Category: Livejournal

I almost didn’t go.

Like I’ve told others, living in Los Angeles has become rather dreadful, almost exactly like an abusive relationship. For eight months, I was stuck in a crummy job and without any support from my friends. For a very long time, my circle of friends has not been returning my phone calls, e-mails or any other kind of communication. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong, but whenever I asked, I was told “You’re always welcome here.”

That exact language. “You’re always welcome here.”

On December 31st, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was not. One friend finally found the courage to call me and tell me what was wrong. One friend. The rest of them still maintain the lie. A lie maintained by refusal to communicate. I was also told that I needed to start “extending my hand,” to try making amends. I did not comment on the irony of this statement, when it had been me reaching out for eight months, trying to figure out why people were not calling me. It had been me working to maintain those friendships when all I got back was silence. It had been me trusting those same people who assured me nothing was wrong, when all the while there was something wrong and all my friends continued to feed me the same lie.

“You’re always welcome here.”

On December 31st, the last day of the year, I finally learned the context of eight months of silence. And, again, was told that my friends expected me to change… even though they continued to tell me that nothing was wrong.

I was told that my behavior was not acceptable. I had become erratic, moody, and neglectful of my obligations. I conceded to all of these. In Los Angeles, they don’t stop kicking you when you’re down. They’ll kick you even when you’re in the grave. Erratic, moody and neglectful. I could only agree.

I spent most of that weekend in a severe depression. I hunkered down before the television and watched all 7 seasons of The West Wing. I waited for a phone call to tell me if I got a new job. I waited and waited and waited. No phone call. I called myself and was told to wait. No decision had been made yet.

West Wing and waiting.

The days crept forward. The 1st, the 2nd, the 3rd… No news about my new job. Nobody to call. Nobody to talk to. Just The West Wing and waiting.

On the morning of the 4th, I should have been ready to leave. I had been invited to be a special guest at DarkCon 2007–a small convention in Phoenix, Arizona. Up until the very last minute, I was trying to muster the energy to pack or the cowardice to call and cancel. At the very last minute, I made up my mind. I threw clothes into bags, stuffed my car, downloaded the directions, and started driving.

It is six and a half hours from Los Angeles to Phoenix. All the way, I listened to music. I had no Tom Waits in the car, but a pile of Rush CDs. I listened to them all. Marathon, Anthem, Something for Nothing, One Little Victory… I was surrounded by music I hadn’t listened to in months. The exact music I should have been listening to.

At some point during the drive, I thought of a friend I had not seen in many years. She lived in Arizona, she was a gamer, and she was the source of my best GenCon story. Some of you (including Mr. Laws) know that story. I wondered if she would be there. I hoped she would be there. Her name was Jaimie. And she was the closest thing to Eris-on-Earth that I’d ever met.  She healed me when my soul was wounded. First Gen Con. We danced and danced and danced. She whispered, “I promise you won’t think of ‘her’ all night.” And she was right. We danced and danced and danced. I wondered if she would be there. I hoped…

The drive was uneventful. I pulled into Phoenix in the late afternoon and the guest liaison, Anna, found me quickly. She led me to my suite which came fully equipped with Coca-Cola and whiskey. She showed me the “Green Room” which had homemade soup, fruits, cheeses, and pasties (no, not paisties, but pasties–get your mind out of the gutter). I would be well-fed all weekend long.

I changed out of my travel clothes and “put my magician on.” Black coat, black hat, gold rose and cross. I was ready. I went down to the show.

The gaming section was on the lower floor. I found my way and met up with Jessie–who looked vaguely familiar. “Good to see you again,” he told me. I did not recognize him. “We met a few GenCons ago,” he said. I smiled and said, “Hello.” I meet so many people at GenCon, it’s hard to keep track of them.

And then he told me, “I’m Jaimie’s ex-husband.” I felt something drop in my chest. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re still friends.” I laughed. “Jennifer and I, too,” I told him.

“She’ll be here on Saturday,” he said. “She’s very excited to see you.”

The rest of that day was like a strange dream. At around 7:00, I showed up for the pre-show party. The connecting rooms were packed with people. I ran into the other “gaming guests” at the show: Ken St. Andre and Liz Danforth. We spent the evening chatting about the history of the game industry, eating strawberries and getting our socks knocked off by the presence of Jewel Staite. She was funny, witty and friendly. I would not know this. I never said a word to her at the show. For some reason or another, I just got star struck. I’ve never been star struck before. Not even with Harlan Ellison. (That was pure nerves. You approach that guy, you’d better have your A Game on.) Or maybe it was because I really didn’t have anything to say. I don’t know.

