borntobeaverboseone-blog

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Even Cowgirls Bleed

The first thing I noticed is the viewfinder-shaped pointer. The pointer is interacting with an interactive text. Yet there is a discrepancy at a representative level, at least according to my expectations. The viewfinder is used to precisely point at something that is placed at a certain distance from the user. In other words, the viewfinder shows a spatial depth, a distance between the observer and the target. In fact, the viewfinder is used in video games where a picture is displayed. The viewfinder should be an instrument that implies an exaltation of the visual perception, as it is an instrument used through the eye of an observer. But in Even Cowgirls Bleed there is not any kind of scenario to scrutinize but a flat 2D background and no target. With the viewfinder I click only the anonymous text links to "aim". The presence of the viewfinder despite the absence of visual graphics suggests that the viewfinder has a very strong and even ironic semantic value, since it has been placed in a context in which there is no need to have it.

 It's the usual story. You're a big city girl with a closet full of fancy dresses but not a whole lot of sense, and lately all you've wanted to do is trade in your lonely winters for some real adventure.

So really, you did the only sensible thing a girl can do: you picked up your petticoats, you bought yourself a gun, and you headed out west.

You meet a man with a ridiculous hat while waiting for the caravan that leads westward. He looks unimpressed by the pistol twirl you practiced for days. “Do you even know how to shoot that?”, asks the man, with a grumpy stare.

 You narrowly miss him. "Jesus Christ!" he yells angrily. "Be careful with that thing!"

 Ø  “Do you even know how to shoot that?”, asks the man, with a grumpy stare.

  I never click on points: I just "aim" at the links. But it's not you who click on it, but it does it automatically, as if a gunshot was missed by mistake, just as it happened ("You narrowly miss him"). During the course of the game it happened to activate them by mistake. The random interaction therefore reflects the actions of the character, which acts instinctively and makes many mistakes. There are not different possibilities of interaction but only one, that the player is forced to follow. Like the character, the player on one side passively undergoes the events. On the other hand, he unknowingly unleashes events by shooting "by mistake". Every time a link is activated there is a white flash that calls a shot from a gunshot. The links in which you "shoot" are action links and generate a change in a condition.

 You narrowly miss him. "Jesus Christ!" he yells angrily. "Be careful with that thing!"

You sheepishly put the gun back in your holster. Smooth. The wagon arrives shortly. You hop in, carrying your minimal luggage without any help from anyone else. "Would you look at that gorgeous blue sky. Nice weather for travelling," the coach driver says. "Y'all set, Miss?"

You fire into the air like you're signalling the start of a race. "Alrighty then," the driver says. "Let's go!" And like that, you're about to start your adventure!

Holster... well, so far it's not much of an adventure. Mostly it's just travelling along lots of well-worn roads.

 Ø  Holster

 The identification with character is caused (in addition to the viewfinder of the same gun of the character) from the name of the link "holster". In fact, the holster recalls a situation of stillness after a shooting and marks the end of an action sequence. Like a holster, these kind of links mark a pause in reading and then mark a rhythm. The rhythm is also accentuated by the position of the links, which alternate left to right at the bottom of the page. Their fluctuating position recalls the classic double holster of cowboys in western cinematography. Moreover, having to go to the right and left with the pointer is a rhythmic pattern that symbolizes the progression of the character in his adventure. An adventure that is therefore experienced between the extraction / firing of the gun (action) and holster (pause / rhythm).

The wagon arrives shortly. You hop in, carrying your minimal luggage without any help from anyone else. "Would you look at that gorgeous blue sky. Nice weather for travelling," the coach driver says. "Y'all set, Miss?"

 Ø  Blue sky

 You fire into the air like you're signalling the start of a race. "Alrighty then," the driver says. "Let's go!" And like that, you're about to start your adventure!

  ...well, so far it's not much of an adventure. Mostly it's just travelling along lots of well-worn roads.

