I recently received a copy of the Legend of the Five Rings (L5R) RPG supplement The Book of Void (ISBN 978-1-59472-073-4, MSRP US$39.99) and read through it. It is a relatively slim volume, approximately 200 pages, so it did not take me long to read through the six chapters ("The Void of War," "The Void of Magic," "The Void of Peace," "The Void Within," "The World Is Not the World," and "Nazo Mori: The Forest of Enigmas") and the appendix in which the mechanics introduced to the game are related. Throughout, the book makes a valiant attempt to relate the philosophical, cosmological, theological, and epistemological concepts associated with the Void--a "fifth element" in the traditional four-elements scheme--to the milieu of L5R as a whole. While it necessarily falls short of a full accounting--a gaming manual cannot serve as a deep investigation of such concepts and still do what it needs to do as a gaming manual--The Book of Void does admirably at suggesting the pervasiveness of Void in the physical, social, and spiritual settings of L5R.
It also does better than many L5R supplements at offering narrative. Any tabletop RPG is fundamentally an exercise in storytelling, and having exemplary narratives does much to foster continued tale-weaving. The Book of Void follows other L5R supplements in beginning its text and each of its chapters with a vignette; more than most of the other supplements, though, it provides narratives within the text, not only using them to illustrate aspects of in-game culture, but actually ascribing stories the vaunted mechanical functions prized by many gamers. (As a scholar of literature and a believer in its transformative power, I am pleased to see that stories within the game have life of their own, at least in a fashion, and can work transformative power upon their audiences.) It does have the effect of making the book something of a miscellany, but cultures are not neat and tidy; having a miscellany suggests an authentic messiness for the L5R milieu, easing Coleridgean suspension of disbelief and allowing for a better narrative immersion.
This is not to say that the book is perfect, however. The producing company has long-standing habit of not proofreading as well as it ought to, and while The Book of Void appears to suffer less from that habit than have other texts, it still has surface-level problems that distract and annoy. Too, Chapter Six seems to take a Lovecraftian tack which, if realized, would have profound implications for the theology and cosmology of the game. (The book motions toward, but does not fully engage, them in other places.) The authors seem unwilling to pursue the Lovecraftian overtones, however, or to do so fully; the text seems to shy away from presenting Cthulhoid imagery where it would work quite well. The reasoning presented is that the players should have options, and while allowing them means that players who own the text cannot be certain what they will face when they play the game, it also means that the narrative force is somewhat weakened. For a game that relies upon narrative for its play, this is a problem.
Even so, however, The Book of Void is a fine supplement. It refines earlier discussions in the game and adds new ones to be had, and it presents mechanics that are reasonably well balanced for play (as well as suggestions for how to keep them that way). It does both amid a number of smaller stories that illumine the milieu for the benefit of those of us who tell stories within it, and that is something to be appreciated.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Thursday, October 9, 2014
20141009.0719
While I walked to work yesterday--
A new pair of shoes on my feet
Gnawing at me where Paris's strike fell
A bite at every step--
I fell in behind a freshly-showered young woman
Her hair was wet as it lay upon her shoulders and back
And the air behind her bore the chemical smell of her shampoo or conditioner
I saw her step to one side of the path
Take a picture with her cell phone
When I drew level with where she had paused
And she was yet several paces ahead
I saw that she had halted for a moment opposite a storm drain
In which a skunk rooted contentedly
I do not count it to my shame
I overtook the young woman not much later
Had it been
My heels paid any penance needed
A new pair of shoes on my feet
Gnawing at me where Paris's strike fell
A bite at every step--
I fell in behind a freshly-showered young woman
Her hair was wet as it lay upon her shoulders and back
And the air behind her bore the chemical smell of her shampoo or conditioner
I saw her step to one side of the path
Take a picture with her cell phone
When I drew level with where she had paused
And she was yet several paces ahead
I saw that she had halted for a moment opposite a storm drain
In which a skunk rooted contentedly
I do not count it to my shame
I overtook the young woman not much later
Had it been
My heels paid any penance needed
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
20141008.0640
I had thought
What I wrote last night
Would allow me to write this morning
When I looked at the inked pages
Marred by ropy trails drawn from a cylinder's tapered end
And saw what I had done
I realized that I erred in my thinking
Dare I show in light of day
The workings of my right hand's motion
Back and forth
Splattered
?
Is it a thing of which I should be proud
That I have worked a piston
And gotten fluid from the tip?