Friday morning saw the beginning of my long schedule. I ran games all day. Some of them not even my own. I missed a “Gaming 101” conference that a fellow named Chris was running. Probably for the better; that’s really a one man show.

During the show, I met a bunch of people… most of whom I cannot remember their names. I’m bad at that. Moreso these days than earlier. I mean, I’ve always been bad with names, but as the days get longer, I get worse. I spent a lot of time talking with folks, spending time with them, answering questions about L5R, 7th Sea and the gaming industry in general. The highlight of the show for me, though, was the costumes. I love costumes. I’m a clothes horse myself and little turns me on more than a woman in a beautiful costume. It doesn’t have to be all that revealing… just the allure of tailored clothes is enough. And speaking of costumes…

The chair of the con, Nola, showed up each night in a different outfit. Besides being a witty, charming and alluring red head (be still my heart), she is also a costume designer of no small amount of talent. On Friday night, she showed up in a black outfit that knocked me to the floor. Long coat, long boots, corset, short skirt… I could not have asked for more. And did I mention the red hair? When I gave her my undying appreciation and gratitude, she told me, “Wait for tomorrow.” I put that in the back of my mind and held it close.

A few people asked me if I was serious about moving out of Los Angeles. I’d made some comments here about that before and I confirmed them. I went so far to say that everything I owned was already in storage and I had enough clothes and supplies that I wouldn’t really need to go back to LA. When I did, an unofficial game began: “Let’s Keep John in Phoenix.” The offer became more tempting as the weekend progressed.

For the next two days, I was busy signing and selling books, running and playing games, until Saturday night when I MC’d the Masquerade. I had a lot of fun and, apparently, it showed. Lots of fun costumes and enthusiastic entries. The half-time entertainment was Gary Siler, a folkie who had a song play on the space shuttle Atlantis (no kidding!). He was a lot of fun and played a particular arrangement of Johnnie Jump Up that really stuck in my heart. I offered to buy him a pint at the bar at the end of the show. I wished everyone a good evening and told them I’d be in the bar buying Gary a pint and myself an Irish Car Bomb. That’s when I heard a voice shout, “I’ll see you there!”

As I stepped down from the podium, I was pulled aside by one of the staff. I was ushered backstage and sent to a photograph session. One of the special guests was Kit Rae–an artist and weapon designer. I stepped behind the stage and saw Nola in a long, red cloak. Mr. Rae was there was well and she wanted to present him with a special gift. She let the cloak slip off her shoulders and showed us her “gift.”

She designed this as a costume.

For some things, my friends, language only gets in the way.

I made my way to the bar. Walking with Liz Danforth back to the hotel, I was stopped by the sight of someone I recognized standing on the lawn. I stopped. “Hello, John,” she said.

I ran to her and put my arms around her. She held me and I held her and we whispered to each other. The warmth of her arms sought out the cold in my bones. My knees went weak and I almost fell. She laughed at me. We both cleared away the moisture on our cheeks and we walked hand-in-hand back to the bar. She never let go of me.

The con party was that night. A huge room full of music. And we danced and we danced and we danced. My back protested, but I put it down.  We were not the John and Jaimie we were ten years ago–the John and Jamie who danced six hours straight at the Safe House–but we danced until we couldn’t move, then we rested, then we danced more. And we danced with others, we danced alone. We danced.

It is dangerous to dance with Discordia. And I suffered for it. Ordeal. At this moment, my back still complains. I cannot bend my neck more than thirty degrees. My knees ache, my calves ache, my thighs ache. It is dangerous to dance with Discordia. But when she moves, she does it with passion so wild it gives the illusion of precision. When she invites you, you cannot decline. You cannot offer the excuse, “I do not know how,” because she will smile and her dark eyes will shine and she will say, “Everyone knows my dance.”

When the party was over, when I was certain I’d done permanent damage to my aging body, we slipped away and talked. We talked about the seven years since we saw each other last. What happened, how we changed. We talked about illness and healing. We talked about magic. We talked about pain.

