnish, we were able to communicate via gestures. :p Always fun. I could tell he was rather puzzled at the condition of the hook, but he did his best to tighten the screw as much as possible. At the end, when I asked about payment, he just smiled and said 'ei tarvitsen' (no need). Not everyone may agree, but I do think the Finnish in general are a pretty friendly and helpful bunch. ^-^

空が青空であるために
happy, love, smile
kaxenji
今日一日中あの曲は私の頭の中で立ち往生している。でも、嫌じゃない。とても素晴らしい曲と思う。ダイヤーのAのOPのひとつとして、メロディも歌詞も感動的なものだ。その流れに乗って、真剣にあの曲を学び始めた。ある部分はちょっと難しいけど、楽しかった。♪( ´▽`)

空が青空であるために、闇を抜けてまた陽は昇る~~~ ٩( ᐛ )و

a bolt from the blue
happy, love, smile
kaxenji
I love it.

I love it when people contact me randomly to chit chat about whatever little bit of trivia or life event or opinion that happens to be relevant to their lives at just that precise moment. It doesn't matter if its trivial or perhaps not of supreme importance to me. What's important, which makes me feel all fuzzy inside, is that they thought of me. They cared enough to send that random bit of info over in the midst of their no doubt busy lives.

On the flip side, I am often annoyed by people who just text me to say, "how are you?" without any intent of carrying on the conversation on their end. Usually, I would offer some sort of information in return to the question which would allow for conversation development (although in times of lack I might default to the cliched weather :p). I hate it when the other person doesn't reciprocate in return. YOU contacted me. Why would you contact me if you didn't want to conduct conversation? It is not my responsibility to entertain you.

Just the other day, an acquaintance contacted me randomly with just that very question "how are you?" I tried. But the conversation was doomed to fail after I asked her how her life was in return and received merely a "fine" in response. She then went on to ask me if I had gone to church, and when I said I wasn't Christian, she asked the boggling question of "why not?".

O.o? Literally, that was my response. It's like someone asking me why aren't I studying Geology. Why do I have to study Geology?! I found it strange that she would assume that Christianity is the natural way of things, and that I was somehow deviant for not being Christian. Awkward.

Anyhow, I digress. Thank you to all those lovely people who contacted me these past few days. Your words are the only thing keeping me socialized at present. Haha. School's still out for about 2 more weeks and I've been going crazy just talking to myself. Seriously, if you're reading this, bug me. 

terminal catharsis
poetry
kaxenji
In the autopsy, they find that she is brimming with words. The first cut down the torso releases a slew of them; they spew forth from the incision, staining the gloves of the mortician and dripping off the body's skin onto the autopsy table. There are so many of them, all jumbled together in a gallimaufry of colour and fonts.

It is hard to tell, but the largest amount is probably the tiny white words of inconsequestial thoughts. They are scattered throughout the mess, strings of them running through the other colours. There are blue words of contemplation in varying shades reflecting different depths of thought. There are red words of anger, some jagged and bright, some deepset and smoldering. There are green words of calm meditation, and yellow words of positivity. There are purple words of fantasy, and pink words of love. It is a rainbow medley of the unspoken words of her life.

The mortician proceeds, pulling out the words and sorting them into piles as he continues digging into her silent body. The colours of the words are stark against the grey steel of the autopsy room. The mortician seems unmoved, and continues his meticulous work. The piles grow and grow. At one point, all the piles stop growing except for one.

From her bowels, the mortician uncovers handful after handful of inky black words, bold and unforgiving. They speak of despair, of loneliness, of unrelenting sadness. On closer inspection, the dark words are everywhere. They weigh down her muscles and have seeped into her bones. They were wrapped around her lungs, and could be found in the crevasses of her heart and brain. They had blended into the blacks of her iris and buried themselves under her skin.

By the end of the autopsy, the pile of black words towered over the rest, overwhelming in death as they must have been in life. The mortician cleans up and writes his report. There is no longer any doubt to the cause of death.

The mortician moves the body back to its designated morgue drawer. The body is much lighter now, unburdened of its words. She looks at peace, despite the marks from the autopsy. He whispers a prayer into his hands and lays it gently on her forehead. He shuts the drawer.
Tags:

Accismus
bonk, whut
kaxenji
Romero: Tempt me not, dear cousin, for I am untemptable.

Benedict: Fie, untemptable. Contemptible thou art, I say, for I see thine eye roving yet despite thy words.

Romero: Thine eyes lie.

Benedict: Nay, it is thy lips that lie.

Romero: The truth I bear is turned into lies by thine own eyes and ears. I can do no right.

Benedict: But you do me wrong. Mine eyes and ears have served you through thick and thin, and by the years vested in them I stake that thou art shrouded in deceit.

Romero: Calm, friend. I see you are unbudged. Rock-headed as the rocks you have for eyes. Calm! I submit. Tempt me as you would like, for I see no other way to prove mine words. But mark me, I will not be moved.

Benedict: I have no need to tempt you beyond the utterance of Jesseline's name. Thine own mind supplies enough for one to see what you think of her fair countenance.

Romero: Hark, I am unchanged. I know not of this person you speak.

Benedict: No knowledge, say you? What cause then of the sudden flush in thy cheeks, thy hesitance to say her name? Thy words may belie thy trunk, but thy trunk itself makes lie of thy words.


accismus (n.) - the feigned refusal of something earnestly desired.

A/N: I have been reading Shakespeare recently. Shakespeare is just so much fun to read aloud. XD When I stumbled across the above word in a game today, it was just too beautiful a concept to not write about. The Shakespearean English was unintended, but I have no regrets. *grins* Any puns or double meanings found are totally intended. Probably. :p

bridge of thought
poetry
kaxenji
Her fingers hover over the keyboard. So close and yet so far. The scant millimeters between her fingertips and the keys stretch endlessly into the distance, a gaping canyon of silence.

Words used to crowd her mind. Scattered images, fragmented impressions, flashes of emotions, glimpses of possibilities - a barrage of semi-formed thoughts clamoring to be birthed by words. But now that she has found the time and the means, the thoughts are silent. There is a sense of recalcitrance, a sense of 'no', of 'not at your convenience'. Where there used to be a grand bridge teeming with traffic, there is now just a precarious wooden one with fragile planks. A brave traveller attempts to cross, but is forced to step lightly, eyes terrified as she is suspended in between banks, neither here nor there. The journey is more arduous than it seems to be, more arduous than it needs to be.

Each shaking step of the traveller bridges yet another millimeter. The going is slow but stubbornly steady. Step after step, millimeter after millimeter. Her fingertips touch the keyboard. It feels like coming home.
Tags:

Strawberry Wine
think
kaxenji
She fell in love and overdosed on strawberry wine. She savored each sweet-tart sip with every shared smile, but couldn't help the unintentional gulps every time their eyes met. In the heat of that brief, brief summer, she drank and drank, and her eyes were always fever-bright and her cheeks were always flushed. Her lips were stained berry-red and the taste of strawberries lingered on her tongue.

It was heady.

She was young.

She was drunk.

There were strawberries aplenty that summer, ripe and sweet and red in the fields. She ran freely and picked them to her heart's content. Plenty of strawberries, plenty of wine.

She knows the summer will not last. She knows that autumn comes. She knows the wine will run out some day, and that she will not be always drunk. All the more reason for her to drink and drink until the day her memories are all that's left of that sweet strawberry wine.


A/N: The title is not something I coined. It's actually sourced from a country song. I just liked the sound of it, and the content has no relation at all to the content of the song. At least I don't think so.......I don't really recall the lyrics to that song. :p