"The tragedy of Michael Post" or "TILT!": Phase 1
A life in three parts.
Phase 1: E Pluribus Eros
Meet Michael.
Michael is in his mid-twenties. He works at a store, where they sell things. He has to wear an ugly shirt.
It's a living.
He lives a fairly uneventful life. Get up, eat, go to work, come home, eat, stare at a glowing box, maybe play a game, then he goes to bed. He long ago gave up on socializing, on girls.
One day, while reading an e-mail, Michael accidentally clicks on a link. He discovers Livejournal. It's roughly equivalent to Magellan topping a ridge and discovering the Pacific, while the natives look on in puzzlement. This is what you're mooning over? Dude, we see this every day.
He discovers fanfic, he discovers concrit, he finds insights, he finds not-too-brights. For the first time in a long time, he's engaged. Autopilot off. He's actually thinking. And at some point during the long hours stretching toward morning, he rests his head against the screen, just for a moment, and falls into the evanescent peace that we call dreaming.
He is awakened by a sharp blow to the forehead, and realizes that he must have fallen asleep. As he glances at the screen, he finds that he has, improbably, accidentally managed to browse a fetish community. The old adage about monkeys and keyboards comes to mind, and he chuckles.
In retrospect, he was never able to figure out what it was. Was it the blow to the head, the fatigue he was still blinking from sleep-weighted eyes, the laughter, or some ghosted interpretation of words on the webpage? Whatever it was, he remembered. He passed a hand over his now-furrowed brow; there was a house, and a plastic toy, and a boy in a striped shirt, and wax. Tentatively, he types a few carefully-chosen words into the search box.
And the door is opened unto him.
He clicks on the blue, underlined name at the top of the list. He finds that there are other people. Other people who feel the same way he does. For the first time in his life, Michael feels that he may fit in, a thought that comforts him as he drifts off to sleep.
The next day at work, Michael is commended on a new spring in his step, a refreshed dedication to his work. He hums music he didn't even know he knew, and manages to get back from lunch quickly, causing his boss to stagger against the wall with a mock heart attack.
And he laughs.
He laughs.
He spends his nights hunched over a keyboard. A slight pain in his back eventually erupts into screaming agony, but he doesn't care. He talks to someone, anyone, about something, anything, that rings true, rings false, rings at all. It's like, he muses, some resonant chord has been struck in what previously passed for a heart.
One day, Michael secretly commandeers the store's scanner, and nervously scans a little doodle he's been working on. He transfers it to his recently-purchased flash drive, and wipes all traces as best as he knows how. All day, it burns like a coal in his pocket. His hand keeps returning to it, to check and make sure it hasn't vaporized, like so much fairy dust. Fairy dust? Yes, that could be an interesting diversion... At his earliest chance, he finds a corner and starts sketching again.
That night, he tries to post the picture, only to find that, oh right, he needs to join first, and for that he needs a username. His fingers dance over the keys, trying out one name after another. His eyes fall, briefly, on the drawings, and he taps out belldust. It fit. It bought to mind churches, religion suffused by a silencing whisper of grey.
Confirm account creation.
Join comm.
Post art.
Open email.
Wait.
The first response is a slightly chiding one. It suggests ways to improve his scanning, requests an lj-cut, and ends stating that he "has a lot of potential". Micheal flutteringly adds the cut, then sits back and considers what has been said. He has potential! He could be an artist! The thought fills him with a warm feeling.
The next day, he buys some markers and a sketchbook.
Phase 1: E Pluribus Eros
Meet Michael.
Michael is in his mid-twenties. He works at a store, where they sell things. He has to wear an ugly shirt.
It's a living.
He lives a fairly uneventful life. Get up, eat, go to work, come home, eat, stare at a glowing box, maybe play a game, then he goes to bed. He long ago gave up on socializing, on girls.
One day, while reading an e-mail, Michael accidentally clicks on a link. He discovers Livejournal. It's roughly equivalent to Magellan topping a ridge and discovering the Pacific, while the natives look on in puzzlement. This is what you're mooning over? Dude, we see this every day.
He discovers fanfic, he discovers concrit, he finds insights, he finds not-too-brights. For the first time in a long time, he's engaged. Autopilot off. He's actually thinking. And at some point during the long hours stretching toward morning, he rests his head against the screen, just for a moment, and falls into the evanescent peace that we call dreaming.
He is awakened by a sharp blow to the forehead, and realizes that he must have fallen asleep. As he glances at the screen, he finds that he has, improbably, accidentally managed to browse a fetish community. The old adage about monkeys and keyboards comes to mind, and he chuckles.
In retrospect, he was never able to figure out what it was. Was it the blow to the head, the fatigue he was still blinking from sleep-weighted eyes, the laughter, or some ghosted interpretation of words on the webpage? Whatever it was, he remembered. He passed a hand over his now-furrowed brow; there was a house, and a plastic toy, and a boy in a striped shirt, and wax. Tentatively, he types a few carefully-chosen words into the search box.
And the door is opened unto him.
He clicks on the blue, underlined name at the top of the list. He finds that there are other people. Other people who feel the same way he does. For the first time in his life, Michael feels that he may fit in, a thought that comforts him as he drifts off to sleep.
The next day at work, Michael is commended on a new spring in his step, a refreshed dedication to his work. He hums music he didn't even know he knew, and manages to get back from lunch quickly, causing his boss to stagger against the wall with a mock heart attack.
And he laughs.
He laughs.
He spends his nights hunched over a keyboard. A slight pain in his back eventually erupts into screaming agony, but he doesn't care. He talks to someone, anyone, about something, anything, that rings true, rings false, rings at all. It's like, he muses, some resonant chord has been struck in what previously passed for a heart.
One day, Michael secretly commandeers the store's scanner, and nervously scans a little doodle he's been working on. He transfers it to his recently-purchased flash drive, and wipes all traces as best as he knows how. All day, it burns like a coal in his pocket. His hand keeps returning to it, to check and make sure it hasn't vaporized, like so much fairy dust. Fairy dust? Yes, that could be an interesting diversion... At his earliest chance, he finds a corner and starts sketching again.
That night, he tries to post the picture, only to find that, oh right, he needs to join first, and for that he needs a username. His fingers dance over the keys, trying out one name after another. His eyes fall, briefly, on the drawings, and he taps out belldust. It fit. It bought to mind churches, religion suffused by a silencing whisper of grey.
Confirm account creation.
Join comm.
Post art.
Open email.
Wait.
The first response is a slightly chiding one. It suggests ways to improve his scanning, requests an lj-cut, and ends stating that he "has a lot of potential". Micheal flutteringly adds the cut, then sits back and considers what has been said. He has potential! He could be an artist! The thought fills him with a warm feeling.
The next day, he buys some markers and a sketchbook.