#i wrote this a week ago and forgot completely till i looked at my drafts

[notadecepticon]

Usui's design makes me wanna make a HM/Story of Seasons dmmd AU... Fuck it:

Aoba - Player character therefore out unsuspecting farmer, gets left his parent's farm on the edge of town. Doesn't find out till he turns 23. Previously worked at Haga-san's general store. Can see forest sprites, which other people cannot.

Tae - Town Doctor who runs a small clinic that sells animal medicine as well. Aoba used to live with her at the clinic before moving out to live on the farm. Still comes by all the time to eat.

Haga - Runs the general store in town. Sells farming supplies and basic goods. The terrible trio still run amuck in this shop too.

Yoshie - Mayor and #1 nosey neighbor. Gives town improvement quests. Often sends Aoba treats and recipes in the mail. Akushima - Town's police. Constant harassing you about regulations and minor rule violations. Always patrolling around town.

Sei - Mysterious stranger that starts showing up in town after Aoba takes over the farm, seen in town only on sundays. Sometimes can be found in the forest clearing. Turns out he is actually a human form of the Harvest Goddess. Goddess form is Usui. Gives player farming quests to restore the town to balance with nature. Mizuki - Owns the town's only inn. The Black Needle, which is also a tavern that the townsfolk often gather at in the evening. Still does tattoo work in a private studio in the back. Sometime people come from out of town to seek out his skills.

Koujaku- A hairdresser who moved back to town a few years ago, used to play with Aoba as kids. Opens up a shop that- in addition to serving as a salon- sells new outfits. Very well liked in town and known for lending a helping hand to anyone who needs it.

Noiz - Moved to town somewhat recently and has a permanent room rented out at The Black Needle. He is barely seen out around the town, only at the occasional meal time in the tavern. No one knows him very well or why he moved here. Sticks out in the otherwise tight knit town. Said to be a programmer of some kind, working freelance.

Mink- Runs his own farm just outside of town. Lived here a long time but is fairly reclusive, but well respected. Comes to town to do carpentry work for the townsfolk. He offers to sells seeds from his farm to Aoba once he starts his farm. He can be commissioned to improve farm buildings as well.

Clear - Somewhat mysterious man who lives down near the ocean. Moved here after his grandfather passed away. Wanted to be near the ocean. Collects sea shells and baubles for a living. Gives the Aoba a fishing rod he bought but never figured out how to use (wanted to catch jellyfish). Can still be a secret robot, harvest moon get's wild sometimes. Ren - Basically the secret bachelor option in this game, like the witch/wizard character usually is. Forest sprite that is close to Aoba. Was in the form of a small fluffy talking dog that Aoba has known since he was a kid. Hangs out on the farm with Aoba. As part of doing a side harvest goddess quest line, Sei grants Ren a human body.

Allmates - Torn between keeping them as-is (minus ren) or making them all Forest sprites that start socializing with townsfolk as your progress the Harvest goddess quests and more people are able to see them again.

Virus and Trip - Weirdos who come to town on occasion and cause problems for Aoba. Interested in the the legend of the Harvest goddess and the power associated. Show up to hinder or help with the main questline depending on their mood.

Thank you for reading this far if you did lmao

[tumbl-ur]

Quickwrite// Synesthesia

Two years ago, I opened my eyes and I breathed color for the first time. See, the window was wide open and my mother was whistling a strange tune and wiping down the dust from the tops of the windowpanes but the only thing that mattered to me was that the breeze that drafted in tasted strangely—grey. And I didn’t like it. That’s probably why I’ve made a habit of always keeping my window closed in my bedroom on Sundays, because simply, a breeze drafting in through an open window on a Sunday morning while the windowpanes are being dusted feels grey.

Honestly, I’m not sure why the Creator wrote me in like that. Maybe he just felt like it. But after a while, and without me noticing, everything became a distinct jumble of space and time and color and motion and just everything, like an overload, but the thing was that I loved it and I knew it and it became me. I like to think that I embraced my condition more willingly because till now, my world had been monochromatic and flat, black Arial font snaking in and out of my skin, stitching together space on paper on which I could come alive. And I did, but in ways that you probably couldn’t comprehend.  