The callow youth does as much
And to as much effect
My fluids have engendered
Things of which to be proud
Sometimes
What I wrote last night
Would allow me to write this morning
When I looked at the inked pages
Marred by ropy trails drawn from a cylinder's tapered end
And saw what I had done
I realized that I erred in my thinking
Dare I show in light of day
The workings of my right hand's motion
Back and forth
Splattered
?
Is it a thing of which I should be proud
That I have worked a piston
And gotten fluid from the tip?
The callow youth does as much
And to as much effect
My fluids have engendered
Things of which to be proud
Sometimes
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
20141007.0708
I do not often remember my dreams, as I believe I have noted. I remember one from today, though. It had me in high school, but not the high school I attended. I was about to be late to class, and I could not remember what class I was supposed to be in. I made for my locker, which was near the band hall but not in it, and searched for the print-out of my class schedule. I could not find it, although I did find a sheaf of purple paper, perhaps 24 lb. (how I remember such strange details...), with a series of dates upon it. I think they were for concerts, although why the paper would be purple...still, it was at about that point that Ms. 8 woke me inadvertently (she is not at the point yet, I think, when she does such things on purpose). I took care of her briefly and returned to bed for another two and a half hours (it was half past three this morning). Yet the images from the dream remain with me.
It has been some time since I was in high school, and it has only been slightly less since I have been on the grounds of one. I do not recall that I was ever late to a class (go figure that one out), and at no point before college did I have a locker near the band hall (although I used the instrument room in the band hall as a locker, but I was hardly alone in that). Nor was the high school I attended much into the use of purple in décor or documentation. Nor yet do I have a longing to return to some halcyon of adolescent glory--I did not have one. So why I would dream of such things eludes me. I do not know what to make of it.
I know that this may be an instance where I am told that I am overthinking the issue, that it simply is and bears no explication, carries no further meaning. I would point out that I have heard many of the same people who make such comments spout off the cliché that "there is a plan for you" or words to that effect, and that the two positions--"there is no deeper meaning" and "there is a plan"--are mutually exclusive. A plan is a deeper meaning. Why I should be faulted for trying to find it by the same people who assert that there is intent and that "things work out as they should" eludes me, as well. I am not made for blind acceptance; I am made to pry into and question, to parse, to analyze and explore. (And I once again think I ought to have written this as a poem.) My abilities are limited, of course, as I am a finite being, but that does not mean I will not strive to approach the infinitude--even if I am annoyed at not understanding the dreams that I dream and surprisingly remember.
It has been some time since I was in high school, and it has only been slightly less since I have been on the grounds of one. I do not recall that I was ever late to a class (go figure that one out), and at no point before college did I have a locker near the band hall (although I used the instrument room in the band hall as a locker, but I was hardly alone in that). Nor was the high school I attended much into the use of purple in décor or documentation. Nor yet do I have a longing to return to some halcyon of adolescent glory--I did not have one. So why I would dream of such things eludes me. I do not know what to make of it.
I know that this may be an instance where I am told that I am overthinking the issue, that it simply is and bears no explication, carries no further meaning. I would point out that I have heard many of the same people who make such comments spout off the cliché that "there is a plan for you" or words to that effect, and that the two positions--"there is no deeper meaning" and "there is a plan"--are mutually exclusive. A plan is a deeper meaning. Why I should be faulted for trying to find it by the same people who assert that there is intent and that "things work out as they should" eludes me, as well. I am not made for blind acceptance; I am made to pry into and question, to parse, to analyze and explore. (And I once again think I ought to have written this as a poem.) My abilities are limited, of course, as I am a finite being, but that does not mean I will not strive to approach the infinitude--even if I am annoyed at not understanding the dreams that I dream and surprisingly remember.
Monday, October 6, 2014
20141006.0712
The mid-semester grind is upon me again. I am perhaps halfway through the current term, and I am beginning to feel overwhelmed by the work and by the tedium. There is grading to do, of course, with student projects coming in today as they did on Friday, and my own work still presses upon me, too often shunted to the side in favor of my freelance paying gigs or what I am supposed to do on behalf of the few students who actually care and the entirely too many who do not. How I will ever get caught up, I do not know, for I continue to carry fatigue despite making sure I go to bed earlier and, for the most part, sleeping straight through the night.
