United States of Mind

My god, look at what we are now - without regret for all the things that we have done.

2011-11-29T16:00:00.001Z

It is not love, if love is cold to touch.
It is not belief, when there's nothing there to trust.
Could not submit, would never bring myself to heel.
Determination grows, as each truth is revealed.

Torn and repaired, just to endure it all again.
Without a reason, for my place in all this pain.
Though well concealed, the scars they just compound.
Until there's nothing left of what was my former self.

My god, look at what we are now -
without regret for all the things that we have done.

Thank you for all the doubts, and for all the questioning,
for all the loneliness and for all the suffering.
For all the emptiness, and the scars it left inside.
it inspired in me, an impetus to fight.

For the conviction, for the purpose found along.
For the strength and courage, that in me I've never known.
And if it seems to you, that my words are undeserved,
I write this in gratitude for whatever good it serves.

Sometimes I wish, that you could see me now.
In the rightful place, where I knew that I belong.
Sometimes I wish, that you might someday understand.
to close the chapter, and lay to rest the past.
But nothing would change, we make the best of what we have.
for we are measured by the actions of our lives.
We bide our time, let the future unfold.
Like immortals, in great legends to be told.

My god, look at what we are now -
without regret for all the things that we have done.

Thank you for all the doubts, and for all the questioning,
for all the loneliness and for all the suffering.
For all the emptiness, and the scars it left inside.
it inspired in me, an impetus to fight.

To all who stood with me, when we stood as one.
Thank you for guiding me, for bringing me home.
And if it seems that I'm obliged to say these words,
I write this in gratitude, the least that you deserve.

[And this, this might just be the standout song of the year - at least for me. Once again, the words of Ronan Harris echo exactly what is inside me. My God, indeed. Look at where we are now...]

Six long, long years of waiting...

2011-08-08T23:23:00.001+01:00

Fuck yeah! It's here, it's mine, and I'm raring to go! Oh, yeah... I kinda promised to myself that I'd read the first four books before starting this one... Well, then. Time to get a-readin'!

You are my desire, I set you free.

2011-08-08T00:29:00.001+01:00

The thing about birthdays, right, is that even though I neither want or expect anything, I always end up wanting one thing specifically, and I never, ever get it. I know that last year I desperately wanted something - so simple, and yet... and yet so elusive - something not material, something that only words could express, especially because there was a distance that proved to be too great.
And this year, I find myself wanting something similar, and again, I shall not have what I desire.

Impossible, impossible... Your love is something I cannot remember.

2011-07-29T10:52:00.000+01:00

29/07/2006. Five years ago today.
I know it's impossible, impossible.

Choosing to die.