My condition somehow warped my understanding of everyday happenings and installed within me a certain strangeness that only I could fathom. Breakfast smells on a Saturday morning was a murky green and that’s why I never wore jackets on Saturday because jackets made me feel brown and, well, murky green and brown just don’t make a healthy combination. I listened to Chopin but never Beethoven because Chopin’s music made orange spots dance in unison with turquoise ovals while Beethoven tasted suspiciously red. In math class, Mrs. O’Connor asked me how far away 1.4 and 10.6 were from each other on the number line and I answered “548 meters” because to me, 1.4 and 10.6 were exactly 548 meters apart, and also because Mrs. O’Connor wasn’t given any personality in this story anyway so I enjoyed the little flush of yellow she exuded when she looked at me with contempt. Color can make anyone beautiful.

My poor mother didn’t know about my separate realm of feeling until one night, when a really deadly combination of crickets and moonlight pushed me deep into an enveloping cloud of black. I woke up screaming and kicking and began crying into her shoulder because the crickets wouldn’t stop and because the moonlight was choking me until all I could hear was black, smell was black, and see was black. It was much more unpleasant than a Sunday morning breeze drafting through a window while the windowpanes are being dusted.

The doctor told her that I was suffering from something called a “sensory overload” and that I probably contracted a combination of many different types of sensory overloads and that it was all probably a huge mess in my head. I didn’t really care anyways, because at that point the black was gone and the bright fluorescent lights shined a deep purple which made me feel happy.

And for two years I lived this way, jumping from Monday to Tuesday and from Tuesday to the rest of the week; I literally mean jumping because from Monday to Tuesday exists an ocean that’s too deep and too blue for me to comfortably swim through, so I just jump across it, because why not? For two years, the Creator made me feel color and space and time and matter in ways that no other literary being had ever felt them.

Like any other writer, the Creator felt like my story needed a plot twist, so two months ago, I woke up choking because I could not feel color and because the universe had become monochromatic, completely black and white, void of any pigmentation whatsoever.

I threw open the curtains covering my windows and pressed my throbbing hand against the chilling glass as I begged for the sun to shine yellow again and for the lilacs in my room to flash indigo—I cursed the Creator as frantic letters tumbled out of my mouth and fell in heaps on the carpet. Saturday was murky green no more and in its stead was a suffocating mix of black and of white. I sunk unto my bed and cried as I could hear the scratching of a pen, scratching, scratching, scratching, and scratching is all because no more could the world arouse in me a pigmented emotion. I ate nothing and said nothing, pausing life only to throw open the windows on Sunday morning and ask my mother to dust the windowpanes in the hopes of catching one glimpse, one taste of the grey I felt two years ago. It didn’t come. My life remained colorless.

Two weeks ago, I met you. You were walking down my neighborhood street with your umbrella in your hand, raindrops snaking from your eyelashes down to your cheeks as you bobbed your head up and down to the music entering your ear through your earbuds. I was sitting on my porch, watching the black crows circle in the white air, when I caught a glimpse of your face and the flash of green that struck out at me through your eyes. I ran after you.

You told me your name but all I could do was stare at you because your face blushed pink, your hair was dark brown, and because finally I had found color, not just in glimpses of pigment, but in the form of someone beautiful.

Every day for two weeks we sat on my porch together; you telling me stories about strange things you’d learned in school, like the art of printmaking and the Great Rabbit Migration of Aboriginal Australia, me listening to your every word and falling harder and harder for the green in your eyes. I slowly forgot about the darkness of the corners of my room and the achromatic hue of my bedsheets as you slowly became my world, my color.

Two days ago, I hugged you goodbye as you jumped off my porch after our daily musings. I smiled and walked back into my room, shutting the door behind me and slipping into bed. A breeze fluttered through the open window and made my lilacs shudder in unison. As I drifted into sleep, I thought I could hear the scratching of a pen.

           When I opened my eyes in the morning, color exploded back into my world. It was a Saturday, and I knew it was, because the smells of breakfast made my head spin with flashes of murky green. Again, I was enraptured with color and with different conceptions of time and matter and space and I laughed, my mirth expressing itself in little circlets of olive green that echoed around my room. The Creator returned my world to me, and I bowed my head and thanked him silently.  

           Two hours later, I wandered onto my porch and sat in my striped chair as I waited for you to walk by. I waited and waited, but you never came. For two weeks I waited, every day, patiently sitting in my striped chair, hoping you’d walk by my house, with your green eyes and your flushed cheeks and your dark brown hair. You never came.

