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neonrain-dev · 5 months ago

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1.2 Update(it is Wednesday somewhere)

Recent traffic to my demo page has compelled me to release this demo early in most time zones.

⚠️ WARNING:

Save files from versions 1.1 and earlier will not be compatible with 1.2.

The stutter issues will only be addressed with the release of Godot 4.4. I know it’s frustrating, but it is what it is.

KEY CHANGES:

The player character's movement speed has been significantly rebalanced. Strafe jumping is still a prominent mechanic but no longer as punishing, reducing reliance on it. The previous iteration was a fun experiment but caused excessive friction in the long run.

New ammo economy: The game now leans further into its Metroidvania roots. Players start with minimal ammo, emphasizing resource management and exploration to find upgrades that expand ammo capacity. Punching enemies has become more critical for conserving ammo.

Demo now has 18 upgrades to collect instead of 4.

New weapon in the hub world.

Further clarified that the totem poles contain messages when touched. All in an effort to not make a "stop-and-hold-your-hand" tutorial, keeping the flow intact while minimizing ambiguity.

Tutorial now reinforced the game’s core Metroidvania philosophy, emphasizing exploration over pure action.

A warning now appears when you’re about to run out of ammo. I saw players trying to kill aliens with empty guns.

More Responsive Enemies: Fixed a major oversight where enemies only attacked when perfectly aligned with the player’s center. Enemies are now more responsive as a result, making combat more dynamic and appropriate for the rebalanced player movement.

"Press Any Button" Start Screen: Players can now press any button to start the game. Previously, the game hardcoded the start function to the ESC key, causing confusion.

Updated credits.

As usual I fixed various bugs!

THE FUTURE:

Now that this update is live, I’m fully dedicating myself to the Steam version. Here’s what to expect:

Steam Demo Development: The Steam version will be built using Godot 4.4 (currently in beta with 4.5 in the planning stage) to eliminate stutter issues. It has haunted this game for so long.

Unlisting the Current Demo (if necessary): If this demo no longer represents the game’s current state, it will be unlisted until the next iteration. However, with 1.2’s improvements, this version should remain relevant for months to come. Do note that the Steam demo will also be published on itch.

I wanna personally thank Zlim and his community for the valuable feedbacks that made this update the way it is.

I also wanna thank all of you for the continued support, it is what fuel my passion and drive the most.

Cheers, and let’s keep this game moving forward!

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luminouslotuses · 2 years ago

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i know a bunch of people (including myself lmao) have been talking about the lost! qsmp animatic and upon rewatching it, there’s just so many little details i’m obsessed with oh my god

rambling under the cut:

first of all the body language & expressiveness of the egg kids is great. a few of my personal favorite moments were when pomme was looking at the burnt paper tallulah had written, the whole exchange between chayanne, dapper, and ramón, and the part where all of them took out their weapons/prepared to defend themselves

also speaking of that part– i love the detail of the little particles as ramón and richas pull out their swords:

more details are the character designs (agh i absolutely love all of them lol), the cracks on the egg kids that have cracks– not only on their faces but on their arms and legs too, which i thought was a nice touch, and the little moments between characters such as tallulah & chayanne, leo & richas, and dapper with both pomme and ramón.

btw dapper is the star of the show for me in this animatic LMAO. his expressions are just the best in practically every scene he’s in (and here’s a couple examples):

and ofc the part towards the end where it shows the lives the eggs lost + their traumas. the way the places on the screen (like the wall & the ninho) and the people/important items (like the duck, the waystone, the totem, etc) speed up as the kids become more panicked– and then the rapid succession of their scared and apprehensive faces on the screen,,, god it’s so GOOD AUGH

sincerely hoping this will be in the next qsmp movie night 🤞🤞

go check out maepletea’s channel! :D

#qsmp #qsmp animatics #my ted talk

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aceferatu · 1 month ago

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Dead by Daylight is supposed to be about suspense, teamwork, and horror…right? WRONG! 🤣

But sometimes? Sometimes it’s about trauma, therapy, and me throwing my controller in a blind panic.

