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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #60

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

GIFT HORSES

There’s an idiom that baffles me:

“Don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

If you knew nothing about this phrase, two things come to mind when hearing it for the first time:

  1. What the fuck is a gift horse?
  2. Why am I not supposed to look in its mouth?

The phrase is wisdom wrapped as a riddle. It means to be grateful for what you’ve just received. After all, it was so kind of someone to gift a horse (hence the term “gift horse”), and who are you to inspect this newly acquired animal for gum disease and tooth decay to check if the mangy thing might die in the next hour?

In other words: “It’s a horse! Oh my gosh, what a great gift! You should be grateful.”

It’s worth noting that “Don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth” is a phrase that isn’t in rotation much anymore. First of all, it’s downright confusing: Was there a time in history when horses were gifted at a rate that called for the invention of the term “gift horse”? On what occasions did people receive horses? And even if a horse was gifted to someone who, logically, made sense to receive one – say: a little girl who dreams of being an equestrian – was she supposed to happily take ANY horse as a gift?

***

COMPLETELY OPTIONAL SIDENOTE

Sidenote: If I’m given a horse as a gift, I’m absolutely going to inspect it. Supposing I wanted a horse at all, I don’t just want any horse—I would want one that might be useful.

Sidenote to the Sidenote: Who has spare horses to give away? No one that I know. And where does the guy giving away horses take any responsibility? What’s his motive? Not generosity, that’s for certain. Why give away a horse? The horse is probably decrepit and about to die; it’s no longer any use to this guy. Otherwise he’d KEEP THE F%&$ING HORSE!! So, instead, this stranger gifts a horse away to someone else instead of retiring it?? 

(Read: euthanize—which sounds cruel, but so is this practice of gifting away livestock, don’t you think?)

I could keep going, but I digress.

Of course, I’m complicating the intention of the idiom. The message is simply this: Don’t immediately inspect a gift for quality. It’s rude.

I mention the phrase because I think it holds up. We should be better Gift Receivers: practicing gratitude and grace when someone goes through the trouble of giving a gift.

Admittedly, it is tough to receive gifts gracefully today. Most people are not gifted gift-givers, and those that are talented at observing the hobbies and purchasing trends of others tend to receive mediocre responses for their thoughtful gifts.

There’s a reason for this, I think. Perhaps it is the current absence of horses as commonly exchanged goods, but the conundrum for why it is so hard to pick out gifts for others is precisely because of this overpopulation of Bad Gift Receivers.

Which, I’m convinced, all started with rectangular giftboxes of clothes.

***

GROWING INTO IT

My nephew is the best to buy gifts for. He’s 3, going on 4, and has so many loves: dinosaurs, Spider-Man, fishing poles, blocks and puzzles. The list keeps growing. Each birthday, holiday, what-have-you, is easy to come up with gift ideas for. I just think of what would add to his already bourgeoning imaginative world.

We all started at this way, with loves of superheroes, unicorns, racecars, and magical lands.

What happened?

It all started with a rectangular box unwrapped at holidays and birthday parties. These mysteriously wrapped presents was large enough to draw excitement at first, but once unwrapped became a symbol for disappointment. What was inside was never inspiring, never any fun.

Just the opposite: It was disgustingly practical. Useful, even.

Ick.

Have you ever seen more a defeated look on a child’s face than when they open up a box of clothes?

That’s because children, even without consciously understanding it, know that the gift of clothes is about forward planning. A child thinks, “How are clothes supposed to help beat the bad guy?” or, “This box could have been filled with LEGOs—why waste it on a winter coat that I didn’t even want!”

As the years go by, more rectangular boxes infiltrate the cache of gifts loved ones purchase.

“I found this on sale,” says a relative at a birthday, “and I know you’re outgrowing your dress clothes. You’ll need these for when you go to a wedding or a funeral. It’s a little big, but you’ll grow into it.”

“I found this sweater on the bargain rack a few weeks ago,” says a delusional aunt with an impaired fashion sense. “It’s 1,004% wool, but it’s a trending right now. You’ll grow into it.”

Years pass by and the clothes keep coming. Soon, you’re the one asking for clothes.

“Mom, I need a pea coat for this winter. Yeah, I don’t really play outside anymore, and all my friends are wearing pea coats now.”

Fast forward another ten years and you get a new sweater. That you bought yourself. To open at Christmas. As a gift that is technically from a relative who couldn’t figure out what to give you.

“There we go,” you say, extracting the sweater from the rectangular box. “1,004% wool. Everyone at work is wearing them. Thanks Dad, you know me so well.”

Who would have thought all of our childhood dreams could be neatly packed and forgotten into such rectangular boxes?

***

GIFT RECEIPTS

One Christmas, I unwrapped a special hardcover edition of Douglas Adams’ The Complete Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I already had the novels, and despite the glossy cover art, this was the same thing I already currently owned.

I didn’t take this gift well.

Image curtesy of thriftbooks.com

I smiled politely, mentioned that I had already read the books, loved them, and that, although this was a different printing, wondered if I could have the receipt to exchange it for something else.

What has always perplexed me about this gift is that I never exchanged it. The edition I received is still on my bookshelf, in its original packaging. Perhaps I unconsciously took it as a symbol: I remember the disappointment from those who knew of my love for Douglas Adams, had remembered that I mentioned those stories as influential for my own writings, and went through the trouble of picking out a rather expensive copy of all his collected works.

But instead, I took my gift horse and inspected every inch of its mouth with a flashlight, prodding and poking its gums with a pick, and had found it a mangy creature.

I have no recollection of what else I opened as a gift that Christmas. But I remember the edition of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

I remember throwing away the gift receipt, eventually.

***

GIFTING HORSES

Our philosophy of gift-giving mutates for those we love. 

It begins simply, joyfully: “What is this person into that would add to that world?”

And, yet, we somehow morph into this: “What makes the most practical sense to give someone that is practical and useful?”

Through this metamorphosis, we turn our loved ones into Bad Gift Receivers: Those who only measure the practicality of the gifts they receive. 

Is it any wonder, then, that the most common gift for adults is either cash, check, or gift cards? 

Money, uninspiringly, is the most practical gift of all—and also completely bereft of anything meaningful.

Today, the currency has changed. We don’t gift in horses anymore. What would we ever do with a horse, anyway?

I’m not sure, but it would be a gift to remember. Maybe.

Next time, I’ll take the horse as is.

***

  1. “Sleepwalkin’ – Daydreamin’ Version” by Better Oblivion Community Center, Pheobe Bridgers, Conor Oberst
  2. “Sit Right” by HONEYMOAN
  3. “Not A Go” by foamboy

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #59

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A CASUAL INTERROGATION SCENE

My favorite social anxiety is when someone asks how something has been going in my life

“You’re taking a summer class? How’s that going?”

Do you feel that oncoming panic? It feels like being in an interrogation room, and there are two detectives with arms folded, standing over the (weirdly) metal table. The detective playing the “bad cop” demands answers, while the other is the “good cop” detective, warm and welcoming, but that’s only because he, too, wants answers.

I’m sitting at the table, looking up, pleading my innocence. I have nothing to hide; I’m not even sure why I’m being questioned in this case. I honestly believe that if I explain everything I know, I’ll be let go, peaceably. So, I blurt out:

“I’m taking a psycholinguistics class, which is about the study of how the brain interprets written and spoken language.”

The detectives look on, both are professionally unhappy with my answer.