           Now, I sit alone in my bed, colors rushing in and out of my head as all I can think about is that you were once my world. My mother comes in and dusts the windowpanes as the open window lets in a Sunday morning breeze. I barely notice the grey.

[keywestlou]

MORNING STEW #6

A number of significant topics today beginning with my yesterday and then into the world. I generally share the topics in some sort of order. On a day like this it would add an hour to the blog. No time today. I have been at it 2.5 hours gathering the information. Started at 6:30. Need to be done by 11.

So I present you with a Morning Stew. Number 6.

Cath scan time yesterday in the hospital. My appointment was for 1. Did not get taken till 2:30. Thought they were taking another look at my aortic stenosis. Nurse told me order sheet indicated aortic aneurysm. Bothered me. I have known for several years about the aneurysm. Do not think about it. Now it is back in my thought process.

Had to fast for the Cath scan. Was hungry following the test. Back to Harpoon Harry’s. Wednesday is Thanksgiving turkey day. I enjoyed a complete turkey meal.

When last in friday, I forgot to tip the waitress. Embarrassing. First thing I did when I arrived yesterday was to find her and give her a $5 bill. She was grateful, but said she actually did not remember me nor that I failed to tip her.

Whatever, I have made a friend for life.

The waitress actually waiting on me was Allana. European born, she has been in the U.S. 30 years. Twenty seven in Aspen. The last 3 in Key West. Knows how to pick her spots to live!

The time sitting around the hospital waiting for the Cath scan gave me time to finish Becoming Michelle Obama. I enjoyed reading it. Recommend you read it.

Nothing fantastic about the book. It is merely the step by step progression of Michelle’s life from her birth in South Chicago to retirement now following the White House. A modest work. Personal. Like Barrack still leaves his dirty socks on the floor.

Today, a haircut at noon with Lori. Lunch. The Farmers Market at Bayview Park for a special bread and tomatoes that are softer than the rocks available at Publix.

I am looking forward to this evening. Dinner at the home of Larry and Cindy. A couple I have visited with 2 years in a row at the Chart Room. They are from Ontario, Canada. Have a second home on the golf course.

Cindy is cooking.

I have a special affinity to Cindy. She is a loyal blog follower.

I will not be appearing with Laurie Thibault this afternoon on her radio show. Traffic is so heavy this time of year that I would be late for dinner. Tune in however. Laurie needs no help. A born natural for radio. Station 107.5 FM, WGAY FM.

Sex and the Catholic Church. Back in the limelight. Today the beginning of a conference of Bishops. A Sex Abuse Prevention Summit at the Vatican. Pope Francis presiding.

The problem an open wound.

The issues will center around gay priests, secret rules, and the abuse of nuns.

A dynamite conference in the making!

Trump has nominated Jeffrey Rosen to be Deputy Attorney General. He will be the #2 person in the Justice Department.

His only connection to the law is that he is a Harvard law grad. Never worked in criminal prosecution. No police background of any kind.

Why? Of what value will he be? I fear another Trump step in trying to destroy the Department of Justice.

Tired last night. Watched Syracuse/Louisville at 7 from home. Syracuse won decisively 69-49.

A great game!

Next #1 Duke on saturday at the Carrier Dome. Syracuse beat Duke 2 weeks ago on Duke’s home court. Duke was #1 at the time, also.

There is a gluttony overtaking college sports.

I watched part of the Duke/North Carolina game following the Syracuse one. Obama was there. No seats available. A huge sell out.

Certain seats were going for $2,600 each. Super Bowl prices. It was announced that 4 seats at the Syracuse/Duke game saturday will be selling for $3,500 each.

College ball? Professional ball?

There is a drive underway to pay college athletes. In addition to free tuition, room and board. The argument is they are making their schools rich.

The day is coming. Very soon. I don’t like it. Something wrong with paying college athletes especially after they are getting a free ride to a college education.

Iran recently publicly hung a 31 year old man for being gay. Seventy one countries have criminalized homosexuality. Eight of them call for the death penalty.

In Iran, gays as young as 9 can be put to death. And they are.

Lesbians included.

