tank_rockarms (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tank_rockarms) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
smash_logs2012-03-25 11:37 pm
tank_rockarms) wrote in smash_logs2012-03-25 11:37 pm
Max Has A Strange Moment: The Solo-Log, The Reaction-Log, The Videogame: The Lesson of Humble Work
Who: Max, Celibi, YOU MAYBE?????
What: Max has a solo-log THROUGH TIME AND SPACE and then a not-solo-log
Where: Smash Academy then Not Smash Academy then Smash Academy Again
When: Saturday March 24th - Sunday March 25th
Warnings: Max is here??? Probably some swears or something????
Max had, in one stupid, testosterone-fueled moment, ruined several friendships, and scared the living daylight out of himself. He thought that he knew what he was like, and that he was one of the 'good guys,' whatever that was supposed to mean. But he found out, with a little prodding, he could go further than he thought. He'd branded Char. He'd taken a friend and basically told him that he was Max's property, and he'd done this to a pokemon. A pokemon with a trainer. This was the opposite of cool. This was the equivalent of really terrible thing to do. It had shown Max that, deep inside, he was vain and proud and angry and controlling. He'd always been those things, but they'd finally joined together to hurt a friend deeply.
And so Max had been rather upset and thoughtful. Thoughtful is not a mental state that Max knows how to navigate well. It made him even more upset, at which point he would have to think about it even more, and the cycle would repeat ad nausium.
He was getting frustrated with his life and with his situation. He was Max, and he didn't run from anything, but he needed time and space to work through this problem. Time and space that, even with the lax teaching schedule this school offered, Max simply didn't have. And Max knew that no amount of just thinking about it was going to change anything. That wasn't how he worked. He couldn't reason himself into being a better person, he had to do himself into being a better person. Though Max didn't know it, he would have made a good Aristotelian. At least as far as virtue is concerned, anyway.
Max had never had a problem being a blastoise or a venusaur. It was only when he was a charizard that he had this problem. There was a burning fire within that Max couldn't keep a handle on. He was always on and never off. Fires that go out of control end up destroying everything around them. Water and Grass had never tempted him to rage in the way that Fire had. Max began to suspect, at least from how Char had treated him before Max betrayed his friend, that Max was rather good at being a charizard. That, perhaps, there was a bit of fire in his soul that meshed with the fire-type's native sensibilities. A fire that he didn't know how to control; an eternal flame to rage and pride that glowered within him.
Max, of course, didn't think of it in quite these terms. He more felt it than anything else. But he at least acknowledged the feelings on a more guttural level.
And so he was out walking on Saturday evening, thinking to himself about his life and what he needed to do. And how he needed to somehow find a way to control the burning pride inside of himself. But he had no idea how to begin, or even where to do it. People left this school on their own, and sometimes they came back fine, and other times they came back with their minds wiped like creepy clones of themselves. If he left without a place to go to or a purpose beyond simply 'find myself,' would he come back? He had to find a way to work through the fire inside without losing himself.
His thoughts (he thought them very loudly) were overheard by a little fairy-thing with red, round cheeks and green hair. She was quite interested in what Max was thinking, and she'd asked him a question or two about what he was thinking. He was confused as to how she knew about the fire and the working and the needing a place to go and the dozen questions that came pouring out of her mouth in one moment. But he answered her questions, sort of. And said that he was, indeed, looking for a place to go. The next thing he knew, there was a green, mystik spiral and falling and passing out.
Max woke up. He was in a place he'd never seen before. With people who he didn't recognize, all speaking, what was that? Some sort of variant of what they spoke in Yellow Comet? It sounded like Yellow Comet. Max sort of knew how to speak that. Sort of. And why was everyone dressed up like they should be in a movie or something? Swords and arrows and armor and crap.It was almost as if he'd been dropped into some untranslated Japanese DS game.
Max was officially the largest person in this place. Well, that at least was nice for him. Nice and vain. Mmmm. But he noticed something about the place where he had ended up. There was a ringing sound, of metal on metal. He followed the sounds and found himself in a shop full of weapons and armor and sundry other goods made from iron and steel - knives and spoons and nails and files and horseshoes and chains and manacles. And in the back of the store, the sounds came stronger and louder. Max was in a blacksmith's shop. A large and nice one, to be sure, but he was in a blacksmith's shop.