If I call it a grind, I have to call myself the grist. (With the image only now coming to me, I find that I wish I had thought to write a bit of verse today. Ah, well.) I feel I have been uprooted and stripped of much that was part of me and am now being turned over and over under the millstone or under the pounding of a water-current-driven hammer, a wooden pole thumping upon my head again and again. There is some consolation in the certainty that I have something in me worth having, else I would not be subject to the treatment, but that does not mean that the treatment is enjoyable--nor what is to come. For the ground grain is gathered as flour, wet and kneaded and baked and eaten; who will consume me? (Damn, but I wish I had had the image earlier and written it as a poem!)
Others are worse off, I know. I chose this kind of life, I know. That remarking takes up time and energy that could be better spent otherwise, I know. All vitiate against my making complaint (although I would note that we do not condemn those who "work hard" for groaning at rising once again to face the day or noting the aches and pains attendant upon their work). Yet still I feel it must be said. Still I feel that not enough is noted about what the work that most who teach do does to those who do it, or not enough of it is heard. For the work of teaching seems bounded by the classroom, and it is often only dimly and later that its effect is known. The work of grading that takes up so much time is done away from the eyes of others, save the unfortunate few who happen to love those of us who do it (unfortunate because we are not only gone from them in doing the work of teaching but in doing the work of grading; the multiple-choice test makes more sense from that perspective). (Damn, but I should have written this as a poem!) It is not seen, so it is not understood, and because it is not understood, it is dismissed.
The bell needs to ring to have the class resume.
If I call it a grind, I have to call myself the grist. (With the image only now coming to me, I find that I wish I had thought to write a bit of verse today. Ah, well.) I feel I have been uprooted and stripped of much that was part of me and am now being turned over and over under the millstone or under the pounding of a water-current-driven hammer, a wooden pole thumping upon my head again and again. There is some consolation in the certainty that I have something in me worth having, else I would not be subject to the treatment, but that does not mean that the treatment is enjoyable--nor what is to come. For the ground grain is gathered as flour, wet and kneaded and baked and eaten; who will consume me? (Damn, but I wish I had had the image earlier and written it as a poem!)
Others are worse off, I know. I chose this kind of life, I know. That remarking takes up time and energy that could be better spent otherwise, I know. All vitiate against my making complaint (although I would note that we do not condemn those who "work hard" for groaning at rising once again to face the day or noting the aches and pains attendant upon their work). Yet still I feel it must be said. Still I feel that not enough is noted about what the work that most who teach do does to those who do it, or not enough of it is heard. For the work of teaching seems bounded by the classroom, and it is often only dimly and later that its effect is known. The work of grading that takes up so much time is done away from the eyes of others, save the unfortunate few who happen to love those of us who do it (unfortunate because we are not only gone from them in doing the work of teaching but in doing the work of grading; the multiple-choice test makes more sense from that perspective). (Damn, but I should have written this as a poem!) It is not seen, so it is not understood, and because it is not understood, it is dismissed.
The bell needs to ring to have the class resume.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
20141005.0847
One of the things that has been keeping me occupied is work with the online Legend of the Five Rings Winter Court. I am on the staff this time after playing twice before, and things have opened up somewhat for it. Shepherding--or horse-herding, as the case more nearly is--has begun, and it is actually entertaining. Then again, it would be; I have been engaged in L5R stuff for a while now, including some more formal discussions of it. And there are aspects of the work of doing so that remind me of teaching when the teaching works well; the players are like engaged students, looking to work together on something in which they have a shared interest and do the necessary outside reading to be able to do it well.
There are, of course, the...less pleasant to deal with, both in the game and in the classroom. They can never be wholly avoided, and some emerge as matters develop. It is happening in the online forums where the game will be occurring. (Play has yet to begin. Character development has begun, and background development has been in process for a while.) One or two are coming off as pedants who seem bent on being "right" despite the likely fallout, and one or two others are looking for ways to use the system to break the system. Those of us charged with oversight are only human, and we are waiting for things to happen that will allow for...correction. They inevitably do--as is true of the classroom as well.
How things will progress, I do not know. It looks as if people are already having fun with the thing, which is good. I have seen pedantry and system-breaking ruin things that start out well, though, and I have to worry that the actions of a few will poison what the rest get to have. And not only in the game--some of the classes I teach got off to a decent start, but in one or two, there are a couple of people who seem bent on screwing around with things. Why they would do so, I do not know. Perhaps they feel they have to compensate for something. Perhaps it is the only way they know to validate themselves. Perhaps also they have been steeped in the belief that those of us who teach do so because we cannot do (damned Shaw again), or in the belief that the professoriate "hates all that is good" or some such thing. But I cannot do with my students as I can with those in the game; in the latter, the offenders can be ejected, while in the former, although I have the technical right to do so, exercising that right is...problematic. And I have to consider that my own insecurities might be at work...
