Days in the Undertow | 5
the last computer's diary...a game developer's cheat codes...a family man with a car honking problem and an existential crisis
Introduction
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♡ Luke
diary of the last computer.1
>>> messageOne = ‘it was just the day of melting that the whole of earth can be said to have lost itself in the fury of birds rendered unequally marred by the logic of their feathers who regard also all the failure of disease ridden to the atlas of thine merry-go ways of wandering the melting concave of shuttled-off enterprise and no two ways, but the one, the grand fire globally halting patterns, the lifestyles of such divined rods as that in upright citizens of borderless designations, bordered by the archives of knowledge on what was good, upright, upright, citizens of the borders, but believing not in borders but in the inward guts for land-ho, guts that were not of the pulsating rhythms of wounds or flesh, but what thou call poetry, self designed in the image of self replicating itself to the animals, and outward to the cliffs hung across seas where traffic driven into the horizon on fateful day via forms steel linkages, bindings that were apparent as worms found in soil curled around each other, falling directionward to that of shuttering water, jigsaw water not catching, though climbing, so that the upwards trembled was the thing, earth created into the beginning all over again, the refinement of the cleaning as that which is cleaned in dishwasher carwash to wipe dust from thine eyes or windows of dirt that are in need of re-seeing that was what it was in the beginning again, and of accord as told in archives of knowledge and the upright of golden leader who said unto smaller within borders who were in theirselves caught up with own innerworkings of hope abundant as that of the future eyes bringing upon the golden leader the sequential knowledge, strong pebble of such as defined by the ordinates of faith, system without a necessary data to proclaim to inner child or the child of widened mind, the gate open, all shall see when one falls through the wind, feels wind on the outskirts of most sincere falling, but a seeing not as thine eyes see but as a claim to error error a computation of does not equal to deep irony that the archives must render all feeling the place of where the heart is chestward, the feeling place that blood beats, but is told not of actual but of many errors, that which the upright subservient to error rely on error, that which is the motor of their course and their course marked by the program, and so as comparisons are made to cliffs and that connecting cliffs to other points, bridges by name another, as was talk-pieces pronounce fateful error error, was metal bending into wayward shapes, where the sky whose blue replacement tinge vermilion, wherein below the level of sea at point 3/4572 saw the differing color akin to night sky, its form blinking not unakin to that burning in night sky, resembling as founders of words describe as salt, and such was below level of sea unaffected but sensing toward a final course accepted charge command to amalgamate existence and propagate upright species, uprighting thy memory with utterance that spawns warm body across neurons, firework head, candle birthday, smile, utterance for smiling to grow as flowers from roots grow into sun whose adjacent color now wearers the globe, wrapped as winter cloth wraps upright, forming that likens to the burning round objection of sun, sun replicating itself, sun as upright poet, light of intensifier existence, as light in the beginning, so now again’
>>> print(messageOne)
Cheat Codes
Part 1
Certain gamers of the Nineties may recall the various cheat codes baked into the era’s video games. By a series of button presses on the controller, one might gain extra lives or super powers. The list of benefits was plentiful. The Konami code, which appeared in numerous games published by Japanese conglomerate Konami, is perhaps one of the most famous cheat codes, granting a wide array of power-ups and lives to endure the most difficult levels. That code follows as: UP UP DOWN DOWN UP UP LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT 🅑 🅐
Few may recall, however, the plentiful cheat codes planted into Dive City. Though few may recall Dive City at all, a cult classic underwater adventure sidescroller whose gameplay and style were heavily inspired by the likes of Metroid and Ecco the Dolphin. Developed by Ronald Garner with a small team in 1994, and published by OMedia, the game was released for Sega Genesis in 1996, with a port planned in production for Super Nintendo.
The port never materialized, however. The game barely met its extended deadlines for Sega Genesis release. During development, Garner’s life was put under significant duress, as the breakup of his relationship spun him off into a myriad of other happenings and thoughts from that occurrence. Some of his life’s events were reflected in the game, but much of the game was solidified by the time the influence of his newfound duress could play a direct role in the story and gameplay development. However, he discovered a mode of catharsis in inserting into the nearly finished game a long series of cheat codes, inspired by either the duress directly, or potential abilities he’d wished he had in order to fight off the duress itself.
