New Blog Post!

Head to my official website using the link to check it out!
http://kevinscrimauniverse.com/first-official-blog-post-on-this-website/

I haven’t posted any blogs in a while, but I will be using my website to post my blogs now.

Response to David Byrne's, of the Talking Heads, Argument Against Music-Streaming Services

Hey guys! Decided to post a response argument to a prompt in my Music Culture & Technology class for your enjoyment! :)

1.               Read this discussion of music streaming from David Byrne, formerly of the Talking Heads: http://www.theguardian.com/music/2013/oct/11/david-byrne-internet-content-world. Framing your argument around the points raised in the Hagen and Swanson articles, do you think Byrne has a plausible argument and legitimate gripe? Show your knowledge of the Hagen and Swanson articles in answering this question.

Indeed, Byrne has a plausible argument about music-streaming services not serving the needs of the artists. However, before I continue, I would tell all of them, if they do not like that they are not earning much from a music-streaming service like Spotify, then they all should go and find a real job! Artists do not make the rules; however, they do have to overcome them. Yes, it is very upsetting to read that someone’s song was played one million times on Pandora and the artist only made $16.89. That is awful. Byrne has a legitimate gripe—I think the record labels should give a sum of the money they earn from music-streaming services to the artists, or the music-streaming services themselves should give the artist a better payout; even a combination of the two would work. Byrne concedes: “I can understand how having a place where people can listen to your work when they are told or read about it is helpful, but surely a lot of places already do that?” Indeed, a lot of other places do that, like Amazon and YouTube.

    I bring a unique perspective to this issue since I am a self-published author and a YouTuber. I am intrinsically motivated and do what I do because I have a passion for writing and video-making. Each month, I probably make enough money from Amazon to buy myself a few cheap meals (an estimated average of $10, if that). Do I feel that my novel priced at $2.99 (of which Amazon takes a portion of that cut) is justified? No—but since I am at the level I am at, in terms of platform, I have to take what I can get. As a growing YouTuber, I have 261 subscribers on one channel and 187 on another, with over 130,000 views. With the monetized videos, I probably earned over $12 over a five-month period. See? I totally understand where the music artists are coming from. I had to demonetize my videos and focus on growing my subscriber-base before choosing to monetize in the future. I also run free-promotion periods for my books on Amazon. In short, I am giving away all of this for free, in exchange of the hope that I can build my platform. Like being an intern, I am giving away free labor, and sites like Amazon, YouTube, and their advertisers are the ones who are making the true profit off of us artists; but without them, we don’t exist (but keep in mind, without us, they don’t exist, either). It seems that we have reached deadlock. Until I can grow my platform, I will not make money. In the end, though, I still have my passions and the ability to share my creations with the world. I continue to do this while working part-time and being a student full-time, and in the future, I will do it while working full-time. Artists need to use the system to win. Our complaints—like excuses—will get us nowhere.

   When I read Byrne’s article, all I could hear was “ME! ME! ME!” Byrne was wrong when he titled the article, “The internet will suck all creative content out of the world.” He should have titled it, “The internet is going to make all creative content (nearly) free for everyone!” For instance, Byrne admits: “Writers, for example, can't rely on making money from live performances – what are they supposed to do? Write ad copy?” Essentially, writers will have to write a ton! They will have to self-publish book-after-book without stopping, and using sites like YouTube to build their followers. Right now, I am listening to a YouTuber who remixes video game music, and yes, he makes nothing and does it for free, and he’s amazing at it.

   But Byrne’s tone makes it seem as if we artists are above other kinds of work. I understand we spend a ton of time perfecting our craft, and that we give people nearly free-content, but we have to do other labor to do what we love. Nevertheless, I am all for artists receiving better support in any way, especially emotionally, socially, and financially.

   Hagen writes that when it comes to music-streaming services that the owner becomes the renter. With sites like Pandora and Spotify, we are renting the music by listening to ads or agreeing to pay a monthly-fee. Despite consumers choosing either of these methods, artists still do not make enough, which Swanson highlights that artists agree music-streaming services are good for discovering but not for getting paid. At one point, Swanson cites a musician who uses it for discovery, and doesn’t focus on the service as a monetization tool: “[Music-streaming is a] crucial value add to the music discovery process simply because the catalog is so vast and access is so unrestricted” (213). The same could be said for sites like Amazon and YouTube. Swanson also cites Silverman who admits: “97 percent of the world never buys music—not even Adele.” Furthermore, Swanson also understands that musicians’ financial problems went further back than just from today’s music-streaming services: “Problems in making a living as an artist stem much further back than streaming. Traditional income models yield slim returns, and in a depressed digital economy, people are buying less” (212). If the average-person does not purchase music, and not even the artists—which is kind of hypocritical (even we writers buy other author’s books to become better writers)—then at least music-streaming services help supplement an artist’s income. As noted, Swanson cites thirteen other revenue streams that artists use to make money. If artists target those revenue-streams, they should support themselves better financially.

   Truly, Byrne’s article makes it seem that artists rely on only one revenue-stream (besides playing live or selling t-shirts), when that is not the case at all. Swanson does recommend, however, that music-streaming services like Spotify should become more artist-focused and also give artists a higher-royalty payout. Similarly, Hagen cites that subscription-models are hurting music sales: “[We are living in] a consumption era where access is valued over ownership (Mulligan). Subscription models are cannibalizing sales of music: in Norway music downloads fell by 21% and physical sales fell by 29% from 2012 to 2013 (Dredge)” (4). It seems that consumers do not care about owning the music; instead, they favor having more control and would rather consume the music as they please by “renting” it. Consumers have more power than ever by being able to like or dislike a song, add it to the playlist, etc., which, in a way, makes it “their music.” For example, Spotify has a tab titled, “Your Music,” which is a list of organized songs that the listener favorited so he can listen to it whenever he wants. In other words, listeners are favoring a dynamic approach to their music, one in which they can order their music however they want through likes, favorites, follows, skips, etc. Users also like these music-streaming services because of their “technology’s immediacy and fluidity.” (19) In short, Swanson’s and Hagen’s articles indirectly, if not directly, argue that the consumer has the power when it comes to consuming music. Artists, on the other hand, are at the mercy of their music-streaming providers and consumers. Like Swanson noted, musicians’ financial problems go way back and that it’s not just caused by music-streaming services. Swanson admits: “[I]f I would have streamed their tunes rather than purchase them, the artists would have already yielded substantially more income… digital music sales will decline. But by the time sales are declining, streaming royalties should become enough of a substantial revenue source to make up for the difference” (221). In short, Swanson’s argument makes it appear that artists like Byrne will eventually earn enough streaming royalties to make up the difference of declining music sales.