People wonder why I spend time with RPGs as I do, why I read the things I read when my reading time is my own (which is not so often, anymore). Some of the answers should be obvious.
There are, of course, the...less pleasant to deal with, both in the game and in the classroom. They can never be wholly avoided, and some emerge as matters develop. It is happening in the online forums where the game will be occurring. (Play has yet to begin. Character development has begun, and background development has been in process for a while.) One or two are coming off as pedants who seem bent on being "right" despite the likely fallout, and one or two others are looking for ways to use the system to break the system. Those of us charged with oversight are only human, and we are waiting for things to happen that will allow for...correction. They inevitably do--as is true of the classroom as well.
How things will progress, I do not know. It looks as if people are already having fun with the thing, which is good. I have seen pedantry and system-breaking ruin things that start out well, though, and I have to worry that the actions of a few will poison what the rest get to have. And not only in the game--some of the classes I teach got off to a decent start, but in one or two, there are a couple of people who seem bent on screwing around with things. Why they would do so, I do not know. Perhaps they feel they have to compensate for something. Perhaps it is the only way they know to validate themselves. Perhaps also they have been steeped in the belief that those of us who teach do so because we cannot do (damned Shaw again), or in the belief that the professoriate "hates all that is good" or some such thing. But I cannot do with my students as I can with those in the game; in the latter, the offenders can be ejected, while in the former, although I have the technical right to do so, exercising that right is...problematic. And I have to consider that my own insecurities might be at work...
People wonder why I spend time with RPGs as I do, why I read the things I read when my reading time is my own (which is not so often, anymore). Some of the answers should be obvious.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
20141004.0755
The weather is turning again
The air is cool
Clouds still streak the sky
Hints of red and gold and brown limn the leaves
Made green through recent rains
Although not enough
How fortunate am I!
The house is warm
The chair comfortable
The hot drink ready to hand
Coffee in morning
Tea afternoon
Steaming cider in the evening
Spiced in the mug
The air is cool
Clouds still streak the sky
Hints of red and gold and brown limn the leaves
Made green through recent rains
Although not enough
How fortunate am I!
The house is warm
The chair comfortable
The hot drink ready to hand
Coffee in morning
Tea afternoon
Steaming cider in the evening
Spiced in the mug
Friday, October 3, 2014
20141003.0719
Briefly:
It is gratifying to be asked to write letters of recommendation. It is more gratifying to be actually able to do so. Too seldom do those of us in academia hear that we are doing well and that our efforts are appreciated. Too seldom, too, do we say it.
I am fortunate to be surrounded by good folks in my field. I know not all are.
It is gratifying to be asked to write letters of recommendation. It is more gratifying to be actually able to do so. Too seldom do those of us in academia hear that we are doing well and that our efforts are appreciated. Too seldom, too, do we say it.
I am fortunate to be surrounded by good folks in my field. I know not all are.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
20141002.0659
I am displeased with the last couple of days of teaching I have done. Normally, I am an energetic lecturer, peppering my talks with jokes at various levels of obviousness and puns of various groan-inducing thrusts. The last couple of days of lecture have been fairly dead, though, and I am not entirely sure why. I know the material backwards and forwards, up, down, and sideways; I am a Wonkavator with it. But getting that knowledge from the factory floor to the packaging--colorful with the occasional golden ticket inside--has not gone so smoothly as it usually does, and I find myself beset by Verucas galore.
(I can follow a metaphor. And I can, perhaps, stop before I go too far. It would not behoove me to talk about geese or squirrels at the moment, I think.)
There is a temptation to put the problem down to fatigue. I have been tired, recently, again, lassitude overtaking me in every spare moment. My mind has been more sluggish, my limbs...It has been long since I have exercised any of the meager knowledge of martial arts I have, and I can tell, truly. I am still doing enough to discharge my collegiate duties, certainly, but not much--if any--more than that, and that is a problem, for I still have much more to do. There are papers to write and to try to get published if I am to find a better and more stable life for myself and those who depend upon me, as I desire to do. And I have job letters to draft and send out, as well as freelance work waiting for my attention (and it will not wait for long).