I keep going: “Umm, so there’s a debate about if the brain is modular or not when interpreting spoken language: Are we thinking about a sentence as a whole, or is syntax – what a sentence means – broken down into parts that make the meaning clear? And we do this all the time!”

I’m expecting something, anything positive from the detectives. I’m impressed by my explanation, which is a first. Considering the class, this is an elegant description of something that has taken me 6 weeks to understand.

Except, the bad-cop detective slams his hands on the metal table. “I’m going to give you one last chance to come clean about this. How’s the class going?”

I’m about to crack; I’ve just told them! “We also go over how best to teach kids to read, which the school systems aren’t doing. We should be teaching phonics! Phonics, damn it! That’s all I know! Really! You can read it yourselves, in numerous published studies. It’s a really cool class, I promise!”

The good-cop detective shakes his head with a mirthless sigh; he’s seen enough. He reaches for the door and says to his partner, “I’ll be outside when you’re finished.”

The bad-cop unclasps his sleeve and rolls it neatly up an obnoxiously muscled and tattooed forearm. Across his flesh is something that looks like a starfish. It looks faded, like the bad-cop detective personally pricked the tattoo into his own skin with an inkwell and a sewing needle. “You should know,” he says, “I didn’t want things to come to this.”

The dangling bulb light above the table grows brighter. I feel the cobra-quick grasp of the bad-cop detective’s fingers around my terribly outdated T-shirt. He grins and pulls his fist back…

I brace for four bulging knuckles to splinter my cheekbones on impact.

“Finished!”

I open an eye, unsure of what’s going on. “Finished?”

The good-cop detective opens up the door, ushering his partner outside. The bad-cop detective doesn’t even look at me as he says, “Yeah, we’re finished here. You can go.”

“But,” I plead, “what about my story? Don’t you want to hear the rest of it?”

“Save it,” says the bad-cop detective. “I was bored after the word ‘psycho’.”

“It was psycholinguistics,” I say. “You couldn’t listen through one word?”

“Get this kid out of here,” says the bad-cop detective to the guard outside. “His syntax is bothering me.”

***

WANTED

I’m terrible at telling a story about myself in person.

The scene you’ve just read, more or less, is how every conversation goes in which I’m asked about my personal life. I often see questions as interrogations, as though I’ve been arrested and placed in a room for police questioning. Even worse, it feels like I’m that suspect with nothing significant to add to the case. Which, isn’t a good experience for the suspect, either. 

Like any suspect, if you’re put through the trouble of being questioned, one would hope it’s because you had something meaningful to contribute. Why dislodge someone from their day and dismiss what they had to say? Nothing hurts a suspect more than not being found wanted, I find.

But this is how it feels when I’m asked things; it’s the twist ending to the interrogation scene: The detectives leave the suspect behind because he’s BORING them with details that don’t apply to the case.

Even for wanted suspects, this is embarrassing.

***

SOCIAL TIME OUTS

I’ve thought about why I’m terrible at talking about myself out loud. Over the course of this week, here’s what I’ve found:

When someone is asking about how life is going, they want to know how you – as a character – have faced some sort of adversity in the course of what you’re going through.

In other words, they want to know how YOU started to approach something, how YOU were met with an obstacle, how YOU figured out how to get past said obstacle, and, finally, how YOU are different from what happened. 

This makes for an enticing story. How do I know this? Because this is the literally the playbook of what makes all stories worth hearing.

Were you ever told a story that didn’t include a character you gave a shit about? Case closed.

The same applies for when saying something about yourself; ultimately, the story is about YOU going through change.

My mistake in answering the question, “How is your summer class going?” was in trying to describe the class. There was no ME in the story. That’s because I didn’t think talking about myself was interesting; the class must be what everyone wanted to know about. So, Instead, I covered the course materials, explained details about theories and modern approaches of psycholinguistics—and exactly NONE of my story had myself as a character going through change.

Can you imagine why faces glazed over with waning interest?

It’s during these times that I wish it was socially acceptable to call a “Time Out” during conversation. If a conversation is going too far off the rails, calling a “time out” to clarify the intention of a question would solve a lot of problems.

Time Out: “Oh, Robert, hey. Umm, I was asking about how you like the class, not what it’s about. That’s interesting, too, whatever psycholinguistics is, but I’m really just asking how you’re feeling about taking a class. Does that make more sense?  Ok, start over.”

Or,

Time Out: “When I ask about your day, you don’t have to list everything that happened in a 24-hour period of time. You can just tell me the things that meant something to you, personally. Ok, go on.

And,

Time Out: “Let’s assume when I ask what we should eat that I simply mean what the both of us would eat together, and not something weird that you consume in private and in the shadows of your home. Ok? Let’s try again.

Can you imagine? It would solve so much.

***

CASE SOLVED

I’ve heard that a good mystery story incorporates two things:

  1. It teaches about a new subject
  2. Great characters navigate that subject to solve something.

I think this is a great stencil for talking about oneself.

So, if I’ve learned anything from this week, here’s my revised response to the question, “How’s your summer class going?”

“It was one of the hardest classes I’ve ever taken. The thing about summer classes is that they are accelerated, so you get 6 weeks to fit it all in instead of the usual 15. I didn’t think I was going to be able to keep up. Four to eight hours of lectures about psychology, reading studies, two quizzes a week, plus assignments and group discussions on top of that. It was basically a part-time job.

What saved me, I think, was liking the material. I love learning about the mind. Did you know that the reason people struggle to talk about themselves is that human beings are wired for conversation? It’s true. Talking introduces more topics, so there isn’t a chance you’ll run out of something to say. If you’re monologuing, like I am, you run out of things to say. Do you know what the secret to better speaking is? Planning. Just taking your time and planning what you’re going to say.

That was a huge stress relief with the class, honestly. I thought I had to get everything right away, but after I learned that, I slowed down and it was a lot more fun. And by the end of the class, I was enjoying it. I got a 96%. The class average was a 78%. Not sure how I pulled that off, but it was awesome.”

**

Not a great answer, but much better than listing off things about the class, don’t you think? I like the person telling me that story a bit more, and I’d listen a little longer…supposing I get one or two TIME OUTS to change the subject with soon after.

I just finished the class and even I’m ready to move on from psycholinguistics for a while. Yeesh.

Time Out: Ok, you’ve read this far. What I really want to know with all of this is how you tell stories about yourself. Do you talk about things or about how you feel as a character about those things?

***

  1. “Colors” by Anaïs Cardot
  2. “BLOOM” by IAMDYNAMITE
  3. “Other Lover” by Mikaela Davis

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #58

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A DAY FOR MOST FATHERS

I’m not a father, but I try to imagine what Father’s Day feels like each year. Most notably, for my own dad who has seen the same holiday roll around for 36 years. While television commercials and website cookie ads shove every morsel of “it’s time to celebrate dad the RIGHT WAY” in the guilted faces of family members in search of gifts for dads, in the weeks preceding Father’s Day I happen to know that there will not be any celebrating on June 18. It was that way last year and the year prior, and I’ve often wondered why. Some dads like family togetherness and a hearty, grill-cooked meal. Others want a nifty gizmo to add to the household. And the rest just want peace and quiet.

But my dad, seemingly at this stage of fatherhood, wants nothing. At all.

Just normalcy.

Is it because there is so little to look forward to after 36 years of pretending to enjoy this nationally imposed holiday? Or did my sister and I ruin the novelty with gifts that were haphazardly scrounged for at the last minute? Or maybe the gifts were just too trivial to matter, like an electric tie rotator that has since been delivered to the dump, unused.