   Still, perhaps Byrne is correct (like Swanson argued) that artists should be supported in a better way. He wrote that music saved his life. I would argue that writing and video-making has saved my life, along with music as well. Artists do what they do because they love their craft—and also because they do not want to work a crappy job, since they’d rather make music. In a sense, we are saying, “Give us more money so we can do what we love, instead of us having to work one of those crappy jobs!” But of course, we are also saying, "Let me make people's lives better with my artistry--be it music, writing, videography, whatever--because that's what I was born here to do!" I understand they probably did their share of crappy jobs, too, while trying to make their passion a full-time job. But until it becomes a full-time job, then they might have to work a crappy job to support what they want to do, and until the music-streaming services will be fairer in their favor. 

Modern Vision Quest: Past, Present, and Future : Continued, Part 2.

Connor and Aiyanna sat on a rolled out blue and green, yellow striped fabric. Connor folded his legs indian-style to follow Aiyanna’s lead.

    Aiyanna placed her folded hands on her lap as she closed her eyes. As the wind flowed against her bangs and swayed her braids, Connor stared at her. She looked so beautiful, at peace, calm, relaxed.

   Meditating, right, Connor thought. He folded his hands on his legs and, after admiring her beauty for a while, closed his own eyes.

   Connor had had meditated a few times in his life, when he felt his life was off-balance and needed time to center himself to get back in focus on who he really was. It stopped the world. Nothing could ruin the moment. It was all his. The constant nagging of technology, the notifications of his turned off cell phone could not stop it. He no longer felt the compulsive need to browse the internet, watch t.v., or play video games: All he needed was himself. The constant attempts of life and everything in it clamoring for his attention—advertisements trying to convince him to buy their products; news stories informing him about every single bit of important information for that day; social media feeds, of people writing about their lives and companies and magazines trying to get his attention for their products and articles so he will share, like, and comment as if his one voice actually mattered and as if everyone actually cared about what he’d comment, all of it scrolling through his brightly lit screen; emails filling up his inbox desperately wanting read; his emotions signaling him how alone he is; his needing to go to the gym to get muscular so the women will become more attracted to him by loving his bod; his boss wanting him to take an extra shift because someone called off when he never called off; his YouTube fans begging for more videos or that one who complains how he messed his video up; his school homework and tests marking his wrongness eternally onto paper, letting him know how wrong he was and how much more right he could have been; his father telling him he was never good enough; his brother begging him to play with him; the rushing of traffic and cars hostilely cutting him off in a hurry; his ambitions burning at him to become a better and more famous YouTuber, never having enough likes, comments, views, or subscribers, and feeling the need to record parts of his life so life wouldn’t forget about him when he was dead like it did so many of the other billions of animals and humans; his feeling the intense, imperative need of improving his overall life, like climbing up the social ladder, acquiring more money so he could buy nicer things, earning that college degree certifying that he passed all of the necessary but arbitrary requirements, living up to the impossibly lofty but contradictory expectations of women; his knowing that he will never, ever be good enough for life and everything in it—all of it fell away and disappeared.

   Poof.

   Like magic.

   Best magic trick ever, he thought. Thank god, it feels nice. He felt his body relax instantly, his trapezius muscles and upperback loosening. Connor breathed in deeply, for one, two, three, four, five, six seconds, and then breathed out deeply, for one, two, three, four, five, six seconds—just as how he was taught by a mediating app on his smartphone. And he smiled. He didn’t mean to. But he did.

   Connor felt the weight of his body, scanning it from head to toe, becoming aware of it, becoming aware of how he felt, becoming aware of his breathing, becoming aware of his thoughts, becoming aware that he was in control of everything, becoming his own God.

   Man, he forgot how much he missed meditating. He liked to think that he was rewiring the brain the way he wanted, instead of life and everything in it taking control of his brain, as if he were an animal—specifically, a monkey—in a science experiment, scientists testing how they could get him to act a certain way, or seeing how he’d act under particular situations, or how they could achieve the desired outcome with the procedures they put him through.

    I’m no fucking monkey, he thought to himself. I’m an intelligent human-fucking being.

   Man, that really hit a nerve.

   Crap, Connor thought, unaware that his thoughts were already pulling at him. He brought himself back and cleared his mind. And he enjoyed silence.

   Then if a thought came, he let the mind think if it wanted to think. He thought if Aiyanna liked him or not. What a stupid thought, he thought to himself. Was he really going to let an intelligent human being like himself succumb to these stupid, petty human desires? he wondered. But he is human after all. There’s nothing he can do if he likes a girl or not. Because he is a human, he knew that emotions were his brain’s way of trying to tell him something. But because his brain felt it, because it triggered that emotion, does it mean it’s right? Would it be wrong to override it? Can he even override it? Emotions ruined his thinking. He hated that. But he knew they had a role in the intellect too.

   Stop, he thought, I’m thinking too much. He pulled his thoughts back once again, clearing his mind.

   And then he thought again, about going through life, it being like prey versus predator. And life having no rules—only power. Power represented the correct rule. Which meant he had little power, because rules pulled him this way and that each day.

   Grr, Connor thought in frustration, pulling himself back to peace and focusing on silence. His mind really liked to think.

   He took a frustrated breath and opened his eyes, and saw Aiyanna’s face composed, representing complete peace and beauty. It put him in a trance, and calmed him down. He stared at her a while longer. Gosh, he thought, he could stare at her all day. He smiled, and closed his eyes.

   I wonder what she’s been thinking the whole time, he thought, or not thinking.

   Aiyanna was happy to lead the meditation, noticing that Connor followed suit without word or complaint. She peeked at him by opening her eyes slightly, and saw him staring at her. She kept her face composed despite this. She peeked again later and saw his eyes closed.

    Good, she thought. At least he wouldn’t be staring at her the whole time while she meditated.

  

   

The Black Death and The Vegetable of Life

 Kevin M. Scrima

Ethnic Fiction—Professor Murabito

4/2/15

A story I am writing for my ethnic fiction class. Enjoy!

The Black Death and The Vegetable of Life

   The town of Cork in Ireland was mostly comprised of poor farmers and low-class workers who were illiterate and went starving half of the time.  

    It was April, and the sun was shining brightly. Cullen put on his brown leather shoes and stepped outside in the warm, Summer-like air. The morning birds chirped in the nearby trees, and one flew over the potato field that Cullen was walking toward. He kneeled and inspected one of the potatoes. His hand cupped what appeared to be a black potato. When he held it up, it crumbled into black mush. “Huh?” Cullen exclaimed as the black mush crumpled out of his hand. “I’ve never seen that before…” he said as he stooped to look at another nearby potato. “This one is black, too,” he observed, picking it up. He gave a gentle squeeze, and it turned into a wet, black mush. “Is this like a disease? There’s no way these are edible without getting sick.” He dropped the mush and wiped what remained on his hand against his worn pants.

   Cullen stood up and walked around quickly, observing as many potatoes as he could. He felt a sudden sense of urgency. The next potato he saw was black. And another one. And another one. He was counting, then estimating. There were still groups of brown potatoes, not tainted by the black. But there were more black then brown. “Oh no…” he muttered, feeling shock go throughout his body. “This isn’t good. Pa is gonna be upset. We are gonna go hungry by the looks of it.”