Simple tiredness, though, does not seem to be the whole of it. I have been tired before and not suffered so much from it; one or two nights of good sleep have fixed the problem. Perhaps I am not sleeping well, although I do not recall waking repeatedly for Ms. 8 or for other reasons. (When I was sick a while back, I woke repeatedly in the night and had trouble returning to sleep, which is rare for me. But that has not been the case since, so far as I know.) It is a thing to consider, although I am not sure I am in a position to do anything about it; I do not know if my insurance covers any kind of sleep therapy, and I am not certain I can afford the co-pay if it does. The professorial salary is not so great as might be expected.
I will trudge on, of course, as there is no real alternative to my doing so. But I have to consider how many more steps I can take before I do wear out. I do not think my feet are bleeding, but I am quite sure they are blistered, and I may have shin splints, to boot.
(I can follow a metaphor. And I can, perhaps, stop before I go too far. It would not behoove me to talk about geese or squirrels at the moment, I think.)
There is a temptation to put the problem down to fatigue. I have been tired, recently, again, lassitude overtaking me in every spare moment. My mind has been more sluggish, my limbs...It has been long since I have exercised any of the meager knowledge of martial arts I have, and I can tell, truly. I am still doing enough to discharge my collegiate duties, certainly, but not much--if any--more than that, and that is a problem, for I still have much more to do. There are papers to write and to try to get published if I am to find a better and more stable life for myself and those who depend upon me, as I desire to do. And I have job letters to draft and send out, as well as freelance work waiting for my attention (and it will not wait for long).
Simple tiredness, though, does not seem to be the whole of it. I have been tired before and not suffered so much from it; one or two nights of good sleep have fixed the problem. Perhaps I am not sleeping well, although I do not recall waking repeatedly for Ms. 8 or for other reasons. (When I was sick a while back, I woke repeatedly in the night and had trouble returning to sleep, which is rare for me. But that has not been the case since, so far as I know.) It is a thing to consider, although I am not sure I am in a position to do anything about it; I do not know if my insurance covers any kind of sleep therapy, and I am not certain I can afford the co-pay if it does. The professorial salary is not so great as might be expected.
I will trudge on, of course, as there is no real alternative to my doing so. But I have to consider how many more steps I can take before I do wear out. I do not think my feet are bleeding, but I am quite sure they are blistered, and I may have shin splints, to boot.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
20141001.0659
Entirely random notes:
My daughter's wet diapers somehow reek to me of commercial breakfast cereals. I do not know how this can happen, but it does.
I have not written in my journal in days. I do not know why, but I seem okay with it.
One of the cats, at least, has loose stool.
They are hypocrites who complain about wealth redistribution and benefit from it. Those at state schools and/or those who receive Pell Grants should be thankful for them and not gripe about them.
The same is true for those whose paychecks come from such sources.
Education is not content delivery.
Oaths coerced have no value.
Demanding that someone who cannot spell "allegiance" pledge it to anything seems coercive.
Punishing those who can spell the word and withhold their oath is coercive.
Both happen with astonishing regularity.
Education is not degraded by considering viewpoints other than those of one's grandfather.
Things were *not* better "back in the day" save for white middle class heterosexuals. I am not sure they are better now, though.
I am, theoretically, of the white middle class. I am also tens of thousands of dollars in debt with what entry into it has required.
I am less than theoretically heterosexual.
Some people do exploit "the system." Why would they not?
Many of those people make a *lot* more money than I do.
Prevailing wisdom is that they "deserve" it. Must be nice.
My daughter's wet diapers somehow reek to me of commercial breakfast cereals. I do not know how this can happen, but it does.
I have not written in my journal in days. I do not know why, but I seem okay with it.
One of the cats, at least, has loose stool.
They are hypocrites who complain about wealth redistribution and benefit from it. Those at state schools and/or those who receive Pell Grants should be thankful for them and not gripe about them.
The same is true for those whose paychecks come from such sources.
Education is not content delivery.
Oaths coerced have no value.
Demanding that someone who cannot spell "allegiance" pledge it to anything seems coercive.
Punishing those who can spell the word and withhold their oath is coercive.
Both happen with astonishing regularity.
Education is not degraded by considering viewpoints other than those of one's grandfather.
Things were *not* better "back in the day" save for white middle class heterosexuals. I am not sure they are better now, though.
I am, theoretically, of the white middle class. I am also tens of thousands of dollars in debt with what entry into it has required.
I am less than theoretically heterosexual.
Some people do exploit "the system." Why would they not?
Many of those people make a *lot* more money than I do.
Prevailing wisdom is that they "deserve" it. Must be nice.
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