On a Sunday in June each year, I watch my dad endure the signed cards, feign joy as he eats the one meal of the year he didn’t have to prepare or cook himself, and then thankfully sigh as the day winds down with the usual routine of whatever On-Demand television has on offer. Then, he heads to bed, dreaming about the normal flow of his life that will resume the following morning that was so rudely interrupted.

On Monday, it’s as though Father’s Day never existed. Flash! A Men in Black Neuralyzer wipe of the previous day’s charades.

Courtesy of Columbia Pictures

Just once, or maybe a bit more than that, I’d like Father’s Day to mean a bit more for my dad.

So, I bought him a pen.

***

THE FATHER’S DAY GIFT EQUATION

Ok, before you think this gift was a panic purchase (also true), it wasn’t. This wasn’t just any pen. It was the same pen model that I had been using for the past six months: the Pilot G2 Limited Matte Black Edition, the one with a squishy “Doctor Grip” of silicon near the tip of the metal barrel. 

Courtesy of Amazon

Not only is it a good pen, but I happen to know that my dad LOVES pens. He takes them as “souvenirs” everywhere he goes (which is the nice way of saying he takes cheaply branded office supplies from banks and stores that aren’t tethered to kiosks or watched with surveillance cameras). His desk drawer is filled to the brim with every make and model pen from the past 20 years. 

Looking at the rows and rows of pens in the office supply aisle of the grocery store the day before Father’s Day, I imagined a new premium pen was what my Dad needed.

The thoughtful gift giving equation in my head went thus:

Something Dad Likes + Gifting Something Similar BUT Unexpected = Happy Dad Moment on Father’s Day.

Therefore:

Dad Loves Pens + The Pilot G2 Limited Edition is a Great Pen = Successful Father’s Day Gift

Based on the numbers, the pen was bound to be a smash hit. And I did it last minute and for just under 10 Dollars. I was quite proud of myself.

Until I was usurped by my mother.

***

THE GIFT OF GIVING BAD GIFTS

I find in the moments when someone is opening your very bad and unimpressive gift, there is a premonition that things are about to go poorly. 

My mother was in the process of handing my dad his gift in the living room, before anyone came for dinner. She did this purposely since it was a special gift, one that would mean a lot to him. She had told me about it for weeks, by then, how nervous she was to buy expensive things for my dad. But she couldn’t resist; she had found the perfect thing to give him. 

Courtesy of Amazon

My dad had recently fallen back in love with old John Deere model tractors. My mother researched his lists of models already in his possession, an elaborate collection of tractor toys ranging back 80 years. She had gone through great pains to purchase this very rare tractor: the John Deere 1/16th 620 with 555 Plow Precision Tractor Toy. 

In the living room, he opened the box.

Watching my dad open up something that is actually surprising and valuable to him is a like watching a farmer find a meteorite on his property that has just fallen from the sky. He took a long look at whatever it was in front of him, put his hands on his hips, stared at the object, and kept muttering, “Well, look at that.”

He had the same reaction when I gifted him an iPhone SE a few Christmases ago: He looked over the phone with stark confusion—not because he didn’t recognize the gift as an iPhone, but because he was confounded that something so expensive and needed should come into his possession outside of his own funds. He held his new iPhone like it was a strange alien relic that ought not belong to humankind.

Meanwhile, I stood off to the side and watched as my dad scratched his head over the surprise gift my mother had handed him. He appeared to be combing through dormant emotions such as joy and flattery that had been little accessed over the years.

It was then that I remembered the equation: “Oh, the pen!”

I retrieved it from its resting place and reentered the living room.

A few things to note: I didn’t wrap it. I’m terrible at wrapping and had run out of gift bags to conceal my lacking skillset. So, like a toddler proud of his scribbled crayon drawing, I handed my dad the pen still in its packaging and said, “Happy Father’s Day!”

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. And finally four…

“What’s this?” he asked, thinking his son had just given him a pen as a Father’s Day gift.

“Your gift,” I said, acknowledging that I had, indeed, just given him a pen as a Father’s Day gift.

“Oh. Cool,” he said.

“It’s the one I’ve been using. I thought you would like it,” I said.

My dad continued looking over the John Deere Tractor on the couch, digging his fingers into the box to extract it from its squeaky Styrofoam casing. “I’ll have to test it out later.”

As in: It will look great on the pile of pens. In the desk drawer. Like all the others.

I grabbed the new pen and put it on the countertop, where I expected it to remain as a relic of Father’s Days past.

“I’ll get to it,” my dad said behind me as he wrestled with packaging, the Styrofoam squeaking to birth the cherished John Deere tractor into the world.

I went upstairs, hoping for a text from my girlfriend. Nothing.

***

SCHEDULE TANTRUMS

I’d argue what I’m about to write isn’t related to this past Father’s Day because it would be too embarrassing if it were true. But, since it is also a little true, I suppose it is necessary to explain.

To make a long story short, I was disappointed that I didn’t deliver on a better gift for my dad. It was the lack of thought and effort I put into getting something for him, I think, and not how impressive my gift was compared to my mother’s. Still, it irked me. 

It irked me all the more when I hadn’t heard from my girlfriend for most of the day.

That’s when the irking mutated into a schedule tantrum.

I think we’ve all had schedule tantrums to an extent, but I’ll define it here clearly:

A Schedule Tantrum is when we expect others to behave as we see fit and on our own biased schedules.

When someone doesn’t text in the timeframe we feel they should; when someone doesn’t show up “on time”, or if someone doesn’t act predictably as they should have…we go berserk. We then throw tantrums, behave like children, and all without asking a single question to find out what’s going on with this other person. We’re just mad at them for not anticipating our secret and silent needs, which we perceive to be objective and true.

I checked my phone again. No reply. The tantrum was building.

***

MILKSHAKE

My girlfriend had been camping with her roommate and was to stop on her way home to see me. She was up north, in a place without cell reception, which was irksome enough, but then there still wasn’t any plan.

And I had made one, in secret, in my head: The plan was for her to tell me her plan. And I had yet to hear of a plan, which wasn’t the plan. My plan.

(You can see how this is idiotic in hindsight)

By the time she and her roommate were on their way to meet me, I was long past annoyed. Didn’t they know they were running behind? Didn’t they know that they should have visited sooner at night? I knew which decent hour they should have visited and it was getting late. Didn’t they know this?

Of course, you can predict how things went when we met that night: a classic cold front of short visits and unsaid things, mostly on my end.

When I arrived home from meeting my girlfriend, I sat down with my parents and told them about all the grievances I had.

I said things like, “How could she not check in sooner?” and “It’s not like I can just sit around all day.”

“Why, did you have anything else you wanted to do today?” my dad asked.

I grunted. That was beside the point. He was right. But this was also beside the point.

The point was that even though my girlfriend ended up visiting town like she said she would, things weren’t copasetic after she left. She knew I was unhappy about how the day went—she had seen the adult throwing a schedule tantrum.

Ding. Dong.

Suddenly, the doorbell.

I opened the front door of the house and there was my girlfriend. She was supposed to have been on her way home. That was 40 minutes ago. Here she was, standing on the doorsteps with a chocolate milkshake from Culver’s in her hands.

“Hi,” she said. “This is for you.”

I took the milkshake. “Thanks.”

“I just wanted to make sure everything was ok.”

We kissed. I said yes, even though it would take a few days to recognize that I was acting like a child in this moment.