And that's when the germ of an idea somehow got into Max's thick skull: Why not learn to do something constructive with fire, instead of destructive. If Max could find a way to work fire on the outside so that it was a force of creation, maybe he would work through his inner-life, too. It was worth a shot.
And if he was going to be in this stupid place, he was going to have to have something to do.
And so Max, in his rather poor Yellow Cometese, asked to be taught how to do the work at the forge. Even though he didn't know the word for 'forge' and had to call it 'fire iron thing.' And he was terrible at asking for things politely in this curious and antique tongue.
The forge-master had two thoughts run through his head: 1. Max was too old and impolite to take on as an apprentice. You had to get them by 12 or there was no hope of teaching them the things they would need to know. 2. Holy shit, look at the arms on that guy.
In the end, #2 won out by a razor thin margin. This guy could probably do so much work. But he wasn't getting any special treatment. He had to be a regular apprentice. Which meant doing the crappiest jobs. For months, if not years, before he could be taught how to do anything involving the forge other than pump the billows, sweep up, or fetch buckets of water. It was going to be grueling, thankless work.
Max was at first offended. He was a general. He was a boss. He didn't have to do menial labor, he had people to do that for him. And then he suddenly realized that, perhaps, this was what his soul needed.
And so for three months, Max had done the shit jobs. He'd carried the water, and pumped the billows, and swept the floor, and carted the wood and fire and ore and learned to do the things he was told without getting angry at having to do them.
Until one day there was a green spiral that Max fell into and popped out of.
But the Max who fell out looked a little... different. There was a strange, ruddy sunburnt look to his cheeks and arms, and his hair was shaggy (he hadn't had a haircut in three months) and there was a wall of blue shag carpeting sticking out of his shirt. His shirt that was not a tank-top but instead a regular shirt. And he was wearing a leather apron. And he was filthy. Smudges from head to toe.
"What."
And though he didn't know it, it was Sunday evening, a day after he'd left.
((WANT TO MEET A REALLY STRANGE LOOKING MAX? SURE YOU DO.))
I swear to Glob, this will be the last thing I spam the community with with Max for some time
What: Max has a solo-log THROUGH TIME AND SPACE and then a not-solo-log
Where: Smash Academy then Not Smash Academy then Smash Academy Again
When: Saturday March 24th - Sunday March 25th
Warnings: Max is here??? Probably some swears or something????
Max had, in one stupid, testosterone-fueled moment, ruined several friendships, and scared the living daylight out of himself. He thought that he knew what he was like, and that he was one of the 'good guys,' whatever that was supposed to mean. But he found out, with a little prodding, he could go further than he thought. He'd branded Char. He'd taken a friend and basically told him that he was Max's property, and he'd done this to a pokemon. A pokemon with a trainer. This was the opposite of cool. This was the equivalent of really terrible thing to do. It had shown Max that, deep inside, he was vain and proud and angry and controlling. He'd always been those things, but they'd finally joined together to hurt a friend deeply.
And so Max had been rather upset and thoughtful. Thoughtful is not a mental state that Max knows how to navigate well. It made him even more upset, at which point he would have to think about it even more, and the cycle would repeat ad nausium.
He was getting frustrated with his life and with his situation. He was Max, and he didn't run from anything, but he needed time and space to work through this problem. Time and space that, even with the lax teaching schedule this school offered, Max simply didn't have. And Max knew that no amount of just thinking about it was going to change anything. That wasn't how he worked. He couldn't reason himself into being a better person, he had to do himself into being a better person. Though Max didn't know it, he would have made a good Aristotelian. At least as far as virtue is concerned, anyway.
Max had never had a problem being a blastoise or a venusaur. It was only when he was a charizard that he had this problem. There was a burning fire within that Max couldn't keep a handle on. He was always on and never off. Fires that go out of control end up destroying everything around them. Water and Grass had never tempted him to rage in the way that Fire had. Max began to suspect, at least from how Char had treated him before Max betrayed his friend, that Max was rather good at being a charizard. That, perhaps, there was a bit of fire in his soul that meshed with the fire-type's native sensibilities. A fire that he didn't know how to control; an eternal flame to rage and pride that glowered within him.