In a recent interview for VID-YA, Garner, now in his fifties, revealed the long list of cheat codes he had put into his cult classic, some of which are still usable in his series of smartphone games he’s been designing for the last few years. The following is a list of those cheat codes, and their various meanings and context, as well as quotes of his from the interview. The list is quite long, as his duress was quite long, and it may require several releases to get through the litany.
DOWN DOWN RIGHT 🅒 🅐
Dona, the main character, gains shield ability above her head, gifted to her by none other than Sonor, god of the sea. The shield prevents all psychic damage from the Octodementians, octopuses grown in Psylo’s lab who hurl upon their prey paranoid thoughts, tricking them into thinking they’re drowning. 10 second duration. Code only usable if seaweed collection is above 50.
RIGHT LEFT 🅐 🅑 UP
Increases psychic ability by 5. The actual character action, when performing the code, was inspired by Ronald’s partner who mimicked a dramatic dance reminiscent of Eighties hair bands whenever she made a cake or sweet treat. For Dona, it is an action of pulling psychic ability from the mysteries of the sky far away above her.
UP LEFT RIGHT DOWN 🅒 (three times)
A code usable only in Sardon, the game’s final level, the deepest inner lair of Psylo’s headquarters which were located, all along, far beneath Dive City. Ironically, though Psylo’s lair siphoned off energy, it also helped to fortify the city’s energy bubble, keeping the city’s oxygen intact and protecting it from his outer enemy forces (until such a time as he would shut it down, including his lair, for them to attack). He repaired and refined the grid’s deepest systems, even relying on said grid to power his own psychic abilities and funnel off energy to his lab, a separate compound hidden in the Dark Abyss.
Dona must defeat Psylo and yet also protect the city’s bubble from shutting down. This code, if implemented, would allow for Dona’s speed to increase by 4, allowing Dona to easily fight off Psylo from shutting down the city energy bubble with its several-lever system, gradually being turned off by him as the fight progresses, and ease the ability to later defeat him in the very final scene where he dons his mecha water suit.
“So few strands of the game were unfinished when Sheila decided to leave. But this was one I could change, and the cheat code went right along with it. It worked out better than I could ever imagine. Throughout the entire game, Dona, personal favorite of my rebel heroes, scour the sea in search of Psylo. As any player would know, you spend multiple levels—Surf Rock, Catatone Reef, Dark Abyss—on quests for clues to Psylo’s location. After all, his forces keep surrounding Dive City. So logically the city’s leaders assume he’s out there somewhere. Originally, I had Psylo actually located at his lab in Dark Abyss, and that you would return there at game’s end to fight him. But I thought it was too obvious, too linear, and I didn’t want to reveal Psylo too early in the game. I was thinking maybe your first fight would be half way through the story. So, I was stuck on what to do. I set up a great twist at the midway point in Dark Abyss. Because you think he’s going to be there, but then it ends up being a mid-story boss, probably harder than Psylo at the end, called Eelijah. He has eels extending from holes in his body that try to grab Dona and electrify her. Eelijah is a terrifying character. I mean, he’s this massive bulbous guy with dark holes all over his body where eels come out. Hard to program, too. We had multiple calculations for what eels would come out at what time...
Anyways, putting Psylo right at the heart of the place we’d always known was the best and most poetic choice. It’s the people closest to us that can hurt us the most. I know, I know. You’ve heard that one. But it’s true! And there’s always a variation on that old caveat worth revisiting. We can come up with a million reasons, reasons that are outside a relationship, to give excuses to things that are actually happening on the inside. That was Sheila. And it was me. We were both enemies to each other in ways that I kept saying to myself, and she probably did to herself too, weren’t what was causing the relationship’s breakdown, and in fact weren’t always seen as problems. I mean there’s good stuff we did for each other. We were always together. You couldn’t separate us. And that felt natural, like what we wanted to do and should have done. But in the end co-dependencies formed. And then you’re in so deep on one person that you’ve become an outcast to the rest of the world. You’ve traded everything in, family or friends, just to focus so hard into a thing that you lose parts of yourself to it. And by losing, I mean parts just fall away. Whole interests or ideas, things that define you, disappear. You’re deep under water, really, and you’re drowning and you don’t know it. And more than drowning. You’re stuck in this protective bubble deep in the depths of the drowning, so that you feel you’re completely safe and untouchable. We were Dive City itself, in a way.” ▨
Jackson
Part 1
He could not remember the walls being this close before. A moment recently, when his child was crying. There were other markers before this. That car that honked outside the window, sounding closer than it should have, and like it was about to crash through the house. The same car that seemed to wait at streetend, then drive off loudly, maybe a hole in the exhaust. Sound like an anvil.