She left, finally heading home with her roommate. I entered the living room with the chocoloate milkshake just delivered to me.

“Where did you get that?” my dad asked.

“My girlfriend. She just handed it to me.”

“After all that today, she just hands you a milkshake?”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Well, doesn’t this make for a grand Father’s Day!” my dad said with a wide grin.

This was just as shocking as the milkshake. “Why?”

He shrugged. He took a pen from his pocket, a Pilot G2 Black Matte Special Edition pen, and clicked it a few times. “You just never know what surprises you’ll get.”

All three of us shared the milkshake, my parents flattered that someone would go to such lengths to see if her tantrum-throwing boyfriend was ok. I remember my dad laughing a lot while spooning melted gobs into his mouth.

Since Father’s Day, I’ve thought about why my dad found such delight from a late night milkshake delivery, and the best I can make of it is this:

Fathers are most fond of those things that they have helped create, purposefully or not, in this world.

In this instance, he saw his son, aged 34 and still blind to his toddler tantrum tendencies, receive a gesture of kindness from someone who appears to very much care about him. I think the sly smile was because he recognized, more than I ever could at the time, that the milkshake was the unexpected gift that mattered most that day.

A gift that wasn’t even meant for him.

“You two can fight all you want,” my dad said between spoonfuls of milkshake. “So long as she brings more milkshakes.”

He clicked his new pen. “I should write that one down.”

***

  1. “Paresthesia” by Wild Ones
  2. “Losing My Mind” by Montaigne
  3. “Thunder In The City” by Future Generations

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #57

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A WEEK OF COMMANDMENTS

The title above is misleading because I haven’t any commandments to share with you. Instead, the past week has consisted of a series of events that made me think, “Oh, I should come up with a rule for that.” 

Like all the rules I’ve ever come up with to govern decision-making in my life, they are all bound to be ignored and abandoned within a calendar week. In the meantime, I thought I’d share what little lessons I’ve developed this past week before they are forgotten.

With these commandments, I implore you to read this happy little Weekly Post-Ed #57.

Enjoy!

***

SERIOUSLY, WHEN DO YOU POST WEEKLY POST-EDS?

For those who keep asking, here is the official schedule for ALL FUTURE Weekly Post-Eds:

  • Ideally, they are published on Wednesdays. 
  • And sometimes Thursdays.
  • Very seldom on Fridays. 
  • By Saturday, I’d start to worry if it gets posted at all, but it’s still possible.
  • Sunday? Who posts on Sundays? No, out of the question…unless I’m running very far behind. Otherwise: No/Maybe.
  • Mondays are technically the next week. I wouldn’t post on a Monday. Unless I do. But yuck, I’d rather not.
  • Tuesdays are considered “early” and as part of the next Weekly Post-Ed. That being said, does the internet post things early? What proactive operation posts things before deadlines? Go ahead: Name me one.
  • Then we’re back to Wednesdays. Ideally, WPs get published on Wednesdays…

Look: as attractive as the “consistent internet writer” identity is to me, sometimes I wonder if the internet-scape is far past the saturation point of information and entertainment—sometimes, I’d rather not babble unless I have something interesting to write about. I appreciate that I have dedicated readers, but in absence of a new Weekly Post-Ed, I would suggest going for a walk outside. Or, really, anything besides perpetually absorbing more things from people looking to be heard on the internet.

TL;DR A new Weekly Post-Ed will be up sometime within a calendar week. So, take a breath, get some air, and hey, read at your leisure when it’s up. I’ll post on Twitter and Instagram (yes, I have those, too) when they’re fully cooked.

Alright, now let’s get to the thick of it.

***

CARRYING TOO MANY THINGS

“If this schedule is true,” I hear you contemplating, complete with wrinkled brow and rubbing of chin, “then where was last week’s Weekly Post-Ed?”

A good question with a defeating answer: I wrote too much and found it unpublishable.

As a visual comparison for what I mean, I invite you to refer to the image below:

While Weekly Post-Eds are kept to about 1000 words, this last week’s WP was eclipsing 3000 and counting. It was a bit much to cram into a single post. 

In an idealized world for how I write for my website, I imagine that I carefully plan each Weekly Post-Ed with whimsical sections that are both personal and funny but are also just long enough to be interesting and worth spending the time to read.

In real life, however, I find that I cram everything I can into a single task without regard for it being too much at one time.

Case in point: Collecting laundry this past week.

I caught myself pausing by my desk because I spotted three dirty coffee mugs that needed to be taken downstairs and placed by the kitchen sink. This isn’t remarkable except that I was carrying a laundry basket full of dirty clothes that weighed as much as a dog kennel occupied by two small, napping Dobermans. Needless to say, it never occurred to me to take TWO SEPARATE TRIPS, so I hoisted the laundry basket full of clothes against the wall where I pinned it in place with my body, I then hooked my fingers through the three coffee mug handles in one hand, and slipped my other arm underneath the laundry basket (also just as topsy-turvy as a kennel with two small, napping Dobermans) to balance down two flights of stairs. 

(I can sense you’re ahead of the story by now, so I’ll cut to the finale.)

In short: the dirty clothes, like two small, napping Dobermans spotting a squirrel, sprung from laundry basket as I lost equilibrium and spilled all over the floor. I stumbled over a tangle of jeans, which led to one of the mugs flinging free from my fingers and went tumbling down the carpet stairs to, finally, crash into the drywall of the landing. Luckily, it was a Yeti mug, which meant the mug itself was fine, but the impenetrable stainless-steel mass cratered the drywall even further. The coffee mug was saved, the drywall was not.

And all of this was easily avoidable.

You would think the lesson I must have gleaned about carrying too much at once occurred to me immediately, but it did not. Alas, my first thought after picking up was this: “I could have balanced one of the coffee mugs on top of the laundry. I’ll remember that for next time. And what better time to find a stairway landing decoration to permanently place in front of the cratered drywall!”

So, why didn’t last week’s WP get finished on time?

Coffee mugs and laundry baskets.

***

NEW RULES FOR MAKING RULES

Rule #1: I shouldn’t be making rules.

Rule #2: Except when I do.

Rule #3: In which case, there should be a grace period to test out these rules.

Rule #4: If the rules can’t be followed, then they should at least be laughed at and enjoyed for attempting to make sense of a world that makes little sense to begin with.

Rule #5: In response of these rules, please refer to Rule #1 for further guidance.

BONUS:

Rule #6: Last week’s Weekly Post-Ed gets the chance to live on as an editorial that’s due for release in the coming week. So, be on the lookout for something new (finally) and also interesting.

Rule #7: Unless it isn’t. In which case, please refer to Rule #5.

***

  1. “Tell Me What You Want” by Caroline Rose
  2. “Sorry Like You Mean It” by HONEYMOAN
  3. “DAYLIGHT DOOM” by MOTO BANDIT

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #55

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

REST IN PEACE, ORIGINAL WEEKLY POST-ED #55

Here lies a Weekly Post-Ed that died too young. It was full of great ideas and whimsy, full of great experiences and bits that were sure to delight. However, its life was cut tragically short when draft after draft turned into absolute nostril cancer that would soon tumor the internet with more unnecessary badness. So, in honor of this most recent three-week gap in Weekly Post-Eds, let us now take a moment of silence and honor that which never was.