   Cullen ran back to the mud cabin. Outside, a basket-shaped orifice acted as a chimney. The window had broken panes stuffed with a wisp of straw. And there were rags that were filthy and nasty around the unfitting door and acted as outside walls. He opened the wooden door which had a hole at the bottom. The pig must have broken it. Inside, the walls were tottering, crumbling mud. He saw a chicken on top of his Pa who was sleeping on tattered rags. When Cullen neared the chicken it fluttered its wings and jumped off. He kneeled and shook Pa. “Pa, wake up!”

   His Pa grunted and grumbled. “Cullen, what is it?” he asked.

   “The potatoes,” Cullen said. “Something happened to our potatoes!”

   Pa sat up and opened his green eyes. “What? That can’t be…” he tried standing up then grunted.

   “Pa, let me help,” Cullen said, placing his Pa’s arm over his shoulder as his Pa stood. “Your ankle is still swollen from falling.”

   “Show me,” Pa said.

   Cullen led Pa out the door as he limped along. “They are black,” Cullen said. “And mushy. Look.” He reached down and grabbed a pile of black mush and showed him.

   “My…” Pa said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. This is unheard of.” He took a piece of the black mush from Cullen and rubbed his fingers against it. Then he looked around their potato patch. “They aren’t even potatoes anymore… they’re just… mush.” He dropped the mush and as he started to tilt over, Cullen supported him by placing his shoulder under his arm again. “It’s like an… evil plague befell upon the potatoes.”

   “It would appear so, Pa,” Cullen said.

   Pa said, “It reminds me of the old stories about the Black Death. Except it’s the potatoes and not the humans this time.”

   “Yes, they are black and dead,” Cullen said. “I wonder if this has happened to other people’s potatoes or just ours?”

   “Go find out for us, Cullen. I am in no condition for travel. I will stay and attend to things here once I wake up more and salvage any potatoes I can.”

   Cullen led Pa back to the mud cabin. “Yes, rest a bit.”

  Pa sat down on the dirty rags. The chicken fluttered toward the doorway but Cullen gently kicked it. The chicken bawked as it retreated back inside.

   “Just be careful,” Pa said. “I don’t know if what plagues the potatoes can harm us too. Wash your hands in the river and don’t touch your face.”

   “I will, Pa,” Cullen said. “Be back soon,” he said as he shut the wooden door. He ran to the dirt path toward the river up ahead. What is going on? Cullen wondered.  

   When he got to the river, Cullen kneeled, placing his black hands in the cold water, and began rubbing his hands together, getting rid of all the black dirt and mush. He then washed his face. What if the water is tainted too? he wondered. Would it be safe to drink? Are other foods or crops affected? There were so many questions popping up in his head.

   Cullen stood and jogged toward the Clachans, the small communal cluster. He admired the rolling green hills of the countryside as he made his way toward one of the well-known farms in the community.

   

Sucked into Organizations and Activities

I'm thinking about my past, since I'm about to graduate college. I can't say I have any memorable college experiences. It was just college. I don't even know if it was the right place for me. Or if it's the right place for me at all. Tonight, it's made me depressed. It sucks the life out of me.

I'm thinking about how life,  or an organization, tries to suck you into anything it can. Schools suck students into their schools. Sport teams suck them into their teams. Colleges suck eager students into their campuses. Religious organizations suck people into their own religion. Many are sucked into their first job. What im getting at is, I wonder at times, when did I--ME--actually make the decision to do these things? It's like your best friend sucks you into an activity you dont want to do, and then you dont know why youre there. Was it his choice, or was it the friend's choice that influenced him?

The thought makes me depressed.

Does Education (or essays) Stifle Innovation, Creativity, and Entrepreneurship?

Sometimes when I am assigned an essay--I'm loathing of the idea of doing it--I wonder if it is stifling my creativity, motivation, innovation, and entrepreneurship.

You could probably tell even in this blog post, my writing doesn't have that much substance. It's empty, tired. Maybe even afraid.

As a high schooler and in the beginning of college, I used to be able to write long, epic prose pieces. Now, it's difficult. It's as if I'm drained, unable to do it. I almost forgot what it's like to write for fun.

Writing countless essays prove nothing. How many have I written? The number would be scary, I'm sure. You can only demonstrate your complex thought processes so many times before going insane. You do it because you have to. Not because you want to. Sometimes, yes, I do actually enjoy writing the essay and really get into it. But my grades prove nothing. They aren't going to help me make any money. They are just like one of the passes or tickets to get into a club.

Even now, I am procrastinating writing my essay by writing something else.

My classes prove nothing. My homework being completed proves nothing. Being able to prove that you can repeat completing classes and assignments over and over prove nothing. I don't know who they're fooling.

I could be learning something new instead of continually writing essays, like making a song, learning a program, making YouTube videos, creating a website. School can have assignments that involve creating a BRAND and PLATFORM for myself, instead of this useless crap.

It's a joke. And it's not a funny one.

School and Happiness

Seems like I won't be able to shake off being miserable until school is over. Then there's the transition of graduation and moving on to something else. It's a tough time.

I've, fortunately enough, had things to occupy me and mitigate that miserableness. There's only a month less of school remaining, about five weeks left. It's crazy.

I just needed to get that off my chest. I'm happy to move on to something else soon.

An Interesting Day: Chasing Dreams, Missed Dreams, Catching Dreams

Today's an interesting day, only because I am awake earlier than usual. I fell asleep late, around 2:00 a.m., and awoke sometime after 8:00 a.m. For not getting that many hours of sleep, I feel awake. Again, unusual for me.

I feel eager to get my day started, to get things done. Last night, I was following tutorials on getting my website--kevinscrimauniverse.com--started. It's very basic and generic at the moment, but it's there. I have YouTube videos that need edited it and uploaded. Stories I can write. A bunch of stuff I can do. And that's good I'm eager today, because I have class and work later, so there isn't that much time left in the day.

I'm going to be relentless at my dreams and achieving my desires. That's how I feel today. It feels great. Fun Fact: Did you know that if you go to relentless.com, it takes you to Amazon.com? Go ahead, try it if you don't believe me. Jeff Bezos, Amazon's founder, was relentless at making his dream fulfilled.

I am a workaholic, when I'm passionate about what I'm doing, which I'm glad to have that work ethic as a piece of mind. Work smarter; not harder. And maybe, work passionately, not smarter? or: Work passionately and smarter; not harder. I feel like there's a clever Scrima Quote somewhere there.

Earlier I had seen an article titled "Top Dream Colleges in 2015." I guess I really never had a "dream college." I never really looked. I was ignorant, and finances were a problem. Looking back, at the time, I didn't want to reside on or near campus. Now, I do and feel like I should have. It's a sad afterthought of what COULD have been. The many different could-have-beens.

