Final Fantasy

A few of my favorite things

Hey! What is your favorite thing?

Whether you choose to define it as a hobby or a passion, we find a way to identify ourselves in a repeated action.

A collection.

Games, memories, music, opinions, books, identities.

The self we may outgrow but always carry with us.

The way our mind feels more natural without having the words to describe the sensation. Like how holding hands with a lover feels better when fingers are interlocked one way and not the other.

Explanations for the history behind years of effort are easy to find, but it’s much rarer to stumble upon a fundamental cause.

A significant reason for why we are who we are.

And speaking of stories that define us, I should share some news.

Something a little more directly relevant to my new book before my rambling ramps up!

So, here is the landing page for Significatorius. I’ll be working on having a release date and perhaps even preorders soon™️

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Boldly Going

I truly believe that paradox of emotion when it comes to defining oneself to be universal among all people. The struggle and the suffering then come not from a lack of understanding, but rather a reluctance in acceptance.

I know, these phrases are tying themselves together into a tighter and tighter knot in that characteristic John M. Bauer style, but I assure you it’s only because of my own insecurities.

Layering my guilt under a heavy dose of plausible deniability leaves less room for obvious liability. I use jokes as armor so no one sees how much it hurts.

I say this because I know the weight of denying what you love. I grew up with passion living beneath a dark cloud of shame. Clear skies were only ever partial, waiting for the next commercial break as we gathered around the television for another episode of Star Trek.

While the concept of deep discussions was lauded as a virtue, the actual conversations were relegated to regurgitated dogma.

God forbid emotions start running high.

Lest we silence the thought and ready a new mask.

Another performance where nothing has changed.

And behind it all, the nagging voice that never shuts up. The conscious choice to ignore what our mind wishes to adore.

Distant Worlds

Living in denial against those rising sea levels is an exercise in futility. Absurdity on a scale that would have Sisyphus wondering why anyone bothers.

I mention all this not to simply scream into the void, but as the background for how difficult it is for me to express what I enjoy.

A forked tongue that knows how to doublespeak.

Sophistry and a lawyer’s trick. I could argue myself out of loving anything.

My soul circling to consume its own tail with wisdom of the worst intentions.

Music from another room, player two on a crappy controller, watching life unfold as someone else’s character.

That was how I came to fall in love with storytelling.

Hours upon hours of staying up late at my friend’s house to see what would happen next. I was immersed in the world of Final Fantasy VII from the first time I saw the logo on the screen.

It would be another five or so years until I ever played the game for myself.

That never stopped my imagination from running wild. I wrote stories as young as seven featuring moogles and more.

I convinced myself that world was real as I ran around the playground. The mix of quirky levity and dark tragedy felt comfortable.

It felt like home.

And yet a part of me feels ashamed to admit that.

As if there were some glory in denying my reality from myself.

I could only ever allow it through a veil of secondhand shadows. A safe distance away from clarity as I watched everything unfold. Security in cheap seats tucked into the far corner of the concert hall.

Somewhere far enough away I knew no one would see me cry.

Higher Fidelity

As I witnessed some of my most cherished memories come alive, I found myself feeling that rarer and rarer emotion of unbridled happiness.

I had wanted to see Uematsu’s (and Soken’s and Hamauzu’s and more) music performed live for a very long time. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that dream was unattainable.

Worded better, I found myself unworthy of that joy. I convinced myself that was an undeniable fact.

These were passions better left to be witnessed as a rerun, or tentatively as a retelling in polite small talk in a grey room with stale coffee.

“I went to Distant Worlds last week!”

“Oh, really? I’ve always been curious how those concerts are.”

“It was amazing! Soken was there!”

“Really? Did they play a lot of XIV songs?”

“Yeah, XIV was heavily featured, although I question playing a Stormblood song as a part of the main set list. But yeah, Soken even got on stage and had a goofy translation ready to say some words in French.”

“That sounds fun.”

“It really was!”

A few moments pass as we take a sip and I struggle to know what to say next.

Silence.

Why is it so hard to say?

Why can’t I just admit it?

“And they also played Aerith’s theme! The classic one from the original VII, not the arrangement for Rebirth!”

“Wow! That must have been special.”

“It really was! You should go next time.”

“Haha! Yeah, maybe!”

But this time I was really there.

A leap of faith and allowing myself to be me.

The same little boy who believed himself to be an ancient was hearing the song echo against the walls.

For many of my generation, Final Fantasy VII and the character of Aerith represent much more than a popular video game. She was someone we mourned.

The first time we cried as an emotional response to a story.

I suppose in some ways, that makes it tradition. Bringing focus to my memory and increasing the fidelity to match my childhood expectations.

Flower Girl

Sacrifice should not be glorified as an easy way to redefine love.

It is often easier to let a noble cause court death than it is to find hope in living for another dance.

The dark cloud of shame that leaves faces obscure and emotions hidden is a defense mechanism that stops me from accepting who I am.

Aerith’s death taught a generation that love sometimes means loss. Hearing her theme alive in the concert hall reminded me that joy isn’t sacrifice, it’s rebellion.

I regret realizing this a little later in life, but I suppose that’s better than never lifting the veil at all.

My writing is an exploration of that pain without fearing the odd detour toward lighthearted silliness. The human experience is inherently a contradiction, and we are better for understanding that than silencing ourselves in the name of impossible perfection.

Until next time.

—JMB