2011-06-26T15:54:00.000+01:00

I am told by my sister that our father lies very ill in bed, in a hospital. The seriousness of this illness is apparently terminal, but for reasons pretty much my own, I cannot feel moved to go visit him, and see him for one final time, not even out of courtesy. When the day comes that he passes from this world, I am sure I shall not regret this stance I am adopting, nor shall I shed a tear for him. Too much went wrong between us, there are distances that cannot be covered, gaps that cannot be bridged, and feelings that were never there in the first place cannot be magically brought into existence just because. And, in all honesty, I feel that it would be an hipocrisy on my part if, and bearing all this I have just written in mind, I went and visited the man, and played the part of the weeping and grieving son, because that's just not who I am. I feel nothing for him, never have felt, I don't even feel sorry for him. And, even as I write this, I can freely admit that I am not opposed, in principle, to visiting him - it's just a matter of me having the proper mindset and the free time to actually go to a fucking hospital and pay my respects. I do have to say that should I go there, I just wouldn't be moved by the situation at all - even if were I to hear all kinds of words of regret, and apologies, and whatnots... the damage was done in such a scale and so long ago that they just would not ring right to me.
It is a very cruel and difficult thing, I should imagine, to freely and openly vouchsafe the absence of feelings for someone who gave life to you. I have no problems doing that, because I never considered that a physiological accident is enough to make one some poor child's father...
I feel naught for this man, and yet... yet I found myself deeply and terribly moved by the words of someone whom I have never met personally, who never spoke so much as a word directly to me, but whose presence in my life has been so constant and strong that it broke my heart in a million tiny pieces to hear him speak of his choice to willingly terminate his own life.
I speak, of course, of Sir Terry Pratchett, creator of the Discworld, writer of some of the very best books ever written, a peerless wit, and one more victim of that ravager of minds - Alzheimer's.
In 'Choosing to die', the writer tells us with vivid descriptions of his own struggles with the disease, and how, like a carrion bird that delights itself in nibbling slowly the carcass of some dead animal, his own mind is slowly - and surely - deteriorating, to the extent that his short term memory is very limited these days, and much to his own tragedy, he can no longer write by himself - his assistant types what he dictates, or he uses a special speech recognition software.
The documentary focus not only on him, but also on a number of people who suffer from terminally deteriorating diseases, and who chose to voluntarily put an end to their suffering via the Swiss organization Dignitas. These people were of sound mind when they chose theirt ultimate fate, and as you listen to their plights, you can only feel so very sorry for how things played out for them; they genuinely seemed to be excellent people who deserved far more from life than this. Their choice to commit assited suicide, however, also serve to inform Pratchett's own ongoing quest to decide whether or not he too will make the same choice. His is a situation a bit different from all others, though. For one has to be of sound mind when one makes the final decision, one must consciously be aware of what he is about to do. Pratchett's disease will ultimately rob him of his mind, leaving him with the option to either let the disease run rampant and fall prey to the dementia that will eventually overtake him, or he makes the decision, while his mind is still clear, to end it all.
So these doubts, these questions, they are all thrown at us from the writer's perspective. Briefly though it may be, we walk side by side with Pratchett as he braves the path towards the end of his days. This documentary in incredibly powerful and moving, but it's not for the faint of heart. Things are said, stories are told, and we are shown a mighty heart-rending moment, when all we hold as true to ourselves is put into question.
I am coming to accept that very soon there will be no more new Pratchett books, I'll never read a new tale of Ankh-Morpork's fabled City Watch, never again be entertained by the raucuous Nanny Ogg or the Nac Mac Feegle, I'll never again read of Rincewind's exploits, nor surf through the eternal cold of space riding atop Great A'tuin.
What I will hold forever with me is the memories that I have from having read so many times his books, books that I'll return to time and time again while I live. I will always remember sharing his books with the love of my life. I will always remember the thrill that is buying one of his new books.
The day may come when his voice is silenced forever, but his words will always live on inside me.

Wishlist

2011-04-16T12:05:00.002+01:00

I wish I didn't spend my days thinking of you.
I wish I didn't spend my nights dreaming of you.
I wish that all the things that remind me of you would just disappear.
I wish it didn't hurt so much.
I wish it could just stop.
I wish I could just stop feeling.
I wish I didn't still have pictures of you on the wall.
I wish everything could go back to how it was.
I wish that you were still my friend.
I wish that thinking I mean nothing to you didn't kill me.
I wish all the songs that bring back memories of us had never been written.
I wish I'd never returned to all those places that remind me of you.
I wish I didn't go to sleep still feeling the nearness of you.
I wish things had been different.
I wish I could hear your voice, just one more time.
I wish I could feel your embrace.
I wish I could feel safe in your arms again.
I wish for lazy sundays filled with sweet nothings.
I wish I didn't still long for you.
I wish I didn't still miss you terribly.
I wish I could feel the warmth of your lips.
I wish all this had already passed long ago.
I wish I no longer felt my heart skip a beat every time I think of you.
I wish we could still talk.
I wish I could hold your hand in mine.
I wish I could feel your body next to mine.
And I truly wish you are happy. This I wish with all my heart, and above all else.
I wish I didn't still love you.
But I do.
Always and all ways.
Forever and for ever.
World without end.