Here are my top 5 killers that make me seriously consider crocheting instead of queuing up.

5. THE KNIGHT – Sir Camp-a-Lot and his Insane Medieval Posse

He doesn’t chase you. No. He opens his weird little parchment like he’s drafting a battle plan for a history reenactment and sics his evil Dollar Store guards on you while he stands 10 feet away eating grapes.

You try to loop him at a pallet? Suddenly it’s a 2v1 because Sir Lancelot Jr. just materialized like a medieval tax collector and now you’re getting downed by an AI with the pathing of a drunk Roomba.

The Knight himself? Doesn’t even move. He’s a spectator. He’s in the audience watching your life fall apart. I’ve had more fun doing tax return paperwork.

4. THE LEGION – A Band of Knife-Happy Middle Schoolers with Commitment Issues

They stab. They sprint. They stab someone else. They leave.

I spend 80% of the match MENDING MY ARM like I’m doing triage on myself in the woods.

You ever finish mending, start a gen, and immediately hear that “WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH” heartbeat again?

Yes. Because they’re back. Again. With zero game plan. Just vibes and emo outfits.

Legion doesn’t play to win. They play to emotionally drain you over 25 minutes until the Entity gives up and rage-quits with you.

THE ONI – Angry Big Boy with a Nap-Shortage

He starts chill. Real peaceful samurai vibes. You think, “Hey, this match might be manageable.”

WRONG.

He gets one injured survivor and suddenly turns into a 300-pound demonic linebacker with a personal vendetta and a blood orb addiction.

He charges across the map like the Kool-Aid Man on meth, obliterates the jungle gym in 2 seconds flat, and then politely asks if you’d like a hook side salad with your trauma.

And that scream? That BOOM when he activates his power? I hear it in my dreams. My cat ran under the couch. I still haven’t found her.

2. PINHEAD – Mr. Chains and Pain and Vague Monologues

If I wanted to be tied up by a leather-clad creep, I’d go to my local gay leather bar.

Instead, I’m getting yanked back and forth like a possessed marionette while Pinhead floats toward me whispering spooky erotic poetry.

And guess what? Nobody’s touching the damn box. Not Cheryl. Not Feng. Not even that one Dwight who brought a flashlight and then blinded me on accident after hiding in a locker. Meanwhile, I’m getting chain-ganked while trying to unhook someone and now we’re both down and he’s STILL TALKING.

He doesn’t chase. He lectures you to death. Imagine dying to someone quoting Shakespeare while you crawl through chains like a haunted obstacle course.

1. THE DOCTOR – The Man, The Myth, The Mental Breakdown

This isn’t a chase. It’s a psychiatric evaluation with electricity and trauma. I scream. You scream. The entire map screams. Fake skill checks are popping up like Whack-a-Mole on Red Bull. And don’t even TRY to hide because guess what? That illusion of him you saw in the corner? Not real. That pallet you thought you saw? Not there. That confidence you had? Long gone.

He’s not even tunneling; he’s gaslighting me. I feel like I owe HIM an apology after the match.

I don’t know what’s real anymore. My heartbeat’s elevated. My screen is glitching. I failed three checks in a row and now I’m crying in a bush next to a totem that I don’t even have the mental strength to cleanse.

All I wanted tonight was a nice, peaceful gen rush and maybe a little chase to spice things up. What I got was psychological warfare, NPC guards, pop quizzes mid-skillcheck, and five killers that live rent-free in my trauma folder.

⛓️ Tag a friend who has rage quit to Pinhead’s chains.

💀 Tag another who’s STILL screaming because of Doctor’s hallucinations.

🍺 Pour yourself a drink for all the times you mended your wounds just to get hit again.

Now if you’ll excuse me… I’m gonna go stare at the main menu screen in silence for 30 minutes and question my life choices after just hitting 5700 hours. 🤦

PS: Normally the community bitches nonstop, so I used satire. Have a great week!