*Clears throat*

*A polite nod at someone across from you who accidentally made eye contact, too*

*A graceful glance at a wristwatch for how much time has gone by*

Thank you. Let us now proceed…

***

BREAKING THE ICE, AGAIN

What I had not anticipated with writing Weekly Post-Eds again were all the setbacks. Low self-confidence, a lack of material, schedule constraints, performance pressure, fatigue—one thing after the other. The past three weeks were a crude reminder that just because we envision a successful result doesn’t mean that is how things will turn out.

I’ve written four completely different drafts for this entry. The first draft was about an opera I attended for the first, the second about Mother’s Day, and this most recent draft I spent harpooning my own ability to write this damned weekly offering—which, in hindsight, makes  sense, linearly, with the fallout of the first two drafts. 

What you are currently reading is the fourth complete rewrite.

Yup.

I think the problems began once I set an expectation for how this Weekly Post-Ed should read like. I was expecting a plethora of new experiences to magically sprinkle into a Weekly Post-Ed stew—a dash sharp satire here, a sprinkle of autobiographical whimsy there…And by Wednesday afternoon, I could copy/paste my charming thoughts and opinions into Wordpress and bask in the majesty of another dish well served to the internet.

Is anyone actually inspired by cooking shows where all the ingredients are pre-measured in bowls and all the charming host has to do is toss it all into an even bigger bowl to cook to perfection? The heartbreaking part is understanding that, no, the special organic paprika blend that was used in the all-so-delicious recipe is tucked away in an obscure aisle at the grocery store, and that the checkout line is twenty miles long, and the sun is about to go down, which begs the question of how much time there is to cook anyway, and—

There’s a terrible miscalculation going on—what we think is easy and effortless takes a lot more than we think.

And it sucks.

It is now three weeks after I pictured myself triumphantly posting on my website. At this point, I’m publishing this draft not because it is better than the others that came before it, but out of a necessity to publish something instead of nothing.

Sometimes when we get stuck, it’s hard to recognize the path to get unstuck is to stop running circles.  In this case, circles of indecisiveness (which raises questions about the shape of the running in a circle if the issue is insecurity—but perhaps I’m overthinking that one). Yes, I’m afraid of this draft being bad. It’s also a bit late in the process to develop an aversity to attempting new things. It’s concerning that the lessons we often learn in life are ones that come around frequently.

I had forgotten that the point of all this was to experiment and try things. And, as a regressing learner of worldly matters, I have to ask: What is the point in avoiding looking like an idiot, exactly?

I can’t think of a reason. I’ve run out of people to actively seek impressing.

Until that list gains new names, I’ll have to settle for the truth.

Which, I think, is the nature of writing autobiographically—it isn’t important to be anything other than honest about your story.

Even the foibles of trying to put together a measly piece of website content.

So, here it is. Finally. Out the door, being read (hopefully). Next week, there will be new things to tell.

Hang in there with me. We’ll get there together.

***

  1. “Dirt Face” by Peach Face, Not Charles
  2. “Everything Goes (Wow)” by BROODS
  3. “Orpheus” by The Beaches

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #52

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

TEN THINGS

This week’s entry marks an entire year’s worth of Weekly Post-Eds. It’s quite the milestone. To commemorate the 52nd entry, I made a list of things I learned whilst writing them. Without further ado, here’s 10 Things I Learned Writing Weekly Post-Eds.

1. I’m Not Sure I Learned Anything at All.

It’s true. When thinking about this list, my first thought: what was it that I was supposed to have learned with all of this? The process for writing Weekly Post-Eds is the same as it has ever been: Frantically jotting down whatever smorgasbord of stuff I could think of and cut what isn’t working. That’s about it. I’m sure there was something meaningful or poignant I was supposed to learn throughout this process, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Which leads me to the second item on this list:

2. [LEAVE THIS SPACE BLANK FOR SOMETHING MEANINGFUL]

I’m sure that meaningful lesson will occur to me at some point. I’ll reserve this space for when I think of it.

Oh: maybe something about sex comment bots?

3. Failure Leads to Somewhere

This is more in line with my belief that writing is the only pure form of magic out there, but despite weeks where it appeared there wasn’t anything to write about, merely sitting down to write something led to Weekly Post-Eds getting written. It was oftentimes awful material, and painful to write, but something always appeared on the page despite the critic in my head lambasting the quality of the words.

If you’re failing, remember: At least failure gets you somewhere else.

You may still be failing, but at least you’re in a new spot to do so. I always enjoyed the change of scenery.

4. Never Make Promises You Can’t Keep

I’m a great planner, not so much a doer. So, when one is confronted with the prospect of writing creatively on a personal website in order to entertain, one wants to dream about all that it can ever be. Projects are conceived, and the end result of finally showing them to the world was addictive to think about.

You know, sans the actual hard work to complete said projects.

Long story short: I often announced projects that weren’t close to being finished without following through. Half-finished essays promised within a week’s time, and entire ideas for projects (such as a series chronicling all my online dating adventures) never materialized. Of course I wanted to come through on projects and bigger ideas; I just tripped over bad habits at every turn: Procrastination, rationalizing myself out of any responsibility to readers, even if their numbers were so few.

A favorite rationalization was this: ” Hardly anyone comes to the website anyways,” which meant the few readers I had would leave with relatively little fuss, or, as it did happen, never say anything. This was a pleasant defense mechanism…until I realized how I was treating anyone who happened upon my website. It was a huge punch to the face of anyone visiting in hindsight.

It turns out the solution to all of this is not to make promises you can’t keep. So, until things are ready, my lips are sealed. 

Either that or I hire someone with a very critical stare to guilt me into working harder.

Nah.

5. Writing About Personal Stories Was the Most Enjoyable

In this quest to stand out from other writers on the internet, I struggled to come up with what differentiated my writings. I found that writing about personal stories was the closest I’d get to solving the riddle. Not only did I enjoy telling embarrassing stories about myself and sharing them with whomever might read them, but strange things happened frequently in my daily life and were easiest to write about. I had a constant stream of oddball memories and strange encounters during my weeks, of which there is still more to unpack. I’m excited to keep writing about more episodes from my past in the future.

You should definitely come back for that. It’s going to be a great time.

(Unless I just broke Number 4 from this list and promised something I won’t adhere to…)

Nah.

6. Comment Bots Are Aggressively Sexual

Most of the comments I received and moderate on this website are from bots, sadly. As far as the internet underbelly is concerned, I’m inexperienced in recognizing all the different types of phishing schemes out there. However, I’m amazed by this wave of bot comments that are overtly sexual towards content creators. Are comments such as, “I want you come over and f*** me, right now!” supposed to warrant some kind of desperate reaction to click on a link?

Secretly, I was flattered that anything I wrote evoked any sexual reaction, even if from a bot consisting of a few lines of code. If you can pique the sexual interest of some defunct phishing program, you know that you’ve made in your heart of hearts.

7. Don’t Come Up With Large Numbered Lists When You Don’t Have The Material Yet

This lesson occurred to me while making this list. Sorry, it’s a fresh one.

This is more of a lesson for me, not you.

Anyway, what else…

8. Try Not to Write About People in a Way You Can’t Defend

On a few occasions, I wrote about real people in my life. It was likely a story or conversation that later I embellished (creative license, they used to call it), or portrayed them unflatteringly. In each case, I heard back from someone specific who was not pleased with what I had written.

And I felt awful: Not because I didn’t like what I wrote, but because I used their words or actions for entertainment’s sake.