But that just makes me want to work harder at my dreams, at becoming successful. Today, a lot of things do, with my past floating behind me (Antagonism is one of my fuels--Past, give me more!), and my having mostly overcome it.

Today is also an interesting day in that I am writing a blog post spontaneously. I can't remember the last time I wrote spontaneously. It's nice to get it all done.

Well... off to work on my dreams. I will knock down all my obstacles--and eliminate all needless distractions--if I have to with the final breath in my body to achieve success.

Response Paper on National Geographic Article, "Far From Home."

Response Paper on National Geographic Article, “Far From Home”

   Foreigners—those who are uneducated, poor, and needy for money—are often cheap laborers for business owners. The city of Dubai, and other many great cities, were made by foreign workers.

   In a National Geographic article titled “Far From Home” by Cynthia Gorney, it tells of the following choices that foreigners have. If families chose to stay instead of going overseas to earn higher wages, they would at least have a stable family; however, they would remain poor. But if they chose a job elsewhere, they could earn more money to live a higher standard of living and buy nice things (like jewelry) every now and then, for both them and their family that they left behind; however, they would probably find another significant other to fill their emotional hole and create an unstable family.

   One thing they could do to stay as a family is move overseas together, like try to move to America. That way, they could all earn more money and live a higher standard of living while being together. This seems like the best option, instead of leaving others behind to live a lesser life. And they could even educate themselves through the internet or college. Then their future children also can have a better life. Choosing to move together is also the least amount of work; they can broaden their horizons and see a new side of life together. However, just because they are together, does not mean they may experience a divorce; because of the rapid change they will experience as individuals, especially if they are educating themselves, they may turn into different people and meet a diverse set of peoples who can further change who they are. But in the end, they will still have a better life than they would have if they chose to separate while one side of the family must constantly rely on the other.

   It’s never good to be fully or mostly dependent. The best thing humans can do is make themselves independent as possible. What if the United States had to depend on other countries for all its workers, military, food, etc? Then it wouldn’t be the United States or the leading superpower. It’s a superpower because it’s independent as it can be. So the family members, too, should be educated to be independent instead of depend on a family member for the majority of their income. Another example would be my being independent in relation to college: If I relied exclusively on college for learning, opportunities, and excelling, then I would not be the person I am today and would not know as much as I know now. Thanks to audiobooks and the internet—articles, videos, tutorials—I’ve learned so much more that either the college doesn’t teach or would require me to take more classes and majors (which would cost thousands of dollars, compared to the internet which is cheap).

   We should never let our circumstances define us. That’s why the families are trying to do something about it. However, if they used the internet for educational purposes (one of the mother’s in the article was on Facebook and Skype!) they too could learn and even maybe make money online! This could be an even better option if they have no wish to move.

   These poor people are unfortunately just tools for the rich, altering their behavior with money incentives. While the rich live a life of luxury, the poor people have to work and work and work in order just to make a small sum of money; and there is nothing to say the hourly wage they make is right, either. Because in the end, that’s what they are: cheap labor. For example: “He worked construction, making four dollars a day. It was enough to survive.” If he lived in America, at least he’d make minimum wage, or $7.25 an hour.

   Many Americans complain of the low wages they make, even fast food workers demanding they make $10-$15 an hour. These workers need to rise up above their circumstances and educates themselves so they can make more and have a better life. Although they may have it rough as well, it’s definitely not as rough as these foreigners have it. It goes to show to not take what we have for granted. It could be better and it could be worse, but at least it’s not worse. There are no rules to life, only the ones that humans impose, and throughout history, those rules, beliefs, values, and attitudes all change, and old rules are no longer deemed right and are instead declared as wrong. Even today, different countries have different rules, beliefs, values, attitudes, and standards, so being in a different country would mean following a slightly different set of rules. So who can say the rich exploiting the poor is right, and that the hourly wages they designate are fair? No one can. They may even be able to give some bullshit reasoning, citing some economics, as to why the hourly wage is the number it is.

   And look at that: I scanned the Facebook news feed, and there was an ad targeted at me; apparently, Walmart is raising its minimum hourly wage to $10, while its competitor hasn’t yet. It goes to show that the hourly wage is a game of power and politics, not fairness or rightness. I even remember a Ted Talk, where a member of the 1% named Nick Hanauer argued his reasoning for a higher minimum wage; he suggested that the rich (who hoard their money instead of spend it) have gotten increasingly richer, so why are the poor (who have to spend their money and barely have any leftover) not allowed to get richer too? In the description of the Ted Talk video is, “Growing inequality is about to push our societies into conditions resembling pre-revolutionary France.”

   So the article, “Far From Home,” by Cynthia Gorney, directly relates to life in the United States, and specifically, my life too.

   Now, the family the foreigners in the article leave behind, changes while they are gone, too. Perhaps they start doing drugs, or the wife has yet another baby (why does a family need so many of those anyway?). Since they change for the worse by separating themselves across different geographic regions or instead choose staying in the same poor spot at their own country, they could at least change for the better if they moved to one place together, like Europe or The United States. So even if the family does separate there, at least they have a better chance at a better life.

  

   

Response Paper on "Interpreter of Maladies."

Kevin M. Scrima

Ethnic Fiction—Professor Murabito

3/12/15

Journal Entry: Interpreter of Maladies

   In “Interpreter of Maladies,” by Jhumpa Lahiri, one of the themes that ties the story together is family, connectedness, and truth.

   Mrs. Das, at the very start of the story, bickers with her husband about who should take Tina to the toilet, but only when “Mr. Das pointed out that he had given the girl her bath the night before,” (43) does she relent. Instead of being a mother, she is trying to get out of her mother duties. She is so disconnected from who she is, her family, and her own maternal nature that she does “not hold the little girl’s hand as they walked to the rest room” (43). This sentence is at the end of the first paragraph, almost as an obvious aside, lingering, to point out that they should be holding hands, but the lack of contact shows that they are emotionally far away and disconnected. Even Mr. Das seems more concerned with his children than Mrs. Das does when he says, “Bobby, make sure that your brother doesn’t do anything stupid” (44). However, Mr. Das “appeared to have no intention of intervening” (44). Perhaps Mr. Das feels disconnected from the family too, or something tells him that Bobby isn’t his child, unconsciously, and so he isn’t affectionate toward him.

   Even Mr. Das and Mrs. Das are disconnected as father and mother. Mr. Kapasi observes that the two seem odd. For instance, “Mr. Kapasi found it strange that Mr. Das should refer to his wife by her first name when speaking to the little girl” (45). A normal father would usually say “mom” or “mommy” when speaking with his children, not call her by her first name. And it seems that Mrs. Das doesn’t care that she and her family seem apart; perhaps that’s how far she has distanced herself from her maternal instincts. An example is when Mr. Kapasi observes her walking back to the car: “Mr. Kapasi heard one of the shirtless men sing a phrase from a popular Hindi love song as Mrs. Das walked back to the car, but she did not appear to understand the words of the song, for she did not express irritation, or embarrassment, or react in any other way to the man’s declarations” (46). It can be assumed since they visit their parents who live in India every couple years, that they must know a basic understanding of the language, or at least the intonations. One doesn’t need to know the language to understand the tone of voice; she most likely was able to discern that his song was affectionate and lovey-dovey, but felt neutral to his proclamations, being not overtly happy about it but not irritated either. Maybe by the fact that she doesn’t understand the words of the song, she doesn’t understand love at all. And throughout the story, excepting the end when she redeems herself as a mother, in a way, by saving Bobby, she doesn’t know what love is.