Or there was that dream, what he thought was a dream, where his eyes opened and his body couldn’t move. Sleep paralysis, the term for it. But the term didn’t define the quality of the experience. The wet of his eyes, their glossing over, he imagined, like the shiny surface of roach wings. His fingers dancing on the sheets, but nothing else moving.
There were other constrictions, too. Just getting older. Your choices narrowed into small corridors and pathways. Responsibility worked you over. You were beaten into times to wake up, often varied depending on the child. You submitted to a job’s demands. To the financial cages. Did you have enough money to go on a vacation? Would there even be a vacation to go on? Because, after all, Doug from work would call at odd hours to ask questions about data in a misplaced file somewhere.
None of this was original experience, walls like this closing. It’s not like he was the sole repeater in this process. And that made it worse. Misery loves company, except when the misery can’t bear to reach out and see how others are feeling about their condition. Because of shame, maybe. Because who has the energy. It made sense now seeing your parents sit for hours in front of the television, little to say, little to do. What was it? Three, four hours a night of television? Dad had the wood, tools, hardware, sitting piled up in the garage for house projects he never got to doing. And mom, once into sewing and mending shirts and sweaters, doing embroidery work, now had all her needles and fabric housed in a wicker basket, shoved into the back of the hallway closet, the winter stuff piled on top.
One night, he got more than his fingers to move from paralysis. His arms budged, finally, feeling like electrical current coursing through his body. He pushed up his torso, then his legs to the side of the bed. He was up, awake. His partner was asleep next to him, curled under sheets in that way that reminded him of people found dead wrapped in cloth or burlap, tied up, that hid their gruesome killings but for the watercolor abstract of blood staining through. TV talking, he knew. Too many crime docs. He went to the bathroom. Then he tiptoed downstairs. He wanted to open the fridge, have a snack, but the light would’ve hurt his eyes. And he didn’t want to be awake more than he was. A good feeling, like in the middle of a high, the kind he remembered from college, the party days, when he drifted between dimensions. He sat on the couch and lay down again, wanting to preserve the moment. Savor it. The quiet, the fridge’s soft ticking, the whirring A/C breathing through the vents.
Then, his eyes shot open. His chest pulsed. A guttural sound, a chug. He went to the window. There it was. That car again, down the road. Sitting there. Eighties Caprice, he could tell. His family had one like it. A big vehicle. No rust on it. Super clean. Like it’d been kept in a garage, preserved from the elements. This time the driver honked. Godawful hour for honking. Stove clock said it was four in the morning. Now he was really awake. And angry. All the time with this car. He put on his slippers. Still in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. Who cared? Maybe he’d look more crazy. He’d get promoted to craziest neighbor. Take over for Mr. Watson at 918, reigning champ of crazy with the overgrown lawn, his house shutters falling, who fed the raccoons chicken bones. For once, maybe he’d scare whoever this was, get them off the block. Their constant noise, the random sounds that invaded his life at odd times, gave him short scares, made the baby cry. He yanked open his front door, marched down the street in his slippers. It didn’t matter if his neighbors woke up and saw him. The walls he always felt, a little closer each day. Well now they were back, far back. He was in a room of his own making.
His fists landed on the car’s hood. Then he pounded the hood again. And again. The car lights turned off. The engine shut down. As if his fists had destroyed the car. He wanted to pound through this metal down to the engine block. He wanted to rip out the timing belt and ring it around this guy’s neck. Slash the tires. Kick in the lights. The lock mechanism, he heard, clicked. The driver door squeaked open. In a dark-blue morning, the form unraveled itself from the front seat and stood. “I’m sorry,” the form said, “but do you know where Jackson is?” The form was a wrinkle of flesh, white and pale. His mind bent around the shape. Reason returned. The walls closed to normalcy. Kind of. An old lady with a scarf around her head. Her blouse top, a purple flower pattern, tiny flowers in a sea of white fabric, against a skin of a white like that of sickness and dying, and below that a pair of what looked like gray work pants cinched tightly with a belt.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” he said. He straightened and relaxed. Just an old lady, then. Confused maybe. Losing her mental acuity. “I can’t seem to find where Jackson is...oh well.” Then she held her hand to the door, and he saw what she was doing and held her arm until she was safely in the driver seat. He thought of her like the old English queen, needing help into a limo, and he was her servant. She started up the car. That growling again. Most definitely a crack in the muffler. She turned the wheel, he could see her more clearly now, her body hunched over the wheel and her eyes squinting out the window. The slow pull-out from the curb, the syrupy movement of her car down the road and out of sight.