If someone enjoys what is written about them, it’s easier to dip into the well of real-life experiences without thinking twice–they liked it, all is well. However, when you receive negative feedback or that this person was embarrassed, it hurts as a writer. The point is to entertain, to use the guise of someone in order to reveal something greater than the sum of its parts. Sometimes, you can’t help but write in a negative light, no matter what the intention.

I’ve since learned to weigh seriously if I should write about someone who is bound to read about themselves.

I’ve considered complete strangers, too. But they often say very little about my having written about them.

9. Don’t Be Afraid to Change Your Mind

Along with the previous item on this list, there were times when I wrote about something from my week and I realized I no longer agreed with my take a few days later. At the beginning of writing Weekly Post-Eds, I’d struggle with deleting sections because it was difficult to think up replacement material. I’ve found that it’s more important to evolve with your ideas than stick to what was safer to write about.

People change, so should your writing and ideas about life. It’s a sign of being sane…to a degree, anyways.

10. Was Any of This Worth It?

Without specific numbers, this website is relatively niche and unknown. After 2.5 years of attempting to write content and garnerng a handful of loyal readers over that span (my mother included: She’ll be reading this later; she’s my favorite of my readers), I’ve often questioned why I did any of this. Was the point to become a successful commercial writer? Was the intention to make a name for myself in the freelance industry, or to write stories and build a small Patreon community to pay for my writingly lifestyle? Over the course of 2.5 years, I’ve considered all kinds of solutions to these problems: Either step up my social media/marketing game, produce a hell of lot more content, or bust.

And yet, each time I’ve thought about this path, I sink back in my chair, and retch inside. There’s something about this model to “internet success” that is inherently against why I made all of this to begin with.

I’m not here to push my prodigious writings or become famous (my god, I could care less about that). I’m here to chronicle what my life is like, a living journal/record in the wrapping paper of a guy who likes to make snazzy graphics to go along with the writing. 

That’s. About. It.

And maybe stumble across something profound from time to time.

To really know if any of this was worth it, you’ll have to answer for yourself. Perhaps in the comments below.

And when I later read, “I want you to come over and f*** me, right now”, from a fresh batch of sex bot spam in my comments inbox, I’ll know it was all worthwhile. 

I like to keep my readers titillated. Even the fake ones.

***

  1. “Rose Colored Glasses” by The Collection
  2. “Never Been Better (feat. Orla Gartland)” by Half-Alive
  3. “Dressed to Kill” by The Wombats

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #51

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

KUDOS DONE QUICK

Image via gamesdonequick.com

By the time you read this, Awesome Games Done Quick 2023 will be halfway over. If you don’t know about Awesome Games Done Quick, here’s the TL;DR: it’s a 7-day video gaming marathon packed full of speedruns raising money for charity (for this event: The Prevent Cancer Foundation). Old favorites ranging from Super Mario Bros. 3 to Crash Bandicoot 3: Warped, as well as newer games such as Stray and Pokémon Legends: Arceus, are beaten in record time to the delight of tens of thousands watching online, and all for a great cause.

For me, the joy of watching AGDQ isn’t so much about basking in the nostalgia of games from childhood, but of watching something completely new. There’s bound to be something you’ve never seen before at AGDQ. So far in the marathon, the biggest surprise was a game called Fashion Police Squad, a DOOM-esque shooter where a police officer fires a fashion gun and warrants justice to all the “fashion crimes” done in his city: Men wearing baggy suits and tourist dads with socks with sandals around the city, and so much more. The lighthearted and humorous gameplay made it an instant favorite of the event.

Of course, the most notable aspect about AGDQ 2023 was the brave and necessary stance of event organizers in response of two measures recently passed in the state of Florida, the seminal location of AGDQ for over a decade.

In a statement on the GDQ website, the reasons for canceling the live event in favor of an online-only format shortly before this year’s event were thus:

“While we would love to return in-person, we’ve determined that to provide a safe and welcoming event to all, it was best that we move away from our originally planned location in Florida.

Given the state’s continued disregard for COVID-19’s dangers (including anti-mandate vaccination policies) and an increased aggression towards LGBTQ+ individuals, including the law colloquially known as “Don’t Say Gay,” we do not believe it is a safe place for our community at this time…”

The full statement has since been removed from the official GDQ website due to the site’s overhaul while covering the event, but the full statement can be found on Kotaku’s website here.

It’s the kind of decision that makes me proud to tune into this event year after year. GDQ has always been a beacon for the gaming community and has since shown support through action that community matters more than politics and taking a financial loss. This year in particular, I’m proud to donate.

There are three days left to check out the marathon (outside of the quick uploads from the GDQ YouTube Channel in case there’s something you missed!), but here is a short list of runs I’m still looking forward to:

***

CONSPIRACY THEORIES LITE

The more I continue this reentry into college, the more I dislike the idea of the English Major. I’m nearly through with this first week of classes of the semester and am reading from three different sources: A Norton Anthology, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, and a novella called Faces in the Crowd by Valeria Luiselli. 

If that sounds like a lot, it is.

Not because of the reading (which, if you’re an English Major like I am, you better like it) but because I’m tired of this rapid-fire “Hey, diagnose this thing you just read! Immediately!”

After every thirty pages of a novella I haven’t read before, I’m asked to scour pages, looking for themes and symbols as though I’m Robert Langdon from The Da Vinci Code. Never mind the rest of the novel; we can’t be bothered to finish it before finding MEANING. And once we find MEANING, all will be right with the world.

Not really, but maybe the stakes in an undergrad course feels reminiscent to that. Personally, I’d rather finish a new novella and digest it for a second. This process of diagnosing a longform piece of writing every 30-pages feels like stopping a movie every twenty minutes, turning to the person next to you, and asking “What do you think the movie is about?”

How about we just finish the goddam movie first?

The art of literary criticism is very boring, and more than I’d like to comment on with this Weekly Post-Ed. And if you’re asking, “Then, why be an English Major?” Well, seeking a degree to read more stories has its downsides. It’s a bit like having children—you love them more than you can express…but dealing with shit is just part of the job. Literary criticism can be a way of better engaging with stories, but most often criticism is show-and-tell for academic types. Where else can a critic say without inducing comas in a public place, “Hey, I know the REAL reason the author wrote this book!”

Literary criticism, really, is just Conspiracy Theory Lite—less sugar and calories than the real thing.

Of course, if you informed the author or writer of your genius piece of criticism, they would probably shrug, smile kindly, and say, “That’s fun. Now, please go away. I have a life to live.”

I assume I’m one of those “real” writers when I leave class each day. I shake off the literary critic I pretend to be, put away the ceaseless conspiracy theories that are somehow college credited, and I go home to write something.

Hopefully it’s something good. Most of the time it’s not.

You just hope that, eventually, something decent gets on the page.

That’s my own working conspiracy theory, anyways.

***

  1. “This City Reminds Me of You” by APRE

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #50

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

ABOUT THAT POKÉMON ARTWORK…

Let’s get it out of the way quickly: I’ve been away for a while. The reason? I could name about a dozen – petty and not so petty – but the important thing is getting back into it.

One thing I will make clear is that this Weekly Post-Ed is going to be rusty.

I mean it. I haven’t written one in over a month. It’s like a guitarist that hasn’t plucked the strings in a while—those first few notes are going to be all over the place. The F-sharps, and D-flats are likely to tinge the ears something awful–ouch.