   After Mrs. Das asks, “How long’s the trip,” she sighs at the reply, of which Mr. Kapasi observes that “Mrs. Das gave an impatient sigh, as if she had been traveling her whole life without pause” (47). In fact, this probably is true, because Mrs. Das would have at least paused to reflect on where her life is going: She had a bastard child (Bobby) and has hidden this secret throughout her whole marriage. Mrs. Das is living a lie. She has no concern for herself or her family, not even in the safety of her child: “[T]he little girl began to play with the lock on her side, clicking it with some effort forward and backward, but Mrs. Das said nothing to stop her. She sat a bit slouched at one end of the back seat, not offering her puffed rice to anyone” (47). Mrs. Das wouldn’t seem to car if the unlocked door opened and her daughter fell out of the car. She’s lackadaisical, passive, and very self-centered, stuck in her own world. She doesn’t bother to share her food and happiness with her family. She doesn’t even partake in mother-daughter bonding: “Mrs. Das reached into her straw bag and pulled out a bottle of colorless nail polish… ‘Mine too. Mommy, do mine too.’ ‘Leave me alone,’ Mrs. Das said, blowing on her nail turning her body slightly. ‘You’re making me mess up.’” The little girl occupied herself by buttoning and unbuttoning a pinafore on the doll’s plastic body” (48). Mrs. Das is so focused on petty shit that doesn’t matter, like painting a nail, she’s ignoring things that actually matter, a human being, and her own daughter at that. She wants nothing to do with her daughter by saying, “Leave me alone,” which is sad to hear a mother say to her daughter. Consequently, the little girl had to play alone by herself, occupying herself with a doll, something fake (an imitation of a human being) instead of a real human being. The only reason the little girl is able to play with the doll is because it’s inactive and soft, easily bending to her will. Her mother is too aggressive and even hostile, a hard parent that won’t bend to her daughter’s wishes.

   All in all, Mrs. Das is a crappy mother and wife, and overall, a bad human being in general. However, she does redeem herself and shows hope when she saves Bobby’s life and takes a moment to care about him. 

How I Sometimes Feel When Writing Essays... Dem Feels

Here is how I sometimes feel when it comes to essays...https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t876kPY3SOY

YouTubing Real Life

Kevin M. Scrima

Ethnic Fiction—Professor Murabito

3/1/15

YouTubing Real Life

   Max went to his work studio—his room—just a half-hour before midnight to prepare to make another video. An expensive, $500 Sony camera is set up about ten feet away from a green screen against a wall. Fluorescent lights were set up near the camera for lighting purposes. In a corner was a mahogany desk with a $1,200 Lenovo laptop on top of it.

   Public Speaking is everyone’s number one fear—people would rather go through many hells than speak in public--but Max had learned to get over that with repetition. He needed his own private space, and for his family to not be home so he can be fully energetic, otherwise they’d hear him, and he doesn’t want to be heard, or he’ll feel stifled. It’s not like standing in front of a group of people in the room: It’s talking to a camera, an inanimate object, as weird as it can be, it doesn’t seem weird to him at all, so that reduces the fear down. Also, he doesn’t need to plan a script, and he can mess up as many times as he wants thanks to editing programs, and then he can put those funny mess ups at the end as bloopers.

   Against another wall is a fifty inch flat screen TV., and thankfully, he didn’t have to buy that, his mom did one day for Christmas. Under it is an Xbox One, connected to an Elgato HD 60, a game capture card that allows him to record gameplay. A Blue Spark microphone sits on a white desk next to Turtle Beach headphones. This was his “Let’s Play” setup, where he entertains others while playing video games.

   Max couldn’t believe how expensive this hobby was. At least the expense part was pretty much over with. He’s been watching a shitload of YouTube videos, learning from the greats, learning from other people’s styles. And he couldn’t believe that schools didn’t have a class on YouTube. Not only would it be a fun class, but it would actually be relevant to one of his interests. Schools need to catch up with the times, he thought.

   Max did all of this pretty much on his own—the script, recording, editing, publishing—it was a lot of work at times. Sometimes he collaborated with his Italian friend Jeremy, and that was a lot of fun. Because they shared a channel, subscribers and viewers from their channel came to that channel, pretty much doubling their numbers.

   Max recently gained over a thousand subscribers on his two channels. He was pretty happy with himself. But many were from sites like Subexcess, where everyone would click on another YouTuber for points, then other YouTubers would click on them for points, so everyone gained subscribers, even though he realized that some of them start to unsubscribe after they get their subscribers.

   Everyone wants to be heard and watched. He’s just one of millions who are trying to gain a following, and hopefully make some money, just by making YouTube videos. What he learned, is that subscribers do not necessarily correlate with views. He knew he had to find his niche and the certain kinds of videos his audience would demand for. The ones that received the most views were videos that gave his audience the most value, or were immediately relevant, or they were the ones when he entertained his audience the most and made them laugh, like when he played the most popular video games.

   He had found a bunch of businesses that teach others to freelance and make money online, and was able to bring in a steady stream of income. He couldn’t believe it, but he found a way to make money by making websites—do some freelancing—and make his own where he would combine the top three searched terms on a subject, use Google AdSense and Amazon Associates, and use keywords to drive traffic to his site. He mainly wrote reviews of products or compared them. To his surprise, yes, people click on these ads, and he gets paid for them. Suck on that college and work, he thought.

   And when he made enough money each month through his online income, he could quit work, exit the bullshit system society forces him into, making him work a crappy job for cash. He had plenty of skills that he could use at a less crappier job. But no, society makes him wait until he has a college degree before he can make any advances on a decent job. Fuck the system, he thought. And that’s what this video thing was, so he could make money doing something he loved. Heck, if people would watch channels about people talking about petty shit or summarizing their day, like this couple did, surely people would watch his channels.

   Only if he was a sexy girl and could do cam shows, he thought, or be with one and do cam shows. He had a friend back in Europe who was a cam girl, and couldn’t believe how much she made. What a nice rack could do for a woman, he thought. And she had over a hundred thousand followers on her site. Over a hundred thousand people who just want to watch her be sexy on camera. He just had 1/100 of that, 99,000 less, and at that thought, jealousy invaded his chest, as if it was going to war.

   He once saw a YouTube video titled “Twitch Bitches,” and these girls were attractive, had no idea how to play a video game, and showed as much as their breasts visibly as legally possible while playing, and from that, they received thousands of views and followers. Now, that made him mad.