You flip your gun back and forth, impatiently, to pass the time. You're a big city girl, dagnabbit, you're not used to sitting still like this!

It turns out, it's a really long trip to San Francisco.

 Ø  Holster

 A REALLY long trip.

 Ø  Holster

 After three excruciatingly long days, you finally arrive. The wooden sign greets you:

The player must activate the holster links only for short phrases like "A REALLY long trip". This sequence emphasizes the impatience of the character and his impatience towards a condition of stillness that is protracting for too long.

 //

You shoot yourself in the foot, this time literally. You start to bleed. The bullet goes straight through. They weren't really steel-toed, of course, you couldn't even get that right. Like everything else. What are you even doing here, you stupid city bitch?

You shoot yourself in the foot, this time literally. You start to bleed. > bleed.

The bullet goes straight through. They weren't really steel-toed, of course, you couldn't even get that right. Like everything else. What are you even doing here, you stupid city bitch?

You bleed all over the place. Even that's destructive; when she comes back, she's going to find everything ruined, soaked in blood.

 The link bleed is different, how different is the tone that is no longer ironic. The font of the word is bold type and is of a blood red. When you step over it with the pointer \ viewfinder, the text doubles and the superimposed text is red and distorts the rest of the text. It is the only visual element present (expect for the backscreen and the effect of the shot) and emphasizes the emotion of upset. The action has turned against the character/the player and there are no more holtster to operate. The rhythm is no longer balanced but there are only sequences of action. The situation quickly degenerates and the player can not help but continue to "shoot" the "blood", "bleed" links.

 You look at your hand, your slender well-meaning city girl fingers. The ones responsibility for pulling the trigger that's fucked everything up. You already know what to do.

The bullet tears right through your skin, and blood sprays in your eyes. It doesn't help. It doesn't fix anything. All it does is hurt.

 Ø  Holster

 You collapse in the mess you've created. You do all that you can do: bleed out. Even cowgirls bleed, you think to yourself.

 But you're not even a cowgirl, just a dumb city bitch. What are you even doing here?

 Everything becomes more and more red and distorted. The last Holster marks the impotence of the character, resigned to death, and thus marks the end of all actions. The last sentence no longer has any links and is immersed in a disturbing red background.

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#2 Heremit (nerd) – Sun – (poetry) – Moon (aridity) – Emperor (bully).

This is a short story about a nerd who turned into a bully. Gianpaolo was a very sensitive teenager and, despite his young age, had a very refined and superior culture compared to his classmates’. He cultivated many interests, especially poetry. Unfortunately, he was a lonely boy and had no other friends other than his books. He spent all his time composing poetry, never went out for fun, and even during lessons he was always distracted writing his poems. His classmates did nothing but mock him and humiliate him. Every day at school it was a nightmare for Gianpaolo. The more he was mocked, the more Gianpaolo closed himself and composed and composed. As he himself wrote in one of his essays, for him poetry was like sunshine struggling through grey clouds. One day a new girl came to school, Silvia. She was very pretty and soon became the most popular girl in the school. Gianpaolo fell madly in love with her. After many hesitations, he dedicated a poem in which he declared himself. He sent it to her. Silvia was unfortunately as beautiful as she was cruel. Silvia replied to him with a letter, pretending to reciprocate his feelings and asked him for a date in a park, only the two of them, alone, in a secluded place. Gianpaolo, drunk with love, did not smell the trap that Silvia was going to give him. Arriving at the place, he realized that there was nobody. As soon as Gianpaolo realized that something was wrong, two bullies grabbed him from behind while two others lowered his trousers. Out of nowhere his schoolmates came out shouting and laughing. Among them was Silvia, who was laughing and holding the poem Gianpaolo had dedicated her. They forced him to read it aloud in front of her as they picked him up with a smartphone. Gianpaolo could not hold back the tears. After the humiliation, they left him cackling in the middle of the park, alone, with his poem, in underwear. It was the first time that Gianpaolo hated poetry, believing that the guilt of this humiliation was all his and his love letter.