And I told her a secret. I held her close and whispered it in her ear. And when I did, she held me close and told me, “It’s all right.”

We talked until the morning. Then, on Sunday, I started saying goodbye. It took me until 3:00 in the afternoon. Everyone asked me if I had fun. I really didn’t know what to say. I’d been surrounded by what seemed to be five hundred of my closest friends. I played and ran games all weekend. People bought my books. And I danced with Discordia. I also told them that I was slightly disappointed that I’d survived DarkCon 2007 with my magician’s vow of celibacy intact. They assured me that next time I would not be so lucky.

I hate goodbyes, so I made them brief. I exchanged phone numbers, e-mails and other contact info. I got invited to another Phoenix convention. I scooted out before I got too emotional. The drive home began at 4:00. Six and a half hours.

At the two hour point, I called Jared. It was pitch black. In the middle of the desert, with white lights far behind me and red lights far ahead of me, surrounded by the inky darkness of the desert, I talked to him about the show, about remembering, about…

“HOLY SHIT!” I screamed into the phone.

“What?” Jared asked.

“THERE’S A GUY!” I told him. “RIGHT THERE! ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD!”

And there was. If I had my hand out the window, doing that wave thing you do with your hand in the wind, I would have smacked him, broken my arm and gotten into an accident. He was right there, on the side of the road, standing with his back to me, standing in what looked to be gray pajamas.

“HOLY SHIT!” I told him. “I just drove into a Twilight Zone episode!”

“Don’t stop,” he told me.

“I won’t.” Just then, coming into my headlights was a sign.

DO NOT STOP FOR HITCH HIKERS

I told Jared. “Listen to the sign,” he said. “Do not stop.”

“Holy shit,” I said. “I can’t believe that. I mean, he was standing right there on the side of the road. Just standing right there. Another five inches and I would have killed him. I can’t believe it. I mean…” pause “… hello? Jared? Are you there?”

He wasn’t there. My phone lost all signal.

In ten minutes, he called back. But for those ten minutes, I was expecting to see Rod Serling pop up in my back seat.

I made it home. I told Cowboy Ron about my adventures. I went to sleep. And this morning, I woke up and started writing. The first writing I’ve done in a long time.

I needed to dance with Discordia. Dangerous, I know. Painful, I know. An ordeal. But a cleansing one. Lifted some sleep from my eyes and reminded me of something I knew but had forgotten. Now, I’m in a strange place. I’m three feet above the ground. I can feel the wind whip along the crossroads.

I have a choice to make. By the end of the day, I will have made it.

The Crane
The daimyo of the Crane has always defined the right hand of the Emperor, and its current daimyo is no exception. Beautiful, clever, witty, and inventive, she is all the Crane could hope for in a champion. She is the epitome of dignity and grace, embodying all that the Crane stand for. At the same time, she is also incredibly ingenious, bringing innovations to the court that skirt on the edge of controversy. She even broke what many believe to be the most sacred tradition by not dying her hair silver, but maintaining her native black locks.

Politically, the Crane surpass all other Clans. Their ambassadors in Otosan Uchi run the courts. None may speak without permission from the Crane. The Emperor himself is so smitten with his mother’s Clan (his father was an Otomo), he gives them almost complete latitude in every affair.

But as the court glows bright with the Crane’s brilliance, to the South, her armies move steadily onward, claiming Crab lands as they go. They have come in sight with the Scorpion armies, but the two forces have not yet exchanged words, let alone arrows.

But moving armies are eclipsed by the resurgence of culture brought by the Crane Clan daimyo. The Crane even go so far as to call her “Lady Doji,” a right reserved for only the most distinguished of their Clan. Her mother called her “Shini,” but the courts whisper another name for her. A particular nickname that means “little cat.”

“Kachiko.”

The Dragon
The Crab call him, “His Enigmatic Exaltedness.” Sitting high in the mountains, the daimyo of the Dragon Clan–Togashi Hoju–has never been seen in court. His representative, the daimyo of the Mirumoto, takes his place instead.

As is usual, the Dragon have remained in their mountain keeps for the last ten years. Occasionally, members of the Mirumoto family attend court, but more often than not, the Dragon seat remains empty at the Emperor’s table.