   But Max thought using his brains was better and more honorable. Through Bluehost, he had been able to host as many sites as he wanted with Wordpress. So he made a site, Max-imumGamer.com, learning how to brand himself and take a more professional route to advertising himself and his videos.

   Now, his value was comprised of numbers. Number of views. Number of subscribers. Number of likes. Number of positive comments. Number of followers and posts on all of his social media. The number in his bank account. Numbers, numbers, numbers. He tried not to think about the numbers—he did everything to have fun—but the numbers would always come back. A bunch of data he had to somehow make sense of and wasn’t allowed to ignore, because if he did, then he’d be going nowhere. He always had to strive for higher numbers. The numbers had to grow. If they didn’t, then he wasn’t growing. And no matter how high the numbers got—maybe excepting the million mark, hopefully—he would never be satisfied, because they determined his worth.

   Making videos was by no means easy, as the obsession over the numbers goes to show. The YouTube commenters could be some of the toughest, non-empathetic, and meanest people on the internet, or perhaps in the world. Fortunately, he drew a vast majority of good or decent commenters, and only had a few bad ones so far. Even seeing thumbsdowns on a few of his videos were tough—were they jealous, just in a bad mood, or was that thumbsdown legitimate? He wondered what life would be like if everything had a subscriber button and a like and dislike button and a comment section. Life would be a harsh world, even more so than it can be.

   Tonight at midnight was the release of a new DLC, downloadable content, for a popular video game, which meant he needed to be on that shit like Donkey Kong, because it meant more subscribers, and more views. It was a game he liked, anyways, and he was a night owl, anyway, but he would have to pull an all-nighter, play from midnight until the morning, and be one of the first to stream and upload all of the game’s new content and features. Then, he would sleep like a rock. Or maybe he should make a review of the new content too before he sleeps, or should he make one after he sleeps like a rock? Hell, conflicting decisions.

   The videos where he brought all his energy too were the best, and being tired or exhausted when he went to make them were not an option. That would make for crappy videos. But his family would be sleeping, and he wouldn’t be able to bring his full-on energy without waking her up. That’s why he can’t wait until he can be independent and have his own place.

   And there’s the work aspect of making the videos, too. Being first is one of the most important things when it comes to making YouTube videos, especially gaming videos, at least, for the underdogs, who are already trying to gain an audience when thousands of popular subscribers already have a good portion of that audience.

   One of the cool things about making YouTube videos, Max thought, was being in control of the content, able to make anything he liked, and pretty much without any restrictions. But that meant he needed a lot of discipline. Sometimes, he spent more time playing video games than making videos, and that wasn’t good. Being a YouTuber meant making videos.

   His YouTube career is a distal goal, where he’d reap the fruit only years from now, hoping with all hope that he founded the great video series, or that he got good enough, or that his brand was developed enough, or that he just happened to get enough subscribers somehow. He knew about self-limiting beliefs, where the person believed he couldn’t grow anymore, and thus, would quit or give up. He would keep going, no matter how hard he had to try. 

    But all in all, being recorded was when and where he could be himself. Well, his video personality was different than his real world personality. He felt like a different person behind the camera. He was more smiley, too. He could sometimes be himself in the real world, but felt most comfortable while making a video. He thought it was weird.

   After moving to America from Europe, it’s been his only connection to a normal routine. It was the only place where he had friends or people to socialize with. He had no luck making any friends in his area, or at his work, or at his college. He spoke to a few online, some of them his old friends from home or ones he meant through his videos or gaming session, but not much face-to-face interaction. He rarely had a chance to see Jeremy. There was a girl he hung out with at and after work, but in terms of having many friends, he didn’t have any. Based on all the videos he made, he was his own friend, forming a special relationship with himself through these videos, editing them and making them.

   Max set up the laptop and microphone at his desk, grabbed the Xbox One controller, and pressed the guide button to turn the console on. He flipped the laptop lid up where the XSplit window was on screen, recording his face in a corner and now also showing the screen of the game on his t.v. He signed onto Twitch and placed his Android phone next to his laptop where he could chat with his streamers live.

   Well, here we go, Max thought, and then he entered a different world. 

If you want a real YouTube channel, check me out on Scrima Games: http://www.youtube.com/user/KevinScrimaGamez?sub_confirmation=1 or Scrima Talks: http://www.youtube.com/user/KevinScrimaTalks?sub_confirmation=1

Writing What You Dont Want To Write

So in one of my classes, I need to write an ethnic fiction story. And even though I found a fun story to write  before(it's a few posts down, the one about the Vision Quest), I no longer can now. It's not what my brain wants to write. Because it has to be ethnic fiction, it's imposing limits on my ideas and forcibly transforming the story. That's no fun, and that's no way to write good writing.

So, even though writer's block doesn't exist, I am stuck. Guess I better just start writing and see what happens.

Brief Review of One's Life Journey

I was searching on my old laptop--I got a new laptop at the beginning of this semester--and I viewed all of the files, searching for an old essay I could use for one of my assignments. I couldn't find it, though I swear it was in my memory somewhere that I've done it.

Instead, I came face-to-face with the many folders and hundreds of files on that computer. It was so odd. The files represent many moments once lived, the countless amounts of effort and hard work I put into making it to this point, to becoming the human being I now write as to you.

I felt that many of those files--the ones where i put so much hard work into them, such as essays--were a waste, as if they didn't mean anything. I went through hell and back to write many of those papers. It reminded me of the tough times I went through during my college career. I saw the essays I've written and edited for other girls, old flames.

Seeing how useless many of those files are--it at least seems that way, perhaps they aren't--only confirms how burnt out I am with school, how useless and futile some of the things I do seem to be.

I was their passive, obedient student and did as was told. I've had few great college experiences there, and the experiences i wanted compared to the ones i got are seemingly non-existent.

So much work, even in maths like Algebra and Statistics, where i probably couldn't recall most of that information--same with my teaching classes, and other classes.

What do I have to show that I am here? The work I put in. The degree I will obtain at the end of this semester.

After this, I will take life into my own hands. I will shape the life I want, no matter how long that takes. I see a long road ahead of me, full of hard--but fulfilling--work, to develop myself as the best human being I can be for myself and society.

And all of this reflection made me realize, that sometimes other people don't respect other people's journeys, current or past, based on their interactions.

School has drained my soul. I've been burnt out. I can easily see why some students could no longer do it. Maybe they chose the wrong environment or college for them, who knows. But I am almost done. I am close. Just a bit more pushing. Sometimes in the past, I felt as if I was pushing a gigantic boulder, or against an invisible wall, times where I carried myself--when I was empty, but continued on--past all of the obstacles in my way.

I need to re-focus like I have been. I've allowed college to make me go crazy at times. Insane. Buzzing in the head.