#dead by daylight

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jackoshadows · 8 months ago

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It was different for Dahdouh, too. The moment he was back on screen, he saw the public's pride in him. For days, he could barely walk in the street without being offered not only condolences but encouragement. He started receiving calls from strangers. "You do not know me," one said. "I have lost all my children and my entire family, but in your honour, and in solidarity with you, I will stand firm." He was no longer seen as just a high-profile reporter, but a bearer of Gaza's grief and a symbol of its people's character. And in a war where so many journalists had already been killed, Dahdouh's new, magnified role potentially placed him in the crosshairs. He was an experienced war reporter, but this was the first time he felt he might be personally targeted for doing his job.

'I couldn't cry over my children like everyone else," Dahdouh told me this summer as we sat in his living room in Doha, where he now lives. In Gaza, he felt he had to be the pillar of strength that others needed. His old life was gone, and he could not pause for a moment to take stock or process what was happening. He spoke of this period with a touch of the mystical, with wonder at his own response to his calamity, and the response it drew from others.

One of Dahdouh's nicknames is Al Jabal, the mountain. "I am a stubborn man," Dahdouh said to me, explaining why he chose not to leave after his injury. He had experienced so much loss, seen so much death and come so close to dying himself that he no longer had any fear. "Life and death," to him, "had become the same." All that he cared about was that when death came, it would find him "on his feet". He was certain that as long as he was alive, no matter how badly injured, he would stay in Gaza and keep reporting. "So many high profile people called him to persuade him," Zaanoun, his childhood friend, told me. For most Palestinians in Gaza, leaving was impossible, but Dahdouh was in a different position. Al Jazeera had sometimes managed to extract permission from the Israeli authorities for staff members and their families to be evacuated. Zaanoun and others told him his departure would not be seen as a defeat. He had done enough and it was time to take care of his family, and himself. Without urgent medical care, he might lose his arm. Besides, he had become too totemic now. The risk of him being targeted by Israel was higher than ever, they said. What would be his value to anyone if he was killed?

Three days after the airstrike, Dahdouh decided that he would go along with the steps required to leave Gaza – but he harboured a secret plan. If his family was allowed to leave through the Rafah crossing, he would go with them to the border. Once they had crossed, he would then turn back. He would trust Hamza with the responsibility of "leading the Dahdouhs into the future".

#Wael al-Dahdouh #Palestine #Gaza #Journalism

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magnolia-pollen · 1 year ago

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Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships that hampered others. Although the situation must have had even then the approximate tragic stature of Scott Fitzgerald's failure to become president of the Princeton Triangle Club, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nevertheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honour, and the love of a good man (preferably a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and one of the Murchisons in a proxy fight); lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed wonder of someone who has come across a vampire and found no garlands of garlic at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The charms that work on others count for nothing in that devastatingly well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself: no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. With the desperate agility of a crooked faro dealer who spots Bat Masterson about to cut himself into the game, one shuffles flashily but in vain through one's marked cards—the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which had involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others—who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation—which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something that people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable home movie that documents one's failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for each screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there's the hurt on X's face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commission and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously un- comfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

To protest that some fairly improbable people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one's underwear. There is a common superstition that "self-respect" is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation. Although the careless, suicidal Julian English in Appointment in Samarra and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbable candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not. With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than in men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: "I hate careless people," she told Nick Carraway. "It takes two to make an accident."

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. They know the price of things. If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties; nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named corespondent. If they choose to forego their work—say it is screenwriting—in favor of sitting around the Algonquin bar, they do not then wonder bitterly why the Hacketts, and not they, did Anne Frank.

In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues. The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and with United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for re-election. Nonetheless, character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life—is the source from which self-respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-year-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: "Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke about it." Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, "fortunately for us," hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnée.

