Yesterday, I watched a streaming broadcast – this particular broadcast I watch everyday. Over the years of viewing, I have come to appreciate the views and information and occasional bits of wisdom. However, recently, the duo who speak on a variety of subjects, have become morose — negative, doom-saying, and exaggerated. Yesterday’s broadcast was particularly dark and “doomy.”

Afterward the broadcast, I sat outside and discovered I had anger and disappointment. My heroes were lost. They acted from an imagined paranoia. They complained and scolded. They judged. They looked down upon the “locals” — called them zombies, and warned of a zombie apocalypse.  The good-times had passed. Ahead lie misery and destruction. Elitist points of view. Instead of educating or making actions, they complained the world had fallen. Gloomy moods.

As I sat with questions and disappointments, a combination of cool air and hot sun confuse my senses. The varied temperatures mix like oil and water. I lit a cigarette.

I try to hold the conflicting realities: Spanish mountains and American politics. Here I sit on a large stone listening to my thoughts and birds singing. A moment ago, I was listening to gloomy predictions about the downfall of US culture, the crash of the stock market, and zombie vigilantes who would steal food and eat your money. Glancing to my left, I see our make-shift flower bed: a mix of soil, sawdust, and cat crap. Anemones and grasses are breaking through the ground.

I see — a thought — as it drops into me.

The figures in the broadcast, relating their thoughts, generated by their personal experience, are describing the USA. Left hand views of a right hand world. Seemingly paranoid concerns are born from their experience of the United States. I sit on a rock on a remote mountain in Spain.  A cat wonders passed.

The cat sees me with a tense fear, confused about where it should pass. Paused in a moment of terror. Learned terror? Or DNA programmed terror? Or “stranger danger”?

Safe Spaces

It scampers to a rocky protection, and watches me from its notion of a safe space.

I listen to silence and think of video games. In TeamFortress there are countless servers providing countless gaming spaces — each with its own personality and set of usual players. These gaming servers remind me of little cities or playgrounds. Using texting options or Ventrilo, I have chatted with my friends across the varied gaming “cities” and “playgrounds”. We trade texts and conversation, as we spider-out into the multi-verse looking for a “hot” game. “Found one”

We talk across time zones and tierra, through locally important moments and crumby temporary existences. Many lifetimes. We die, and we die. Each gaming life is added, and experience is multiplied. In the crumby games, I, too, add to my stats. Proof of my existence.

Still stung by the mood of the broadcast, I re-catch the thought.


I call my good friend on the cell. We trade stories of our recent experiences, and I stumble again into my realization. If life is so terrible in the US, and it’s going to get worse, then leave. Change servers. Change games. Why complain about the way folks are playing the game? It’s the game. It’s like yelling at the weather. It is. In Spain, I am tall.

He politely listens to me remember and recall my realizations. Apologizing, I tell him I wasn’t going to share my disappointment, not now. But, I am, and, of course, I would. I wanted to tell my story, complain my thoughts, searching for affirmations.

Neither agreeing, nor disagreeing, he says, “I think people create their own situations.”