Poetry

Retooling My Post-Musk Bio

Lester
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

One benefit (seriously) of the shift from Musk’s Twitter has been rethinking my bio on social media.

To this point, that bio has been a pitch for my self-published games, ending with a tongue-in-cheek, boat-rocking “Vegan gun owner.”

And I’ll be honest, the RPG designs in particular have been exceptional. (If that sounds arrogant, remember that I’m in the habit of saying the same about work by other designers.) D6xD6 and Bookmark HP RPG especially have a simplicity on the surface that belies the carefully crafted mechanics beneath. I’m gambling my Origins award for Dragon Dice on that opinion.

But social justice issues, especially the “Black Lives Matter” movement, are more important. To quote Salman Rushdie, “A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.”

I’m trying to capture all of that in the new bio: credentials, then passions, then gratitude.

“I’m a ‘retired,’ award-winning hobby game designer & author. Passionate about social justice, games, & poetry. A one man, best-selling, bucket-list self-publisher. Honored to play any part in other people’s fun!”

Walking the line between passion and arrogance is a difficult task. At times I’ve stumbled and stepped on toes, and I carry that guilt with me. At other times, when it comes to social justice, I step on toes intentionally, in the spirit of Rushdie’s quote.

Every writer’s work requires confidence, a belief in oneself, though few writers enjoy self-promotion. I certainly don’t. Nor do I “enjoy” confrontation.

But I tell you the truth as best I see it. About cruelty. And about human kindness. About suffering. And about joy. At my age, I’m aware that sometimes my efforts have changed lives, just as other writers have changed mine. I’m grateful for both.

And I love you. Here’s wishing you the very best today and always.

Les

A Father Explains Why TV Shows Get Canceled

Lester

A FATHER EXPLAINS WHY TV SHOWS GET CANCELED

At first, my boy, they’re always fascinating.
Each fresh new face conceals a mystery,
an undiscovered personality,
which we spend every week anticipating.

Then, even once the novelty’s abating,
there’s comfort in familiarity.
At each old joke, we chuckle faithfully
(our sense of humor undiscriminating).

And when, at last, the sameness becomes grating
(or worse, begins to spread a dull ennui),
it’s best to terminate them gracefully,
before their antics grow humiliating.

So now you know why God invented death, son.
(Though we can always hope for syndication.)

—Lester Smith, 2007

Help I’m Concise

Lester

Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@manuschwendener?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">manu schwendener</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/glass-of-water?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a>
The song, “Help I’m Alive” by Metric is a piece of minimalist genius.

At first glance, it seems simply sparse, in keeping with the moment of panic we feel before stepping on stage. “If I tremble, they’re gonna eat me alive. If I stumble, they’re gonna eat me alive.” So few words to capture so much terror.

“Can’t you hear my heart beating like a hammer. / Beating like a hammer. / Beating like a hammer. / Beating like a hammer.” That repetition itself is a pulse, with a sparsity casting me back to the breathless “animal in a cage” inability to think beyond the moment before the mike goes live.

But here are the words of minimalist lyrical genius that have been flowing around my brain cavity since first hearing the song: “Hard to be soft, tough to be tender.”

I’m a poet by nature. (Game design is formalist poetry.) And I find myself stunned at the perfection of those eight words. Where do I start?

First, each phrase takes two utterly contradictory words and melds them into a singular truth. That accomplishment alone fills me with wonder. Especially given that they’re simple one-syllable words.

One-syllable except for the last, intentional, two-syllable word. Listen to the rhythm of the line, the one-syllable “soft” forcing a caesura that makes you hear each phrase as independent. Then the two-syllable “tender” leading rhythmically to the next line.

And grammatically the phrases are identical. An open oyster shell.

Beyond all that, there’s the poetic consonance and assonance of those four adjectives. “Soft” and “tough” are virtually mirror images.

Just, wow.

Until today, I’d been so captivated by that line that I missed how structurally parallel the next one is: “Come take / my pulse, / the pace / is on a runaway train.” Those pulsing iambs. The one-vowel-sound difference between “pulse” and “pace.” The fluidity of the last phrase with its trio of “n’s.’

This is minimalism. A glass of water so clear you notice neither glass nor water in the act of drinking.

This is the difference between brevity and concision. The division between short and art.

And it’s why I so hate the catchall phrase, “rules lite,” in game design.

Waiting in the Dentist’s Chair . . .

Lester

Waiting in the Dentist’s Chair,
Watching the Slide Show

The girl had a pixie’s face
Sparkling blue eyes
A fairy dusting of freckles
And a big, gap-toothed grin
Like a row of druidic standing stones

I could have kissed her

That was “before”

“After” showed the same face, same pose, same grin

The freckles seemed faded
And the eyes looked older
The only sparkle was
From the perfectly manufactured smile

I would have missed her

In any crowd
On any street
In America