Now comes Donald Trump to lead the battle to end the criminalization of homosexuality across the globe. Announced yesterday. He says he will launch a campaign and lead the cause.

Something irregular here. Trump goes out of his way in the U.S. to do whatever he can to hurt the gay community. He is anti LGBT. His most recent action to prevent transgenders from being in the military.

Hypocrisy? You better believe it.

I can remember John L. Lewis. He was a big man in union work in the 1930’s through 1950’s. A huge man with bushy eyebrows.He was CEO of the Congress of Industrial Organizations and President of the United Mine Workers.

An autocrat in his work. Tough guy similar to Trump. A liar, also. He was described during his time as the most experienced truth-twisting wind bag ever produced in the U.S.

Possessed brass testicles. He called a coal strike during World War II.

I mention Lewis today because on this day in 1940 he was a guest at the Casa Marina.

Cemetery stroll sunday. The Key West Cemetery. The history of our island carved into the stones. Always a crowd. Reservations required. Three starting times 9:30 to 10:10. A $20 donation requested.

I love the cemetery. One of the best stones reads: “I Told You I Was Sick.”

Washington Post columnist Reuben Navarrette in a recent article wrote about Trump, El Paso, and his lies.

Trump was in El Paso this past week pushing the border wall/barrier, whatever it is called. He claimed El Paso had one of the highest crime rates in the U.S. till a wall was built on their border. The problem is El Paso was never a high crime city. Before, during or after the wall was built.

Typical Trump exaggeration, lie.

Navarrette wrote  that Trump “…..since his days selling real estate in Manhattan, has never let the truth interfere with a good pitch. The PT Barnum of Fifth Avenue used to attempt to convince people that the Trump Tower had ten more floors than it really did.”

He continued, “Trump doesn’t just sell steak, or the sizzle. He can get by with just selling you the thought of a steak. That’s a gift folks.”

It’s the nature of the beast, folks!

U.S. Coast Guard Lt. Christopher Paul Hasan has been arrested. A white supremacist interested in terrorist attacks. Leading them himself. Against the U.S. government.

His intent to kill members of Congress and the media. As part of a purpose to create a white homeland. Among those designated for elimination were Elizabeth Warren, Beto O’Rourke, Joe Scarborough, and John Podesta.

In a draft of an e-mail authorities recovered, Hasan wrote: “Much blood will have to be spilled to get whitey off the couch.”

The U.S. worries about terrorism coming at us from the Middle East. We fail to have any significant concern with the terrorism on our shores lying in silence ready to attack. Our efforts must be directed at them also.

I end with Karl Marx. Author of the Communist Manifesto. Written in collaboration with Frederich Engels. Published this day in 1848.

The Manifesto was slow to take hold. However by 1950, half the world’s population lived under Communism.

Marx’s closing words in the Manifest set forth marching orders for those to become his followers: “The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Workers of the world, unite.”

Enjoy your day!

  MORNING STEW #6 was originally published on Key West Lou

[border-----line]

Synesthesia

Microsoft Word - Synesthesia.docx

Two years ago, I opened my eyes and I breathed color for the first time. See, the window was wide open and my mother was whistling a strange tune and wiping down the dust from the tops of the windowpanes but the only thing that mattered to me was that the breeze that drafted in tasted strangely—grey. And I didn’t like it. That’s probably why I’ve made a habit of always keeping my window closed in my bedroom on Sundays, because simply, a breeze drafting in through an open window on a Sunday morning while the windowpanes are being dusted feels grey.

Honestly, I’m not sure why the Creator wrote me in like that. Maybe he just felt like it. But after a while, and without me noticing, everything became a distinct jumble of space and time and color and motion and just everything, like an overload, but the thing was that I loved it and I knew it and it became me. I like to think that I embraced my condition more willingly because till now, my world had been monochromatic and flat, black Times font snaking in and out of my skin, stitching together space on paper on which I could come alive. And I did, but in ways that you probably couldn’t comprehend.

My condition somehow warped my understanding of everyday happenings and installed within me a certain strangeness that only I comprehended. Breakfast smells on a Saturday morning before school was a murky green and that’s why I never wore jackets on Saturday because jackets made me feel brown and, well, murky green and brown just don’t make a healthy combination. I listened to Chopin but never Beethoven because Chopin’s music made orange spots dance in unison with turquoise ovals while Beethoven tasted suspiciously red. In math class, Mrs. O’Connor asked me how far away 1.4 and 10.6 were from each other on the number line and I answered “548 meters” because to me, 1.4 and 10.6 were exactly 548 meters apart, and also because Mrs. O’Connor wasn’t given any personality in this story anyway so I enjoyed the little flush of yellow she exuded when she looked at me with contempt. Color can make anyone beautiful.