The years passed. Gianpaolo continued to compose also when he became a literature professor. But his poems were no longer sincere. They were more and more baroque, contorted, formal. Of that sincerity and sensitivity that he had had nothing left from that humiliation. It was as if the grey clouds had prevailed over his poetry and there remained nothing but an opaque halo, like the reflected light of an extinguished star.

One day, one of his students sent him a poem written by him. He considered himself a poet and wanted to get feedback from his teacher. Gianpaolo was angry. It was a love poem, from which emerged the inexperience of the student and above all his ingenuity. Gianpaolo believed that it was better for all his students if this poem was taken as an example on how "not" to do literature. Moreover, it was better if that self-styled poet lowered the ridge a little for his own good, and then thought of letting him read it directly to him to teach him humility. The next lesson forced him to read the poem in front of everyone, standing up. The boy was anything but arrogant: he was very shy and his voice trembled a lot. At every verse the boy read Gianpaolo commented with a sarcasm of which he was amazed. The other students laughed at his jokes. Gianpaolo was euphoric, he had never felt so accepted and influential. The more the student read the more Gianpaolo mocked him and the class cackled. The student could not manage his emotions, and burst into tears.

From that lesson, Gianpaolo became a feared and hated, powerful and revered professor. The more the years went by the more he became unprejudiced and intolerant. Thanks to this new personality, he managed to become a rector. He was at the height of success, and felt at the center of the world. But no student sent him poems anymore.

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#3 Sun (headlight) – Emperor (arrogance) – Moon (darkness) – Heremit (solitude)

This is the brief story of a headlight, whose arrogance led him to despair. He was fierce and resolute and threw a lot of light in front of the car. He saw nothing but that piece of asphalt in front of him, and that was enough for him. He did not care what was behind him and at his side. He felt very important, he knew that without him the driver could not see anything at night.

But one day, or rather, one night, no one knows what fortuitous coincidence, he saw a curious reflection on the guardrail of a parking lot where the car was parked. There was another headlight like him, the same in all respects! He was jealous and angry. Why should there be another dazzling headlight if he was very well able to do it all by himself? He no longer felt so important and exclusive. During the trip that took place shortly after, the headlight could not pacify with himself. He no longer felt that important, but useless, superfluous, double. "Why should I strive so much night after night to burn my life to shed light?", He wondered, "what sense do I have if I can be replaced by the work of another headlight?". Taken by bitterness and disdain, he decided to turn off, suddenly. But at the worst moment. In that unfortunate moment the car was on a winding country road and was cornering. The car swerved and the headlight distinctly heard the roar of a crash. He was so frightened that he suddenly turned on again. After a few moments of shock, he took heart: there did not seem to be any serious damage. In fact, the car was still on and after a while the car got back on track and resumed the journey. The headlight, feeling guilt, promised not to make such nonsense again. But the road was no longer well lit as before. The headlight could not understand, he had not suffered any damage. He tried to make as much effort as possible, to burn with all his might. But nothing, the light was weak. The journey proceeded slowly. The trajectory of the car was uncertain because the road was not clear.

The journey could not continue for long. In fact, shortly after, the car stopped at a service station. The headlight was speechless. He could not understand what was happening, it never happened that he could not guarantee the success of a night trip. The driver got out, leaving the car and the light on. The headlight heard noises coming from the side of the other headlight. Suddenly, the driver entered the light cone of the headlight. And surprisingly, the headlight saw glass shards in his hand. He recognizes them! They were those of the other headlight... during the crash he must have broken! In that moment the headlight realized that all those nights so well lit were not only his merit, but the joint effort of the two headlights that, while ignoring each other, illuminated the road with equal merit and allowed a safe journey. So it was, in the darkness of the night, that the headlight once so arrogant perceived a sensation never had before: solitude.