The current daimyo of the Mirumoto has a curious reputation. His beauty is startling, making his absence at court all that much more intriguing. His last appearance was marked by a duel. It ended with the Mirumoto standing over a Kakita, nearly cut in half. The Mirumoto spoke only two words, both in hushed whispers. No-one is certain what he said, although Lady Doji certainly heard it: the words made her blush.

The name his mother gave him is Yoshihisa, but the court has come to call him “reflecting pool,” a nickname given to him by the daimyo of the Shosuro family: Hoturi.

The Lion
The Crane have done well in the Emperor’s court. From the Lion’s perspective, far too well. The Lion Clan is fit with a jeweled leash, crafted from Asahina hands. It is brilliant and beautiful and keeps the Emperor’s left hand seated and quiet.

“The Emperor has no enemies,” the Crane say. “What use is the Lion?” And with a Crane taking the mantle of Emerald Champion, the proud Clan has found fewer and fewer Akodo and Matsu magistrates.

With their influence shrinking, the Matsu daimyo has sent the armies of the Lion south: toward the lands of the Crab. As the Hida seek reinforcements to fill the gaps on the Kaiu Wall, their castles’ defenses grow thin. Ripe for the pickings.

But the Scorpion have the same plan, moving armies southward, gaining castles in a parallel line. The two armies have not clashed… yet.

As is always with the Lion, the Akodo and Matsu struggle for control of the Clan. Currently, the children of Matsu are dominant, but in a dangerous precedent, the daimyo is not a woman. He stands three feet taller than any other Matsu or Akodo, his hands large enough to hold a tetsubo in one hand. His eyes are mad and his devotion to the ancestors is unquestionable. Destiny runs in his blood. His name is Matsu Yakamo. And if he has to kill every last Crab to gain the strength he needs to smash the upstart Crane… he will.

The Phoenix
Far to the northwest, the castles of the Phoenix are not as isolated as they once were. The Emperor spends most of his winters in Phoenix lands, pouring the teachings of Shinsei. He spends hours with the sacred scrolls, filling his mind with the Little Master’s wisdom. This has brought much wealth and prestige to the Phoenix who are not entirely used to such attention. The Crane dare not speak against them, although rumors in the wind hint that some sort of distraction is being prepared to lure the Emperor away from the frozen Phoenix lands and back to the warm and friendly lands of the Crane.

The Phoenix Clan daimyo sees the Emperor’s interest as good fortune. An Emperor so obsessed with learning can only lead to an enlightened Empire. Of course, there may be another reason for the Emperor’s visits. It is said he is particularly taken with the daimyo’s daughter: a beautiful woman with emerald eyes. She serves as yojimbo to the Master of the Void and the courtiers say that her mastery of the sword is matched only by her beauty. Many samurai travel north for the sole purpose of challenging her. So far, none have met the challenge. She earned her name after protecting the Master of Air against an ambush of bakemono. The Elemental Master said that he never met a samurai who’s soul was so in tune with the elements. He called her “little wind rider.”

“Shiba Kamoko.”

The Scorpion
Even half-hidden by shadows and veils, the samurai of the Scorpion Clan cannot hide their concern. The Crane threaten their borders with bureaucracy, the Lion threaten their borders with force, and there are no allies to be found in the Crab. The Dragon remain aloof in the North and the Phoenix maintain their cold and distant vigil.

Adding to their difficulty, it seems the Emperor has no need for an underhand. His obsession with esoteric matters has left the Scorpion without funds to maintain their whisper networks. The Crane have all but overtaken the industries where the Scorpion excel, stealing vice and making it their own. They have turned the once secret and subtle dens of iniquity and made art houses out of them.

In Kyuden Bayushi, the young and untested daimyo sits on her throne. The only daughter of Bayushi Unugen, she never sought nor wanted her father’s love. She studied swordplay, certain her clever and beautiful brother would take her father’s place. But that was not to be. Her brother was killed in a duel by the beautiful Dragon they call “mirrored pool,” forcing her to inherit her father’s cold throne. It is said that her lands suffer because she plans revenge upon the Dragon called Hoturi… not because he killed her brother, but because he made her take his place.

Although her given name is Kameko, the Crane poets have started calling her a different name. A name from Rokugan’s distant past. A name from a story about a young girl who becomes a samurai to avenge her brother’s death. Of course, the irony was not lost on Kameko and when she speaks the name, she does so with a cruel and knowing smile.

“Hitomi.”