My poor mother didn’t know about my separate realm of feeling until one night, when a really deadly combination of crickets and moonlight pushed me deep into an enveloping cloud of black. I woke up screaming and kicking and began crying into her shoulder because the crickets wouldn’t stop and because the moonlight was choking me until all I could hear was black, smell was black, and see was black. It was much more unpleasant than a Sunday morning breeze wafting through a window while the windowpanes are being dusted.

The doctor told her that I was suffering from something called a “sensory overload” and that I probably contracted a combination of many different types of sensory overloads and that it was all probably a huge mess in my head. I didn’t really care anyways, because at that point the black was gone and the bright fluorescent lights shined a deep purple which made me feel happy.

And for two years I lived this way, jumping from Monday to Tuesday and from Tuesday to the rest of the week; I literally mean jumping because from Monday to Tuesday exists an ocean that’s too deep and too blue for me to comfortably swim through, so I just jump across it, because why not? For two years, the Creator made me feel color and space and time and matter in ways that no other literary being had ever felt them.

Like any other writer, the Creator felt like my story needed a plot twist, so two months ago, I woke up choking because I could not feel color and because the universe had become monochromatic, completely black and white, void of any pigmentation whatsoever.

I threw open the curtains covering my windows and pressed my throbbing hand against the chilling glass as I begged for the sun to shine yellow again and for the lilacs in my room to flash indigo—I cursed the Creator as frantic letters tumbled out of my mouth. Saturday was murky green no more and in its stead was a suffocating mix of black and of white. I sunk unto my bed and cried as I could hear the scratching of a pen, scratching, scratching, scratching, and scratching is all because no more could the world arouse in me a pigmented emotion. I ate nothing and said nothing, pausing life only to throw open the windows on Sunday morning and ask my mother to dust the windowpanes in the hopes of catching one glimpse, one taste of the grey I felt two years ago. It didn’t come. My life remained colorless.

Two weeks ago, I met you. You were walking down my neighborhood street with your umbrella in your hand, raindrops snaking from your eyelashes down to your cheeks as you bobbed your head up and down to the music entering your ear through your earbuds. I was sitting on my porch, watching the black crows circle in the white air, when I caught a glimpse of your face and the flash of green that struck out at me through your eyes. I ran after you.

You told me your name but all I could do was stare at you because your face blushed pink, your hair was dark brown, and because finally I had found color, not just in glimpses of pigment, but in the form of someone beautiful.

Every day for two weeks we sat on my porch together; you telling me stories about strange things you’d learned in school, like the art of printmaking and the Great Rabbit Migration of Aboriginal Australia, me listening to your every word and falling harder and harder for the green in your eyes. I slowly forgot about the darkness of the corners of my room and the achromatic hue of my bedsheets as you slowly became my world, my color.

Two days ago, I hugged you goodbye as you jumped off my porch after our daily musings. I smiled and walked back into my room, shutting the door behind me and slipping into bed. A breeze fluttered through the open window and made my lilacs shudder in unison. As I drifted into sleep, I thought I could hear the scratching of a pen.

When I opened my eyes in the morning, color exploded back into my world. It was a Saturday, and I knew it was, because the smells of breakfast made my head spin with flashes of murky green. Again, I was enraptured with color and with different conceptions of time and matter and space and I laughed, my mirth expressing itself in little circlets of olive green that echoed around my room. The Creator returned my world to me, and I bowed my head and thanked him silently.

Two hours later, I wandered onto my porch and sat in my brown chair as I waited for you to walk by. I waited and waited, but you never came. For two weeks I waited, every day, patiently sitting in my brown chair, hoping you’d walk by my house, with your green eyes and your dark brown hair. You never came.

Now, I sit alone in my bed, colors rushing in and out of my head as all I can think about is that you were once my world. My mother comes in and dusts the windowpanes as the open window lets in a Sunday morning breeze. I barely notice the grey.

PC