Case in point: The Pokemon-inspired artwork above. It’s the logo of Pokémon Scarlet, which isn’t only old news, it’s not even what this Weekly Post-Ed is about. I made it a month ago and never used it. I had a whole list of thoughts about my play-through of Pokémon Scarlet, what I thought worked and didn’t work (including that epileptic inducing frame rate–blek!), but I’m not going to get into all that.

Nope.

I’m including the graphic – something I should have used but didn’t at the time – because its a prime example of how I’ve felt about starting the New Year.

***

A LATE(R) NEW YEAR’S MESSAGE

This Weekly Post-Ed began a week ago, before the New Year, before my deadline of this past Monday came and went with a self-esteemed thud. I had written something reminiscent of all the other New Year’s messages that exist on the internet: Fondly recanting all the things I learned from the past year, my hopes for the future.

Then something strange happened: I stopped writing. For several days.

Oh, it wasn’t out of laziness. I had a deadline, a renewed commitment to updating this website, and the draft was nearly finished. Each morning, I sat at my computer, opened the draft, and thought about the fixes I could make. I figured in a day or two, I would be finished. I would smile knowing this Weekly Post-Ed wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be the start of something.

I just had to type the remaining words.

Only, I didn’t.

Each day it was the same: wake up, sit down, write nothing, rinse, repeat. I was seriously concerned. It’s not that I didn’t want to write this Weekly Post-Ed, I just couldn’t. I felt physically incapable, like I suffered a bout of carpel tunnel and the usual way my fingers and wrist flexed were no longer under my control. There was a numbness, a state of nothing.

By the end of the third day, a thought crept to the surface of my mind, something I didn’t want to admit. Then, I wrote a line in all caps in my draft:

“I JUST WANT TO DO NOTHING.”

This struck me as surprisingly true. Nothing at all? After months of skipping out on writing something serious, I still wanted to do nothing? How much more time did I need to get my act together? It’s not like the rest of the world wasn’t planning something grand for the New Year

That’s when I searched online and that is PRECISELY what I found.

There wasn’t the usual smattering of dream vacations and goal-setting that permeated across social media; it was a message of growing despair. I read messages of hopelessness and directionless-ness. I read about those who had had enough to the constant fight to come up with a better, gleaming version of themselves for the upcoming year.

I read messages of wanting it all to stop.

I couldn’t help but agree.

For the first time in my adult life, I didn’t want to think about how this year would be better than the last. I didn’t care about losing weight or publishing more stories, about finding that hidden hobby that liberated my life of all responsibilities, or finding true love or reconnecting with old friends. Deep down, I wanted to do those things, but even more than that I wanted to stop.

Just stop.

I took a moment to consider why. There were the usual suspects: Cultural stressors like a never-ending fight with variants of Covid, the political landscape looking more like the Land of Mordor, a constant connection to the internet and, as a result, constant advertising. From the uptick of pop psychology coming up with another term for what was wrong with me and my childhood, to the constant selling of lifehacks that will boost my creative output/personal happiness/financial security if only I use these easy tips—

–And now Jeremy Renner is in the ER because of a snowplowing accident??

You know what, I just can’t right now.

Let’s do this first:

***

CELESTE OVERHAUL

Photo by celestegame.com

“It was time for a new look to the website and there’s no better wintry design than the game Celeste from developer Matt Makes Games. Not only is the snowy mountain asthetic of Celeste perfect to ring in the New Year, but the themes of the game resonate deeply with me currently. For those that don’t know, the game stars a girl named Madeline who summits Celeste Mountain in order to deal with her anxiety and depression. She meets many friends along the way, including a dark version of herself that she must confront. It’s a game about facing who we are, what we’re capable of, and through the magical gameplay and music that only video games can juxtapose.

Attached below is the art I made for the background, complete with flying strawberries bobbing around Celeste Mountain in the background. I hope you enjoy the new look!

Drop a comment below with your thoughts on Celeste!“

Sincerely,

WHAT REMAINS OF THIS ORIGINAL WEEKLY POST-ED #50 DRAFT

***

A MORE LATE(R) CONCLUSION

I’ve wrestled with a message for over a week now that this is what I have to show. It’s not much at all. It’s all the angst and disbelieving cries from a world that says of the New Year, “Do more? Really? Well, why don’t you get on your knees and suck my…”

You get it.

We all get it.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m not quite ready to write my New Year’s message yet. I’m not even ready to acknowledge the blitz of news from the first five days of 2023 yet.

A Buffalo Bills player collapsed on the field after a tackle??

*Insert brain numbing buzz*

At this point, my message is to exist. Consistently. And to show up.

What more is there considering the circumstances?

***

  1. “Void” by Crystal Glass
  2. “Cobain” by Abhi The Nomad & shane doe
  3. “The Core” by Babe Club

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

Jeremy Renner is really in the ER because of a snowplow accident? 2023…just why?

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Weekly Post-Ed #49

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

This Weekly Post-Ed is entirely about the recent PS5 exclusive God of War Ragnarök. If that’s not your thing or you are averse to spoilers, then I invite you to enjoy the rest of the known internet until you are ready to read about it. Much love as always, and feel free to click around the website all you like.

Cheers!

GOD OF LORE

The recent reboot of the God of War series by Santa Monica Studios has been the most comprehensive representation of Norse Mythology in decades. I would position God of War in front of the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s rendition of the titular Thor and the Norse pantheon, as well as Neil Gaiman’s beloved American Gods series.

I spent the past month watching a playthrough of God of War Ragnarök, a roughly 22-hour marathon for the main storyline. The immensity of the game and its lore brought to life a harsh Viking world ruled by gods, giving brevity to a frozen, expansive universe wrought by Fimbulwinter—the long, desolate snowscape that entraps the world before the end of all things known as Ragnarök. Littered across the nine realms were beasts and enemies imbued with Bifrost powers. Menacing bosses and lesser gods attacked our heroes at Odin’s whim, breathing life to a stunning and varied pantheon of powerful beings.

Our hero, Kratos, the titular god of war, began his journey to Ragnarök at the conclusion of the previous title. In that game, Kratos and his son, Atreus, complete the burial ceremony of his deceased giantess wife, Faye, and succeeded in scattering her ashes from the highest peaks in each of the nine realms, but not without consequences. Kratos encountered demigods from the Norse pantheon, ultimately killing the two sons of Thor, resulting in a debt that was to be paid back in blood.

At the start of God of War Ragnarök, Atreus is older, a teenager transitioning into manhood, and careening towards a life where he will have to answer his own destiny. Kratos must prepare his son for a possible life without him—it was the vision given to Kratos that when Ragnarök destroys Asir, he must also die.

***

SOME GAMEPLAY THINGS

I admit that I’m not so interested in the gameplay mechanics of story-driven video games. Yes,  I’m one of those viewers who enjoys getting to the next major cutscene to see what happens next. However, as impatient as I was to get on with the story, I was just as pleased by the constant injection of new skills and abilities that complicated the puzzles in God of War Ragnarök. It wasn’t a case of acquiring a skill that would then lead to cutting down a discolored bush that conveniently blocked a previous pathway, but instead introduced new combinations of abilities that coalesced into skills that amplified fights with more intense enemies.

Not only were the puzzles consistently interesting without overused mechanics (think: freezing waterfalls or cranking a wheel to unlock a drawbridge or pathway), but the enemies themselves were just as varied and unique. Mini bosses with health bars the length of the screen were equipped with move sets and AI that didn’t bore the player, often leading to gratifying and earned conclusions to epic fights. And each major enemy had their own finishing sequence or killing cutscene where Kratos absolutely butchers a body to pieces in a way that pays homage to the gruesome origins of the series—all of it highly satisfying and must-watch brutality.