In one guise or another, Indians always are. Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me. They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one's head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones. To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket; to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before. It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are. In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one's intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out—since our self-image is untenable—their false notions of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course we will play Francesca to Paolo, Brett Ashley to Jake, Helen Keller to anyone's Annie Sullivan: no expectation is too misplaced, no rôle too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we can not but hold in contempt, we play rôles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the necessity of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self. In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one's sanity becomes an object of speculation among one's acquaintances. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

#joan didion #self respect #article #commonplace #words

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luckonllc · 17 days ago

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Small Sculptures, Big Impact: Add Style to Your Desk and Shelves

Decorating a space isn’t just about large furniture or vibrant wall art — sometimes, the smallest pieces make the biggest difference. Small sculptures and figurines are timeless décor elements that bring personality, elegance, and character to any room. Whether it’s your office desk, bookshelf, or a cozy nook in your living room, these miniature masterpieces can transform dull corners into captivating displays.

Let’s explore why small sculptures are worth your attention and how you can style them to maximize their visual impact.

🎨 The Power of Subtle Details

Small sculptures, while compact in size, pack a serious visual punch. They draw the eye, evoke curiosity, and can communicate your personality in quiet yet meaningful ways.

Enhance Aesthetic Appeal A small bronze statue or intricately crafted figure adds sophistication without overwhelming your space. Unlike large decorative pieces, small sculptures blend seamlessly into existing décor, making them suitable for minimalists and maximalists alike.

Personalized Touch Sculptures can reflect your interests, beliefs, or humor. From abstract shapes to animal figurines, they make your surroundings feel more you. One thoughtfully chosen piece can start conversations or even serve as a personal totem that keeps you motivated throughout the day.

📚 Perfect Companions for Bookshelves

Bookshelves often serve as blank canvases waiting to be brought to life. Small sculptures fill in those visual gaps while complementing your literary collection.

Balance and Composition Books arranged vertically can feel repetitive. Break the monotony by interspersing them with horizontal stacks and topping them with mini sculptures. The variety in shape and height adds rhythm and balance to your shelves.

Theme Matching If your shelf hosts travel books, consider adding miniature globes or landmarks. For a vintage collection, old-world busts or antique bronze pieces will enhance the nostalgic charm. Matching themes help create a cohesive, styled look that doesn’t appear random or cluttered.

🧑‍💻 Elevate Your Desk Space with Character

Desks are more than workstations — they’re personal sanctuaries where creativity meets productivity. A small sculpture can infuse energy and focus into your daily grind.

Visual Breaks Having something beautiful or interesting on your desk gives your eyes a break from screens. Whether it’s a quirky animal, an abstract shape, or a thoughtful figurine, these elements create tiny moments of joy in your routine.

Inspiration Triggers Art has the power to inspire. A mini sculpture representing growth, success, or serenity can act as a daily reminder of your values or goals. These symbols help keep motivation high, especially on tough days.

🪙 Functional and Decorative Collectibles

Not all sculptures are purely decorative. Some serve dual purposes — offering both visual interest and practical utility.

Paperweights and Card Protectors Stylish bronze or resin sculptures can act as paperweights, keeping your workspace tidy and organized. If you’re a card player or enthusiast, a custom poker card protector in sculptural form adds flair to your games while serving a functional purpose. These pieces often become signature items that speak to your unique hobbies and taste.

Bookends and Tray Decor Heavier sculptures can be used as bookends, while lighter ones can be displayed in trays on coffee tables or side tables. They add a curated touch, making everyday surfaces look deliberately designed.

🏠 Small Space, Big Style

For those living in apartments or working with compact rooms, small sculptures are ideal. They don’t demand large floor space or wall area, yet they enrich your environment immensely.

Multipurpose Placement From the corner of your bathroom shelf to the kitchen window sill, these tiny accents can go anywhere. Their portability means you can constantly refresh your space by simply moving them around.

Layered Look Combine sculptures with plants, candles, and small picture frames for a layered décor look. This creates depth and visual interest, especially on flat surfaces like coffee tables or mantels.

🧼 Care and Maintenance: Easy to Manage

One of the advantages of smaller sculptures is the ease of maintenance. Unlike larger artworks or furniture, they require minimal upkeep.

Dust Regularly A soft microfiber cloth or small brush keeps intricate details clean. Avoid using harsh chemicals unless specified, especially for metal or hand-painted items.