If it weren't for writing and video-making (check out my YouTube channels if you'd like [Scrima Games: http://www.youtube.com/user/KevinScrimaGamez?sub_confirmation=1    and   Scrima Talks: http://www.youtube.com/user/KevinScrimaTalks?sub_confirmation=1  ]  ) I would have gone insane long ago.

After writing this, I am enjoying each second of earned relaxation that I have at this moment. And then I will enjoy sleep.

The identity I am heading toward is the one I want. There were times when I lost myself in college. You really couldn't blame anyone, because it's an easy thing to do, despite how grounded you are in values. Then some new experiences happen, and you realizes what you thought you wanted was not what you wanted. Then you learn there are other things you want.

I write this, instead of doing my homework. And rightly so. I've just written three summaries of three different stories for a few classes I missed. Those sucked. I learned from them--one had an insight about cycles of sheets in a hospital, how each patient shares one sheet as it is dirtied and cleaned--then I forgot the other story completely, and had to pull the file up to even remember it. Perhaps college has shot my memory, ironically.

One more week and it's Spring Break. So, some break is ahead, and that'll be nice.

Be focused, and don't lose sight of the journey ahead, of what you are walking--if not running--toward, and take the correct paths, or choose wisely. Then build, brick-by-brick, the life you want. Step by step, action by action, choice by choice.

I can't help but look back in the past and think, "Poor Kevin." He had been through a lot, suffered through a lot, had crappy experiences, but has still reached the person he wants to be.

No one said personal growth would be easy. No, when it's hard, when it stretches you apart, like butter on bread, you know it's being done right--but it also should feel refreshing afterward.

Here's to another chapter in my life closing soon: College. And afterward, a better, brighter one beginning. But that's adulthood. Who knows what that can entail. But I can't help think that that is better, than these classes, and this homework.

I know i will succeed no matter what happens, no matter how much I am stretched, for I have been stretched before, and am now titanium from it.

All neediness is gone, and I can just enjoy myself.

God, I titled this a BRIEF review of one's life journey. Eh, who knows, depending on one's definition, it can be brief. This post only covers a short part of my life, anyway. So yes, it is brief.

Time to rest, before continuing onward.

Making Money Online?!?!

So after making a post about wanting to make money, I found this course on Udemy on how to make money online: https://www.udemy.com/how-to-make-money-online-business-plan/#/lecture/446030

I'm pretty stoked and interested in learning about it. I guess I'll give it a try?

Make the Money, Don't Let The Money Make You?

There comes a time in one's life where one asks, "What ways can I make money?" And you want to think about smart ways, not stupid ways. You want to enjoy doing it. You want your time to be well-invested. You want it to be fulfilling.

I thought about the things I could do... write books... maybe find some programming languages I enjoy... make a niche category of YouTube videos.

Life is an experiment. So you have to experiment. My ambition can be bigger than my head sometimes, I think.

I sit here contemplating, what kind of style of YouTube videos I could make. I could continue to make the ones I do, but it may take a while before I get where I want to be. Doing reviews, satire, an analysis, etc, of video games came to mind. Well, you have to start somewhere.

I will go toward what I think are best. Make them, see what happens.

Also, workshops. Workshops come to mind. Legitimate ones where I can teach people about something.

But we also need to keep in mind to not be a complete workaholic, that sometimes, we also have to enjoy life. So I can't stress too much about this stuff.

College Life

So, I woke up, missed my first class; lucky i went to bed early and did some meditation beforehand using the Head  Space app, despite having tons of homework and tests.

First test I didn't study for, so I used my intuition on each question. We shall find out how well I did. Quickly studied some grammar concepts like subject and verb agreement, then pronouns, and took my mid-term exam, which was actually not bad, so I think I did somewhat well.

Drove home, because the school environment gives me a bad disposition, and I was so much happier near and at my home environment.

Now, I need to leave for my capstone, my night class, and haven't done any of the readings of student stories. I can skim them hopefully before and as it starts.

After class I will need to write more of that essay for my grammar class.

Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Honest feelings (about my college)

Well, today I slept through classes. Doesn't seem like no big deal, anyway. Need to have a second alarm because my first doesn't seem to work, or I don't hear it.

I'm very tired of school. Very burnt out. It's my last semester. I don't feel like I belong there, at least, even less so than usual. Guess I haven't since the beginning.  So, I'm ready to graduate.

And I have no friends there.

My experiences there have been far from satisfactory.

My motivation for school-related things is just not there. And I get up for work easier than I do school, and even enjoy work more than school--that's when you know something is fucked up somewhere.

Well, guess I should try to focus on my homework now...

Minor Revisions: Ethnic Fiction: Modern Vision Quest: Past, Present, and Future

Kevin M. Scrima

Ethnic Fiction—Professor Murabito

2/9/15 

Visions of The Past and Visions of the Future in the Present Moment

   The Native American girl told him that she wanted him to go on a Vision Quest with her. He liked the girl. Eh, he more than liked her. That’s why he decided to go. If he learned that emotions are stupid and had a Real Social Dynamics mentor, like someone who taught guys how to get girls by showing the most effective techniques behind interactions, then he would have had a vision that this Vision Quest was a mistake, and beyond foolish.

   The girl wanted company. That’s all. She didn’t necessarily like him romantically, though she did; it was complex. She didn’t want to go on this Vision Quest alone. She doesn’t like to be alone. Her family were really adamant about her going through this rite of passage, despite her not believing in it. Maybe she would lie about it and say some things, form some story about following a rabbit to a hole in a dream, kind of like Alice in Wonderland, and try to discover some deep philosophical meaning to it.

   He, Connor, was hoping to find a way to get closer to her. Maybe she did want to get close to him, too, instead of it being just company. She seemed like a needy person, always needing someone to hang around with. Girls are needy in general, he thought.

   As they walked into the woods, they chitchatted about trivial things. His blue backpack bounced up and down as Connor made his way down the path. He wore a red, plaid shirt and blue jeans. He glanced at his friend, Aiyanna, her two long, black braids bouncing and swaying, her tan, smooth skin, her brown eyes focused straight ahead. She wore a tan-colored Native American costume, one he thought he saw in the costume section during Halloween, or something that perhaps she bought off Amazon. He thought she was so beautiful, that if there were a Native American magazine, she’d be the model on the front cover, or probably could be for any other women magazine. At least he thought.

   “So… we’re going out here to a random spot in the woods, and we’re going to sit and talk, you know, eat, sleep, like we usually do, and suddenly a vision is gonna come out of nowhere, right?” Connor asked.

   Aiyanna giggled. “Yeah, pretty much. I mean, maybe we’ll see something or discover something about ourselves, who knows?”

   Connor made his way over a fallen tree, and his shoes crunched on the leaves as his shoes made contact with ground. Aiyanna added, “All a Vision Quest really is, is a deep insight to one’s life.”

   Connor turned to help her over the fallen tree and held her hand—“Thanks,” she said—and didn’t let go of it, wanting to keep holding on to it, but reluctantly let go. That brief touch excited him, because he was so inexperienced with girls, but her hand was also warm.