Counterparts and bleeding hearts & all the things that fall apart for you

2011-04-10T22:42:00.002+01:00

And sometimes, sometimes it feels like I had to climb forever just to reach the summit of the highest mountain in the world, and when I reached that snow-rimmed peak, the stillness of the vast white that surrounded me seemed to come at me like a hurtling, careening juggernaut that sought to overwhelm me completely.
My senses numbed. My body staggered. My mind adrift. I no longer felt myself as myself, but rather as an after-image of what I'd been up to mere moments ago. A reflection on a shattered mirror, broken, twisted shards as metaphors of infinite possibillities.
Before me, a wide chasm loomed ominously; as far as I looked, I could fathom no limit to its depths. Maybe it went on forever, maybe it was just an illusion. Briefly, briefly I wondered what dread creatures might dwell on those ancient and murky depths : eldritch krakens, the likes of which this world has not seen in untold ages, and long since banished from their oceanic roamings, or maybe the remnants of civilizations so old that the world itself forgot they ever existed.
In thoughts like these did my mind linger absently, as my body fell and arced limply towards and into the yawning maw of the abyss I fell. For an aeon of aeons did I fall, until at long last I finally fell from grace to wakefulness.
A dream. A dream, it was, and nothing more.
And as I lay in bed with my eyes still shut, I find myself yearning for a darkness that pervaded my slumbery descent - I feared, and rightly so, that the day's light could be too much for me to bear. But as reality pulls me from the last lingering strands of sleep, I wake to find that someone else does lie beside me. My mind still addled, I fail to understand what this unknown quantity actually means. Intently I stare at this whimpering, smiling mass, and it takes me a while to realize that it might as well be nothingness, for it was not you. This realization causes and overbearing sense of grief and sadness to wash over me. My eyes gaze uncertainly at the carcass that sleeps next to me : looking, searching, questioning. I feel as if my hand had been almost forced, and that this undesired presence was the one way to fill a seemingly unending void left by your leaving, but the emptiness that still threatened to engulf all of creation was surely the universe's way of telling me that the only thing that could fill these abyssal depths, the only and right you-shaped form was your very self, the one treasure that would forever remain out of my reach.
And so I hold on tight to this thing which draws no feelings from me, cursing the day I was ever so weak to steer clear of it... praying against all hope that it will not be here when my life resumes its sense of normalcy.
My eyes, heavy with sleep and wearied by sorrow, close again. Just before I fall asleep, a stray prayer escapes my lips.

The Triple Gem

2011-03-24T23:58:00.002Z

Buddhaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Dhammaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Saṅghaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Dutiyampi buddhaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Dutiyampi dhammaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Dutiyampi saṅghaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Tatiyampi buddhaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Tatiyampi dhammaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Tatiyampi saṅghaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.

There's no justice in the world, and there never was.

2011-03-22T21:37:00.000Z

I have been following - albeit from a distance - what's been happening in the Middle East recently. Now, I'm not really a politically minded person, hell, only seldom do I voice an opinion regarding these matters. But I can't help but be wholly perplexed by what's going on in the region. I am unsure where this recent unrest began, but I understand that countries like Yemen, Bahrain, Tunisia, and more recently (and more notoriously, perhaps) Egypt and Libya have seen an uprising of sorts, where the masses sought to wrest control of their lives, liberties and destinies from the ruling classes.
All commendable notions, I'm sure, but... only a simpleton or a fool could (or would) believe that anything of real import to the people of these countries actually happened. Have people gone blind, or have they simply forgotten their history?
What is the one thing, the one comodity inherent to this region, that is of paramount importance to the great super-powers of this world? And, equally important and intriguing, who benefits from these conflicts, who has all to gain from all this conflict?
Who stands victorious, even from afar, after all the bloodshed? Who has a history of deploying nuclear weapons and of invading sovereign countries? Ah... It is a matter of historical record, isn't it?

And speaking of history, let me refresh that notion : in 1953, on what became known as Operation Ajax, a coup d'état was orchestrated in part by the C.I.A., effectively overthrowing the then current Iranian government to put in place a new and more American friendly government. In1961, the same Agency was responsible for the failed invasion of the Bay of Pigs, as well as a number of assassination attempts on Fidel Castro.In 1965, a U.S.-backed coup in Indonesia leads to widespread slaughter of communist sympathizers, with a death toll of over one million.
Between 1967 and 1972, the Phoenix Program was put in place, a program that consisted in the neutralization via infiltration, capture, terrorism or assassination of the civilian infrastucture that supported the NLF insurgency.
It gets better : sometime in 1969, one of the most evil men who ever lived became the 'leader of the Free World' : Richard Nixon. And under Nixon's authority and purview, in 1969 Cambodia and Laos become the most heavily bombed areas in human history, thanks to Nixon's illegal campaign of carpet bombing. More than 600.000 dead.
In 1973, the C.I.A. ousts the democratically elected president of Chile, installing the corrupt regime of Augusto Pinochet. Thousands tortured and executed.
Need I say anything about both Gulf Wars, and all the lies that the media have fed us? Must I go into detail about the excuses they've been scrounging up to justify to the world their next invasion, maybe Iran?
No, I don't think I do. And knowing all this, bearing all this in mind... what do you think is really happening right now? Do you suppose these folks in the middle east just up and decided to rise against their tyrants after decades (if not centuries) of oppression? Morevoer, what, exactly did they achieve? Did they fight for what they perceive as 'freedom'?
For, you see, Intelligence has indeed evolved quite a bit in these past few years : where once the world would turn a blind eye to the atrocities described above, now a more refined degree of subtlety is required. And it is ultimately so simple... why engage in direct conflict, when one can be instigated and manipulated to whichever end they deem more fit? That IS what is happening right now, and make no mistake. It galls me that ever since these insurrections began, a new wave of international activism and indignation swept across the globe - and this was translated mainly in a number of (unsurprisingly) violent manifestations as well as people spending twice as much time on the internet, in order to fully demonstrate how preoccupied they are over the middle-eastern plight.
And why? To what end? Is it that they do not understand just what these people achieved? Are their brains so addled by opinion and hearsay that they fail to see what freedoms these people now have? Well, let me tell you, they have now pretty much the same freedoms as we have, which is to say, not very many.
They have now the freedom to think that they're free to elect the tyrants of their choice, who will be naught but puppets whose strings are controlled by a very old and cunning hand. They also have the freedom to begin the process that will ultimately lead to the erosion and final destruction of their own national identity. They have the freedom of being host to friendly invasions of international conglomerates, eager to exploit these under-developed and under-funded wretches. They have the freedom to gorge themselves to bursting in the tidal wave of McFood that's sure to drown their countries in exchange for their oil.
These are all the true freedoms that they will ever have. To think otherwise is beyond naive, it's of a stupidity bordering on the suicidal.
Freedom? No freedom for them, no freedom for us. And don't fool yourself... do you think that you deserve your freedom?
I don't think you do...

