#334

Well, that's out of the way. Preceding post, that is. Damn. Who knows if that was the right thing to do? But as always, that's not really the correct question. The correct question is always "who cares?". Spoken like a teenager, slouch implied, sitting in a chair in a fashion contrary to the design of the chair. Sitting against the principle of sitting correctly. 

That's usually enough to soothe me, but in this particular instance, the answer to that question actually comprises of people I don't want to put out in even the slightest fashion, so I have to get over it some other way. 

Ah, and so, it is at this point that "who cares" regains its tremendous, laconic power.

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The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom came out, and I have it, and indeed, when I said I wanted to do a bunch of writing this month, I didn't calculate the presence of this videos game into the balance. I have done very little with my free time other than play this game, which is more Breath of the Wild in greater quantities and, shall we say, gently remixed? It's a perfect sequel. It lacks the sublime, gentle pathos that made BotW one of the greatest works of art of the last decade, one which has brought many different kinds of tears to my eyes many times over, but it has its own signature and despite a profusion of mechanical dovetails, its own learning curves and playfeel. 

S'good. Oh, it's good. An accomplishment the magnitude of which is almost never seen in the game industry. 

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It's common for me to feel more prepared for death when an anticipated cultural landmark hits and I can experience it. My level of general physical tension dropped so precipitously when I read the final page of Bleach for the first time that I think I've never been the same. It relaxed me on a cellular level to live to bear witness to that finale. Serious completion anxiety; it's never been so intense since, but it's there. 

Anyway, I am once again here to tell you that one ought to be well-prepared for death. Psychically, spiritually, physically, legally; just, y'know, get ready. It's coming, like a great rushing wind, to sweep you elsewhere. 

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Death! Professor Emeritus at Factually Pointless University. This caricature of the most merciful and swiftest of all angels works on multiple levels. I like to picture them always carrying a cup of coffe, clad in a thorn-proof tweed with serious elbow patches; delightfully ironic on a personage with neither flesh nor need to assimilate liquids. I suppose the protection and support provided by the patches could prevent the olecranon wear any skellington who works at a desk on occasion would be prone to. I mean that's got to be the originating logic behind their presence in overwear.

--JL