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#1 Emperor – Hermit (solitude) – Moon (insanity) – Sun (blaze)

This is the brief story of an emperor who had a huge empire but no one who lived there. As sometimes happens to the emperors, he exterminated his people for noble reasons, as glorious wars of conquest and legitimate tributes required to penny-pinching laborers. That was how he was alone. But not "alone" in a figurative sense. Literally alone. Just him in his castle, in the middle of an empire without a single living soul.

But he did not managed badly. In fact, he had all those foodstuffs his people had given him devoutly. Thanks to these he fed for years and years. So his kingdom prospered, nobody complained and the empire grew up with peace and serenity. But as unfortunately happens, even the most enlightened emperors have their enemies, especially at court. And the emperor knew this very well.

He especially feared the conspiracy of pieces of furniture. They were numerous, present in every room and they knew the emperor's movements well. They could only be conspirators who patiently waited for one of his missteps, to kill him. The situation became unsustainable. One day the emperor decided that it was necessary to take countermeasures. He hired as many decorative armors as possible as bodyguards.

But this obviously was not enough. In fact, the emperor was attentive to the food he ate, fearing it was poisoned. For this reason, he made him taste every time his stuffed horse, who was there in the dining room next to him. He did not trust him. He wanted to throw it away, but it was too heavy. He asked the guards several times to move it, but they were too lazy and pretended not to hear. He decided to stop paying them, and their silence was a confirmation of his reasonableness. But that silence went on too long. No longer a look, a gesture. They looked like statues. All this was too suspicious: that because of the discontent they were plotting something behind him? He had them beheaded. It was the best thing to do. Sometimes emperors have to make difficult decisions for the welfare of the kingdom. But unfortunately that damn horse was still there in the dining room, with that fake naive look. For this the emperor made him taste the food before consuming it. He hoped that one day he would be poisoned. But unfortunately for him that bastard was as resistant as treacherous.

The more the years went by, the more the emperor knew that the risks to his safety increased. He therefore thought to simulate his death in order to deceive his enemies. He concocted a plan: pretending to die suffocated by poisoning in front of the horse. He knew that the horse was very gossipy and that he would surely spread the word to everyone. One day, he decided not to let his horse eat as usual. He pretended to swallow a bite in front of him. He played a professional performance: suddenly he grabbed his hands to the throat, rolled his eyes and gasped on the ground. He twisted like a snake among the coils of an eagle. Anyone would have fallen for it! He had practiced for days in front of the mirror! But just as he gloated writhing on the ground, he realized his great mistake. The mirror! He saw him practice! He knew! He had indeed realized that during his simulation the horse did not seem to be very persuaded. Out of the corner of his eye, the emperor stared at him. The horse knew! The mirror must have spilled everything! It was a blow to the emperor. He despaired. The mirror was the only friend he had left in the world and even that faithful companion had betrayed him. Now he was really alone.

It was time to act. He decided to try everything for everything, or simulate the perfect attack: burn the entire castle. Not only would he have eliminated all the conspirators at once, but he would have made the remaining ones believe that he had been killed in the fire! One night, while everyone was asleep, as he deduced from the silence that reigned, sprinkled with pitch every room in the castle. He set the castle on fire. The flames grew rapidly and swallowed the furniture, the armors and that damn horse ... The plan was working perfectly, he had only to escape from there without being seen by anyone. But as he was fleeing from the flames, he was dismayed to see that someone was watching him:  the stone walls, which judged him with contempt. He was desperate. He realized that everyone was watching him at that moment. Not only the walls, but also the stones that composed them, and the inlets of the stones, and the dust between the inlets of the stones. There was no escape for him. Everyone knew. They knew that he had exterminated his people and they were demanding revenge. But while he was paralyzed by terror, the flames kept pouring into the rooms like stormy waves, and they cut escape routes. And in the flames the horse sneered.