Handle with Care Due to their size, small sculptures are more prone to accidental knocks. Ensure they’re placed on stable surfaces and away from high-traffic areas where they could be bumped.

Rotate Seasonally Keep things fresh by rotating your sculptures based on the season or theme. Swap in holiday-inspired pieces during winter or nature-themed ones in spring.

🎁 The Perfect Gift Idea

Small sculptures make thoughtful gifts for any occasion. Whether it’s a birthday, graduation, housewarming, or retirement, they symbolize thoughtfulness and personal touch.

Customization Options Many artisans and brands offer personalization, letting you add initials, dates, or messages to sculptures. This transforms a beautiful object into a treasured keepsake.

Universally Appealing Since sculptures range in material, style, and theme, they can be tailored to match anyone’s taste — from the art lover to the minimalist.

🌐 Where to Find Quality Pieces

When shopping for small sculptures, quality matters. Seek out items crafted from durable materials such as:

Bronze and Metal – for a classic, heavy, and refined look

Resin – lightweight and versatile, great for intricate designs

Wood – adds warmth and rustic charm

Ceramic or Stone – great for organic, natural aesthetics

Artisan marketplaces, design boutiques, and niche online stores are treasure troves of unique finds. Pay attention to craftsmanship, customer reviews, and return policies to ensure you're getting a well-made item.

✅ Conclusion

Small sculptures are more than ornamental accents — they are storytellers, style-makers, and mood-lifters. Their ability to add character and elegance to any space, regardless of size, makes them an essential part of modern interior styling. From desks to bookshelves, from gifts to collectibles, their impact is undeniably profound.

Whether you're looking to add a personal flair to your workspace, organize your shelves more creatively, or find a gift that speaks volumes, small sculptures offer timeless appeal with lasting impact. So go ahead — explore the world of miniature artistry and see how even the smallest piece can make a big impression.

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interactivewhiteboardsupplier · 1 year ago

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jamesgibsonwork0 · 8 months ago

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Buy Touch Screen Totems from Obey Touch – Innovate Your Business Interaction

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dankusner · 2 months ago

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VOGUE: Didion’s ’61 essay

On Self-Respect: Joan Didion’s 1961 Essay from the Pages of Vogue Joan DidionDecember 23, 2021

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Joan Didion, author, journalist, and style icon, died today after a prolonged illness.

She was 87 years old.

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Here, in its original layout, is Didion’s seminal essay “Self-respect: Its Source, Its Power,” which was first published in Vogue in 1961, and which was republished as “On Self-Respect” in the author’s 1968 collection, Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

Didion wrote the essay as the magazine was going to press, to fill the space left after another writer did not produce a piece on the same subject.

She wrote it not to a word count or a line count, but to an exact character count.

Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself.

Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes.

It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa.

This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships that hampered others.

Although the situation must have had even then the approximate tragic stature of Scott Fitzgerald's failure to become president of the Princeton Triangle Club, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nevertheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it.

I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honour, and the love of a good man (preferably a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and one of the Murchisons in a proxy fight);

lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale.

To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed wonder of someone who has come across a vampire and found no garlands of garlic at hand.

Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception.

The charms that work on others count for nothing in that devastatingly well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself: no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions.

With the desperate agility of a crooked faro dealer who spots Bat Masterson about to cut himself into the game, one shuffles flashily but in vain through one's marked cards—the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which had involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed.

The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others—who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation—which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something that people with courage can do without.

There’s the glass you broke in anger, there's the hurt on X's face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one.

To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commission and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice or carelessness.

However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves.

Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

There is a common superstition that "self-respect" is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general.

It does not at all.

It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation.

Although the careless, suicidal Julian English in Appointment in Samarra and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbable candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not.

With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than in men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: "I hate careless people," she told Nick Carraway. "It takes two to make an accident."

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes.

They know the price of things.

If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties;

nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named corespondent.

If they choose to forego their work—say it is screenwriting—in favor of sitting around the Algonquin bar, they do not then wonder bitterly why the Hacketts, and not they, did Anne Frank.