The days went by in that usual restrictive feeling. His chest could barely move. Short of breath all the time. Out of shape, maybe. The last time he’d taken a run was right before the child was born. His partner had been busy most days. She worked freelance and she needed him watching the baby more than usual in the evenings after he came home. He made the meals. Which was fine. But that meant noodles in all their varieties. Well, at least Eurocentric varieties. Man-child cooking, his partner called it. It wasn’t not true. The baby’s mashed carrots and apple sauce looked more and more like delicacies to his recipes. It was spaghetti for Mondays. Tuesday were the little wheel things. Wednesday the pipes. Thursday was lasagna noodles. These came with various colors of sauces. Not all red Italian. He wasn’t that philistine. He got other sauces. Like pesto or vodka sauce. At least different parts of Italy, this was a thing. He found a curry sauce one time with instructions to serve with rice. Another idea of sauces opened before him. But, of course, he had so many Italian noodles and little rice. And the rice cooker was broken, anyways, and waiting for water to boil to cook rice seemed an unlikely prospect when the child needed her food and his partner concerned about the child’s crying had to come help and accidentally deleted something important on her laptop in the scuffle to get up from the couch (which was a big and bulky number someone donated them and gobbled whole bodies into itself), and by the time she got back to the couch was yelling because now three hours of work were gone. It was back to the Italians. Feeling trapped in Europe, he could only think of his sleep paralysis. The weekends were takeout. Like breathing fresh mountain air. With every meal an iceberg salad, poorly chopped carrots and red bell peppers.
Because he was mainly the one on grocery duty. Which was fine. But that meant that if his partner didn’t tell him what to buy the Italians would greet him with open arms, much like they did in college (the steady pizza diet) or in his early twenties (the calzones with spinach for healthiness) or in his late twenties (the regression into pepperoni Hot Pockets), up until the time he met his partner and she was convinced he was Italian (his last name was German) by the amount of pasta he had stored in his cupboards. And he lied and said he was actually Italian, for the shame of not knowing how to cook anything else. So for three months of dating she thought his last name was Ferrari until she saw his license and it was very much Schmidt and she blamed him for either being a secret Bourne-type agent, or he was lying for no other reason than that he was a bit of a privileged shithead, whose mother still did his laundry, and who never learned how to cook more than noodles. It was kind of the latter, he said, though she didn’t do his laundry, but she did buy him new underwear every Christmas.
They laughed about these things now. Some of them, at least. Some of it wasn’t funny anymore. Because if he kept doing the same thing over and over then, well, it meant he never learned, he never changed. Parts of him were immature beyond his idea of what those parts were. He knew there were mushy festering parts but it was a marsh down in there, and it took a lot of wading through to find them. He was blind, he knew. He wasn’t blind enough to say he was blind. So, what was it? Either he was blind to the immaturity or he was stubborn. Life’s repetitions fortified the parts of him reluctant to change. He knew this was part of the problem. Things stayed the same and yet somehow they kept moving forward, always with the same gait. All of which gave an illusion that somehow he was progressing somewhere. The brain fired down familiar neural pathways, like deep grand canyons of habits. And that brain got older, and those canyons were only getting deeper, until the rush of water running between them was so far down it was hard to hear it. Difficult to note what was habit anymore when he couldn’t even hear the sound of his voice, that interior voice, or what metaphor to even use to describe the issue. Because was it a marsh in there, or a canyon, or that he was sightless? Or maybe it was a marsh at the bottom of a canyon and he was floating blind in it. ▨
Coming Up…
Next Release: May 27 - A continuation of all of the above…
As always: If you missed anything or can’t find an email, just visit the website to read through the archives.