Max, of course, didn't think of it in quite these terms. He more felt it than anything else. But he at least acknowledged the feelings on a more guttural level.
And so he was out walking on Saturday evening, thinking to himself about his life and what he needed to do. And how he needed to somehow find a way to control the burning pride inside of himself. But he had no idea how to begin, or even where to do it. People left this school on their own, and sometimes they came back fine, and other times they came back with their minds wiped like creepy clones of themselves. If he left without a place to go to or a purpose beyond simply 'find myself,' would he come back? He had to find a way to work through the fire inside without losing himself.
His thoughts (he thought them very loudly) were overheard by a little fairy-thing with red, round cheeks and green hair. She was quite interested in what Max was thinking, and she'd asked him a question or two about what he was thinking. He was confused as to how she knew about the fire and the working and the needing a place to go and the dozen questions that came pouring out of her mouth in one moment. But he answered her questions, sort of. And said that he was, indeed, looking for a place to go. The next thing he knew, there was a green, mystik spiral and falling and passing out.
Max woke up. He was in a place he'd never seen before. With people who he didn't recognize, all speaking, what was that? Some sort of variant of what they spoke in Yellow Comet? It sounded like Yellow Comet. Max sort of knew how to speak that. Sort of. And why was everyone dressed up like they should be in a movie or something? Swords and arrows and armor and crap.
Max was officially the largest person in this place. Well, that at least was nice for him. Nice and vain. Mmmm. But he noticed something about the place where he had ended up. There was a ringing sound, of metal on metal. He followed the sounds and found himself in a shop full of weapons and armor and sundry other goods made from iron and steel - knives and spoons and nails and files and horseshoes and chains and manacles. And in the back of the store, the sounds came stronger and louder. Max was in a blacksmith's shop. A large and nice one, to be sure, but he was in a blacksmith's shop.
And that's when the germ of an idea somehow got into Max's thick skull: Why not learn to do something constructive with fire, instead of destructive. If Max could find a way to work fire on the outside so that it was a force of creation, maybe he would work through his inner-life, too. It was worth a shot.
And if he was going to be in this stupid place, he was going to have to have something to do.
And so Max, in his rather poor Yellow Cometese, asked to be taught how to do the work at the forge. Even though he didn't know the word for 'forge' and had to call it 'fire iron thing.' And he was terrible at asking for things politely in this curious and antique tongue.
The forge-master had two thoughts run through his head: 1. Max was too old and impolite to take on as an apprentice. You had to get them by 12 or there was no hope of teaching them the things they would need to know. 2. Holy shit, look at the arms on that guy.
In the end, #2 won out by a razor thin margin. This guy could probably do so much work. But he wasn't getting any special treatment. He had to be a regular apprentice. Which meant doing the crappiest jobs. For months, if not years, before he could be taught how to do anything involving the forge other than pump the billows, sweep up, or fetch buckets of water. It was going to be grueling, thankless work.
Max was at first offended. He was a general. He was a boss. He didn't have to do menial labor, he had people to do that for him. And then he suddenly realized that, perhaps, this was what his soul needed.
And so for three months, Max had done the shit jobs. He'd carried the water, and pumped the billows, and swept the floor, and carted the wood and fire and ore and learned to do the things he was told without getting angry at having to do them.
Until one day there was a green spiral that Max fell into and popped out of.
But the Max who fell out looked a little... different. There was a strange, ruddy sunburnt look to his cheeks and arms, and his hair was shaggy (he hadn't had a haircut in three months) and there was a wall of blue shag carpeting sticking out of his shirt. His shirt that was not a tank-top but instead a regular shirt. And he was wearing a leather apron. And he was filthy. Smudges from head to toe.
"What."
And though he didn't know it, it was Sunday evening, a day after he'd left.
((WANT TO MEET A REALLY STRANGE LOOKING MAX? SURE YOU DO.))