In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve;

they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues.

The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and with United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for re-election.

Nonetheless, character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life—is the source from which self-respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about.

They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts.

It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt.

In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-year-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: "Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke about it."

Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, "fortunately for us," hostile.

Indians were simply part of the donnée.

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In one guise or another, Indians always are.

Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price.

People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me.

They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth.

It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag.

As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one's head in a Food Fair bag.

There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones.

To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket;

to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before.

It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are.

In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference.

If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses.

On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out—since our self-image is untenable—their false notions of us.

We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give.

Of course we will play Francesca to Paolo,

Brett Ashley to Jake, Helen Keller to anyone's Annie Sullivan: no expectation is too misplaced, no rôle too ludicrous.

At the mercy of those we can not but hold in contempt, we play rôles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the necessity of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self.

In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game.

Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one's sanity becomes an object of speculation among one's acquaintances.

To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect.

Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw:

one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

#Youtube

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jadenewcomb-storys · 7 months ago

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Friendstuck

Chapter One: The Arrival of the Disk

Jade Hyden was lost in her thoughts as she stared at her computer screen. The teal shark hoodie she wore almost swallowed her small frame, matching perfectly with her black sweatpants and socks. Jade, an antisocial yet thoughtful 14-year-old, found solace in the virtual world where she adopted the persona of "Jade Harley." Today, however, something extraordinary was about to happen in her otherwise ordinary life.

The sound of a message notification snapped Jade out of her reverie. It was from her friend, Kate Limbus, who was just as quirky as Jade but with an obsession for aliens and cats. Kate's cluttered apartment was filled with UFO posters and cat paraphernalia. "Got the disk yet?" Kate had asked. Jade quickly responded, "Yes, I have it."

Meanwhile, in his neatly kept house in a pleasant neighborhood, Oile Gidley, a 14-year-old boy with brown hair and a penchant for video games, received the same message. His white shirt with a dog print, black pants with a chain, and black fingerless gloves gave him a look that was both serious and playful. Oile had been waiting for this moment, and excitement coursed through him as he confirmed, "Jade has the disk."

Satie Longstocking, a 16-year-old with black hair and a quiet confidence, was at her desk when the notification came through. Her friends knew she was smarter and more social than she appeared, despite her unassuming green pants, grey shirt, and brown shoes. She quickly typed back, "Let's get started." (SATIE IM SO SORRY I KNOW LITERALLY NOTHING ABOUT YOUUU) The four friends gathered in a video call, each in their own space but connected by their shared anticipation. Suddenly, a mysterious voice echoed through their headphones. "Find the components," it instructed, "only then can you create the apple." (I’m sorry if this is kinda bad I’m trying to change it up a bit) This marked the beginning of their adventure. They scoured their homes, locating the Cruxtruder, Alchemiter, Totem Lathe, and Punch Designix. These game components were cleverly hidden, and finding them required both ingenuity and persistence. Once assembled, they worked together to create the glowing apple.

With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, they each took a bite of the apple. Instantly, they were enveloped in a strange sensation, as if their bodies were being pulled apart and reassembled. When they opened their eyes, they found themselves in the Medium—a mysterious and unknown world.

Their arrival in the Medium was marked by the appearance of Kernelsprites—floating orbs of light that required prototyping. These Kernelsprites would guide them, but first, each character had to choose an item to fuse with their sprite.

Jade chose a cherished stuffed toy, adding a touch of innocence and nostalgia. Kate used an old alien figurine, ensuring her adventures had an extraterrestrial twist. Oile opted for his gaming console controller, blending technology with creativity. Satie, ever the thoughtful one, chose a simple book, hoping its knowledge would be their greatest asset.

In this strange new world, their roles began to crystallize. Jade, a Prospit Dreamer, found herself awake on Prospit whenever she slept, her classpect as a Page of Heart giving her insights into the future. Kate was also a Prospit Dreamer but had yet to awaken. Oile and Satie were Derse Dreamers, both waiting for the moment they would wake on Derse. Satie, with her classpect as a Prince of Space, was destined for greatness, while Oile, a Bard, had yet to discover his true potential.