I thought you were the truth.

2011-03-13T23:07:00.000Z

So yesterday I went out with a friend of mine, and we ended up drinking quite a bit - beer, shots, you name it. Around two a.m. or so, we're trying to decide what to do. I wasn't feeling that tired or sleepy yet, in fact I was feeling oddly energized, and we decided to go down to Incognito and dance the rest of the night away. Cool.
Down we go to the club, the music's loud and good, we drink a bit more, and start to get our groove on... it felt like the pair of us really owned that dance floor. You know how it is - in these things, what with everyone being so crowded, you end up stepping on a number of feet... and there was this girl next to where we were dancing that I might've stepped on a number of times. And every time I did so, I apologised -- I made a point of telling the girl how sorry I was for stomping her with my exquisite moves...
Naturally, thinking that this girl was Portuguese (she kinda looked like it, but in hindsight, maybe not that much...), I apologised in my mother tongue - Portuguese.
Anyway, some time later I'm still on the dance floor, but for some reason - maybe I was tired, maybe I didn't like whatever was being played - I stopped dancing for a while, and took to the opportunity to drink a few sips of my beer, and shortly thereafter I notice that the girl had rested her head on my shoulder and was happily on her way to dreamland. I tapped her on her shoulder, and she opened her very blue eyes and looked at me. I said something to her, I don't know what, maybe something like 'Are you ok?, or whatever.
She looked at me and said that I didn't have to keep apologising. And this she said in English.
Ok, fair enough, but she still looked like she was Portuguese to me, and as such I asked her why she was talking to me in English. Of course, I asked her this in Portuguese.
And she says, she says 'I don't understand a word of Portuguese', in a very slurred manner, like people who are very drunk are wont to.
Oh, ok. Really? So I asked her where she's from, and she tells me that she's from Austria, and that she was here on vacation and that she'd go back home in a couple of days. Sure. I relay all this to my friend, and tell her that at least there was someone there drunker than we were... and with this in my mind, I tell the Austrian girl that she'd be better off if she started drinking huge amounts of water like right then and there, or she was bound to have a very nasty hangover come morning. To which she replies, 'why are you trying to kiss me?'
Huh... I wasn't, I was just telling her what she ought to do, but whatever. I repeat this to her, and she says, 'don't you want to kiss me?'
Wait, what? Where did this come from? What the hell? I asked her for her name - it was either Isabel or Isobell, one of them - and told her that what she needs is water, not smooching in the dark of the club with a complete stranger... And then she asks me, blue eyes and blonde hair poised in seductive mode, 'do you know how old I am?', and I reply, actually thinking about it and looking hard at her, 'I dunno. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two, tops?'
'I'm eighteen', says she. What? Jesus fuck. 'Get out of here', I said jokingly, 'You can't be eighteen'. Now it was her turn to take a long look at me, and with some petulance in her voice, she said 'why doesn't anyone believe me? I am eighteen!'
Right. Eighteen. Sure. She took me by my hand and takes me to the dance floor. 'Let's dance', she said. Yeah, let's not... I told her that she really had to take it a bit easier, and start drinking water, to go to her friends who were there as well, that's the best thing she could do right then. In all honesty, I do not know if she did any of what I told her, because I left shortly afterwards -- my friend was starting to feel a bit down and out, and I myself wasn't feeling that hot anymore... we shared a cab back home, and on the way I told this exact same story to my friend, who'd been a bit abandoned while I talked to the crazy drunken Austrian teenager.
Still, one hell of a night, all in all, and it does please me to notice that some things are changing, and changing for the better.