   “Like…” Connor began. “Like you believing you’re meant to be together with someone?” He glanced at her with that smirk of his.

   She laughed. “Something like that. I guess that could be one example.”

   “Or realizing that you’ll never find yourself!” Connor exclaimed. Feeling as if he was on to something, he continued, “Because you’re always changing as a person and can barely hold on to who you are. It’s more like catching yourself instead of finding yourself.” When Connor was excited with an idea, he rarely could hold back from talking. This was one of those times. “It’s almost like a game of hide-and-seek. Who you really are is hiding, but it’s your job to play the seeker. But the problem is, everyone else is playing the same game, and also trying to find each other. Everyone wants them to find them, which makes it problematic for other people being able to find themselves.” Light poured in between a few trees, blinding Connor momentarily as he instinctively brought up his hand to shield his eyes. That sun was bright.

   Aiyanna pondered his thought, biting her mouth in such a way that it looked like she paused halfway while chewing a piece of bubble gum, maybe wondering if she liked the taste or not, or if the flavor suddenly left. “I’ve never thought about it like that before. Interesting.”

   “Yep!” Connor said. “There’s your vision right there. For the both of us. Neither have I.”

   She gave a slight smile.

   As they continued walking, silence hung in the air. A sound from some weird bird became noticeable. “So…” he said again, trying to make light conversation. “Did you bring cannabis or something?”

   She laughed again, as he knew she would. “No, my parents would kill me. And I’ve never done drugs.”

   “Nether have I either. It was a joke anyway,” Connor said. “Or maybe we could be playing a video game or watching a YouTube video? There’s this one game, called Destiny, where you enter this portal to the Black Garden, and the whole screen has this weird, rainbow psychedelic effect. It’s pretty weird. I recorded my reaction on YouTube. You totally have to check it out sometime. Oh, did I tell you I have a YouTube channel? Google ‘Destiny Psychedelic Experience.’ It’s hilarious.” Wait, didn’t this mean he already had a Vision Quest? If finding the place where the protagonist had to go counted as a Vision Quest.

   Aiyanna laughed again. “Okay.” Video game analogy, really? she thought. “But you really can’t get any insights from that.”

   “Well,” Connor began. “It transports you to unknown territory, and you have to destroy the Heart of Darkness. I’m sure that means something, somewhere.” Coincidentally, he linked that heart to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness story. “Then the player finds out that the game sucked, there’s no more content, and that the game developers removed that content to sell it to you as future DLC, content you have to pay for that should already be in the game. In other words,” he said, “life’s about the money, not what you produce, necessarily. Or, it means that there are two kinds of people in this world: The people who screw you over, and those who get screwed over.”

   “Hmm,” Aiyanna merely said. She wasn’t used to all this intellectual talk, though she did find it interesting. “I should just talk to you all day, and that could be my vision quest,” she said, then laughed.

   Connor laughed. “Yeah. I always talk like this, sorry,” he said. And as soon as he did, he added, “Or it means there are those who you feed off of, and those that feed off you. It’s like this weird, fucked up, parasitic dance.”

   “Okay, that’s a creepy thought,” Aiyanna said, and slapped his shoulder, telling him to quit. “You’re going to give me nightmares.”

   “If that helps you have your vision faster,” Connor said, and laughed. “Okay, well. What else can I talk about? My friend did shrooms once. Actually, he did a lot of drugs. He once showed me some trippy YouTube videos, and recommended certain things to watch when you’re high. I think he told me he stared at the same thing for one hour or something. But we’re not friends anymore.”

   Aiyanna gave a short laugh. “Aw, I’m sorry. And Connor, I think we’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

   The air was cool. A creek rushed water between two large trees nearby. Connor stepped on a stone, and another, the water forming around it. One was round, so he had to keep his balance, but the rest were flat, as if they were made for being walked on. Once he made it to the other side, he helped her over. “I hope so,” he said, then reluctantly gave her hand back to herself. “I’m starting to get tired. How much further to walk?” He really wasn’t tired. From a logical standpoint, he didn’t see the point in walking further, or what a specific location a mile away could do compared to one nearby it.

   “Not too far,” she said. “The area is more safe and secluded. I’ve come here before sometimes as a kid. I always liked adventure and going to new places.”

   Connor smiled and looked at her beautiful face, her long eyelashes, her crooked, upturned nose. “I can tell. I’ve… been more interested in staying put.” He liked the familiar, but always tried to put himself in novel situations.

   “Here,” Aiyanna finally said.

   Thank God, Connor thought, as if He granted his desire to stay put, even though he didn’t believe in God, or any supernatural thing. Evolution and past events brought everything to this point. The thought made everything weird and his mind hurt, so he tried not to think about any of that. “Cool,” he simply said, and looked around. It was a round and wide, spacious area. Thick grass on the ground. Wide trees surrounding the area. A cliff jetting over that had a tree on top, but underneath was a huge hole, like a mini-cave, which might be good to sleep in, if need be, he guessed.

    “I’ve never camped before,” Connor said, even though he has told her this. “So you may need to help me with the set up. But I Googled it, so I should be fine, for the most part”

   Aiyanna smiled as she set her beige backpack down. “Alright, Modern-Boy.”

   Modern Boy? He wondered. “Okay Out-Of-Date-Past-Girl,” he decided to say, then smiled.

   Aiyanna giggled. She pulled the tent from a bag and began setting it up.

   Connor took his out and tried to follow how she did hers. But for some reason, his kept falling down. “Ugh!” he shouted in frustration.

   Aiyanna looked at him as she finished putting hers up, a teepee, beige and white. “Need help?” she asked with a smile.

   Connor, stubborn, wouldn’t give in. “Nope, I…” his blue tent collapsed. “Yes, fine.”

   Aiyanna chuckled as she came over. “Look, like this…” then she proceeded to show him how to put up a tent, which turned into a big rectangle. Connor observed, sulking, his arms across his chest. “How did you learn how to pitch a tent so well?” And as soon as he asked, his mouth contorted into a smile, and he made a weird sound with his mouth and nose as he tried to hold his laughter in, then quickly brought a hand to his mouth.

   “Well, I…” she looked up at him. “What’s so funny?”

   “Um, nothing,” he said, contorting his face back to normal and biting his lip.

   Her eyebrows narrowed. “Ew. Gross.”

   Then he burst out laughing, his hand on his stomach. “Sorry.”

   They carried and rolled their sleeping bags in their own individual tents, laid a few thick, wool blankets outside so they wouldn’t be sitting on the ground. As he sat with her, he said, “Okay,” and clapped his hands together. “Let’s have this vision!”

   Aiyanna tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, seriously?

   Connor put his hands up in front of his chest in surrender. It got quiet. That weird-sounding bird could be heard again, singing its weird song. But it was the bird’s own, unique song, after all, Connor thought, which was why it sounded weird. It probably sounds natural to the bird, though.