Their journey had only just begun, but the friends knew this was the adventure they had been waiting for. As they looked around at the vast, unknown landscape of the Medium, a sense of purpose filled them. They were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

(I’m sorryyyy if I made it bad also I’m sorry there’s no art I suck at art :[ and this was just a start like a out line you can ask stuff and that will steer the direction of the story uhh sorry about the random (example)’s at certain parts also sorry about the ending text it seems so cringy to me)

#homestuck #fan story #homestuck au #sorry #ask anything #writing #new writter

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senuassaga · 1 year ago

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Survival and Intensity in Senua’s Saga Hellblade II

Let’s dive into the real deal – the tech behind Senua’s Saga is seriously next-level. Those early trailers hyped us up, but seeing it on our Xbox and actually playing it? Mind-blowing. Ninja Theory aimed for that "triple A Indie" vibe, and Senua’s Saga totally proves they’re on that grind. Thanks to MetaHuman and Unreal Engine 5, Senua’s looking sharper than ever. Sometimes I was straight up fooled into thinking what I was seeing was real – the characters and environments are that crisp. Ninja Theory’s skills are on full display here. The environments are crazy detailed too, from big landscapes to tiny touches. Sunsets look epic, torchlight flickers add atmosphere – it’s all otherworldly. I’m not usually into photo modes, but I couldn’t resist snapping shots here. Plus, the lack of clutter on the screen? Refreshing. Except for Senua’s hip mirror for her special moves, it’s just you and the stunning visuals. But that’s all out there already (plus my screenshots). Thankfully, the gameplay’s on point too. You’ve got exploration, combat, and puzzles. Remember the puzzles in the first game? Kinda iffy. They’re back, but now they’re smoother to handle, just enough help to keep it flowing. There’s also new stuff, like shifting environments between realities – simple but smart. And the action-packed puzzles? Highlight reel material. Combat’s where it’s really at though. One-on-one fights are way more intense and just plain fun. They’ve nailed that vibe of surviving, not just winning. It’s like rock/paper/scissors, but with serious consequences.

Navigational Constraints in Hellblade II: Balancing Focus with Exploration

There’s a learning curve to mastering Senua’s and the enemies’ moves, but the combat is always gripping, while exploration, which can be a bit of a mixed bag, is complemented by options for purchasing PS5 games. The puzzles are cool, and the world is breathtaking, so moving through it isn’t a drag. Finding hidden totems adds to the lore, and there might be extra perks for collecting them all. But as gorgeous as it is, Senua’s Saga world is strictly linear. Invisible walls are everywhere, limiting where we can jump off a ledge, even if it looks like we should be able to. I get keeping the focus tight, but a bit more freedom to roam wouldn’t hurt. Right now, we’re mostly guided through fancy corridors, with occasional chances to break away for those totems.

Ninja Theory's Triumph: Elevating Xbox with Cutting-Edge Tech and Gripping Narrative

The story is obviously a huge deal in Senua’s Saga, and it totally nails it – no spoilers, but I was hooked the whole time. The cast’s performances are top-notch, and combined with the dope technical work, it’s a full package. Ninja Theory deserves props for tackling mental health issues head-on and breaking down stigmas. With headphones on (seriously, the best way), Senua’s inner voices really hit home, making her fears feel real. It gets you thinking about your own stuff too, which shows how Ninja Theory’s not just about atmosphere but also gameplay that’s on point. The only times I zoned out were during those slow walks where you’re just moving forward with maybe a sidekick or two. Some of these parts try to cram too much info without much action. Is that better than a long cutscene? Not sure, but even when I started to drift, I was still curious about where the story would go next. Luckily, Senua’s Saga: Hellblade II’s overall package is so strong that those slow bits don’t really matter in the grand scheme. Xbox hit the jackpot adding Ninja Theory to their lineup – it’s a showcase of killer tech, solid gameplay, and a story that grabs you. They’ve set the bar high, and I’m eager to see where they go from here.

#ninja theory

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