The weapon crafting system added new abilities and combos regularly, and it was a joy to watch the complexity and combination of move sets with the improved battle system. While Kratos no longer launches into the air and mutilates waves of soldiers/beasts like in the original trilogy, the realism of the fight sequences added a sense of drama and stakes that made every outcome earned and worthwhile. 

***

BOUND TO FATE

The story of Kratos in God of War Ragnarök has the titular warrior battling his past life, one in which saw the likes of Apollo, Zeues, Hercules murdered in his quest for vengeance. Atreaus, meanwhile, is facing the future, Ragnarok and the end of the world, and his connection to fate in the cataclysmic event. Atreus is, in fact, this world’s Norse Loki—a centra figure in bringing about the end of the world in Norse mythology. With his fate prophesied certainty, he tries to break free of fate, to uncover Odin’s plot before the all-father can achieve his plan of acquiring ultimate knowledge to preserve Asir gods and his rule. 

The journey of the game is a proverbial breaking free from assumed pathways of our lives, to claim a future that is not dictated by the past. Whether that means growing out of the shadow of our parents (as Atreus and Thor must decide) or to discard a past in which we no longer think ourselves loyal (as in the vengeance that defined Kratos through the first trilogy of games as he killed the gods of Olympus), there comes the question of choosing to be better.

This game is asking if we have a choice in all of that.

Many characters must wrestle with what it means to serve fate or act differently from prophecy. Will Thor serve his father, Odin, at the cost of his family and history as a drunken bodyguard to the all-father? Will Freya, the former Queen of the Valkyrie’s and former wife of Odin, wish to kill Kratos for the death of her son, Baldur (which was the final fight in the previous God of War title—a decision that cost his friendship with Freya and made her a merciless enemy)? 

As Kratos concludes later in the game, “Fate only binds you if you let it.”

***

SOME MISGIVINGS

There a few items in God of War Ragnarök that give me pause. I’ll list the two biggest gripes for me personally because I believe the story suffered greatly from them.

The first is making Atreus the Norse god Loki. This was an odd choice because of how central a character Loki is to Norse mythology. He’s the prime antagonist in many of the myths, often acting as the sole reason Thor or Odin are foiled in whatever aim they have. To make Atreus Loki depleted the mythology of a central component that it desperately needed. All who referenced Atreus by his “giant name” (as Loki) never seemed to recognize him as the famous god of mischief. It was as though the scheming, trickster god never existed, which, from a story standpoint, left much to be desired. If Loki were a separate character and not christened unto a main character, there would be room to maneuver away from Odin and Thor and the rest of the Norse pantheon that would keep the player guessing about what came next.

I’m unsure why Loki was used as an alias for a character who didn’t embody anything resembling the antagonistic Norse god other than shapeshifting abilities. This big change made it hard to buy into the mythology of this game’s universe, in my opinion. It’s like the Greek pantheon existing with Zeus—something would feel lacking.

The other serious story problem had to do with how the climax handled the fate of Kratos. God of War Ragnarök HEAVILY foreshadowed throughout its story that Kratos would die. Every major dialogue in the game referenced fate and if there was any choice in the matter. All of this very tense and exciting; I couldn’t wait to see how Kratos would either elude death or sacrifice himself as the tragic figure being set up by the writers and developers. 

By the climax of the story, Kratos was willing to go to his demise to give his son a chance at a life without the haunt of his past crimes.

Which meant for 22+ hours of the main storyline, everything was lining up for an epic conclusion to the series.

 Except in the climax, NONE of what was foreshadowed came close to happening.

The final fight with Odin was theatrical enough—Kratos and Atreus team up with Freya to finally put a stop to the all-father hellbent on sacrificing the nine realms and his family in a selfish pursuit of power. This was fine. But the fight unfolded like any other in the game—Odin unleashes magic attacks and teleports around, seemingly too powerful of a foe, but eventually he is bested and put to death by Loki spirit magic? 

At no point was Kratos in serious peril. 

At no point did a decision have to be made by Atreus to save his father or himself (or anyone else for that matter). 

Kratos was just as dominant and invincible as always—and it was disappointing. This was Odin he faced! The all-father. The most powerful and cunning of the Norse gods. Certainly, there could have been a situation that called for Kratos to lose.

It never happened. The finale felt like any other Marvel movie: New powers and weapon upgrades led renewed team spirit that led to victory.

Yay. Woo. Huzzah.

In the end, Atreus wakes up in a realm protected from Surtr and his destruction of Asgard. Kratos gives his boy a hug. Atreus goes off on his own, a boy grown up into a man. The world is at peace.

And I watched the screen as credits rolled, unsure of what to make of all this.

***

A BIGGER STICK

Why didn’t the ending work? Why didn’t I cheer for Kratos when he prevailed like he always has? Wasn’t that a satisfying conclusion? Kratos is a changed man, a wisened father who learned of self-sacrifice instead of defaulting to the butcher god-killer he he once was. And when faced with the knowledge he might have to die in order to give his son a chance at a better life, he chose to live and save his son—having his cake and eating it, too.

That’s a lovely conclusion for some stories. Just not this one. Why?

It wasn’t earned.

If the story had shown the player that the greatest fighter in the known world could fall to something greater than himself, it would show vulnerability in a way we had never seen with Kratos. What the player received was another final upgrade, another weapon to beat and batter Odin with. 

Apparently to beat Ragnarök, you just need a bigger stick than the other gods.

Thematically, Kratos’s sacrifice would have given the story the weight it deserved. In the real world, I’m aware that it makes little sense to kill off Kratos as a character. God of War is one of Sony’s premier IPs; they would never kill off a character when more games could be made. It would be like Nintendo canceling Kirby—why do that?

I should note that I never wanted Kratos to die. It would be tragic, but not necessary in telling the story of the end of the world. What I wanted was for Kratos’s survival to be earned and I think that’s where the story stumbled at the end. The game could never give Kratos an enemy that was too much, or too powerful. The player had to win; as did Kratos in the story.

Perhaps the true lesson of Ragnarök is to witness an unjust ending of the world. In Norse Mythology, no side wins. The final war is a destruction that lays all to waste, even the likes of Odin, Thor, and Loki. Through their death comes rebirth.

But I can’t help but wonder of Kratos: if he is never allowed to die, how can he be reborn? How can his story go on?

How can one be better without knowing what it means to lose?

I’ll have to wait for next Ragnarök to find out, I suppose.

***

THE NATURE OF A THING

There’s another line from the game that encompasses exactly how I feel about the totality of it. When Brok, the southern-drawl dwarf cannot bless a new weapon because he is missing a part of his soul, Kratos presents the staff to the dwarf anyway and says, “It is the nature of a thing that matters. Not it’s form.”

Despite conflicting feelings about the story’s conclusion, I cannot deny what a momentous achievement this game was. In terms of lore, gameplay, presentation, pacing, and the character dynamics represented by the gods and secondary characters…it was one of the best games to come along in a long time.

Santa Monica Studios produced one of the best representations of Norse mythology ever made with characters and places that incite more wonderings about the land of Asir gods and what awaits all of us at the end of the world. 

And for that, the nature of God of War Ragnarök means far more than the form.

***

  1. “If That’s What You Want” by Goldpark
  2. “Deep End” by Dayglow
  3. “Wildest Dreams” by Taylor Swift

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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