And as our energies mix and begin to multiply, everyday situations, they start to simplify. So things will never be the same between you and I, we intertwined our life forces and now we're unified.

2010-11-21T19:41:00.003Z

A couple of days ago, it was either very late at night or really early in the morning, and I just couldn't find any sleep whatsoever. It wasn't even like I wasn't feeling tired, because I was, but something weighed me down and prevented me from drifting off to slumber land. There was a weird kind of energy in me, and I didn't even know where it was coming from. After all, I had been feeling pretty much lethargic for the past few weeks, something that served only to compound the onset of my misanthropic feelings even further. But something deep within me stirred, and it moved me to get out of bed around seven-ish in the morning.

I felt like doing something. What, I did not know yet, but I had to leave, to get out of the house, to go for a walk, find solitude, the perfect kind of solitude that allows you to think unfettered of all other things, I had to roam, to wander, to drift for a while...

And, as I left home, I suddenly realized that there was no other place I could go to to find that loneliness, but Sintra.

So I walked down the short distance from my place to the train station, grabbed a can of coke to help keep me awake, and hopped on the first train to Sintra.

The trip in itself was unremarkable; indeed, in spaces it made me feel like I was a sort of fish swimming against the current, for all the huddled masses went past me in the other direction.

I got there around eight-thirty in the morning, I guess, and started to make my way towards the historical centre – from there, I knew the path that would take me onwards and upwards, until I finally reached my intended goal – The Moorish castle.

Once upon the village centre, I pondered for a while whether or not I should grab something to eat, seeing as I had a lengthy trek in front of me. In truth, and as I considered the options before me, I did not actually feel hungry enough to eat right then, so I decided against it, knowing even then that later on I might come to regret it.

Brushing away those thoughts, I started my long way to the castle. After a few minutes walking, I started on the path proper, and up and up and up I went. Walking slowly, taking in the green scenery that all around me lay, I started to feel a lightness of spirit I was aching for. Still on I walked, up hills full of craggy monolithic rocks at either side, here and there a branch reaching out to me and caressing me with its yellowing leaves.


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

After maybe close to an hour's walking, and I was walking very slowly, I started to find the signs that indicated the path towards the castle. My heart rejoiced at this – In all honesty, it had been an age since I had been in Sintra all by myself, and this was doing me a world of good. I knew that something was coming my way, and accepting it, I felt all the stronger for it.

Soon I found myself near a road that split in two; I followed the path that took to the castle, walking ever slower those last few yards towards the gate. In a few minutes, there I was.

I confess, I didn't even think of certain things before starting my way; you know, stupid, small things like : what time does the castle open its gates? Do you have to pay to get in? Stuff like that.

So it came as no surprise, really, that once I got there I found the gates to be still closed, and a sign indicating that the ticket office was located inside the castle.

That meant that I had to wait some fifteen minutes or so before the gates actually opened, and before I learned how much I'd have to pay to get in. I walked back down the path for a few yards, and took a closer look to some archaeological work going on in the area : there were some captioned photos near the digs, and they showed some ancient graves that had been recently uncovered, as well as a centuries old church that yielded valuable information hitherto not very well known.

I took some pictures of the place, went up a few steps to the top of a small turret, and sat down in its weathered crenellations for a few minutes. Soon thereafter, I went down the dozen or so steps, almost falling down in the process. They were covered with moss, and were deadly slippery. I'll wager that anyone who tumbles down those steps will come away with a cracked skull.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

As I made my way back towards the gates, in order to wait out the last few minutes before they were opened, I saw that there were two young kitties lazing in the early morning sun. Swiftly, but quietly I approached them, tried to pet them, but to no avail – the kitties were slippery as an eel, and wanted nothing to do with me.

Undeterred, I picked up a mossy twig, and started to tease the kitties with it. At this, they sprang to attention and became quite playful. For a few minutes I played with them, until they finally got bored of my prodding them, and then proceeded to groom themselves, and engaging in playful cat fights with each other.

While I stood staring at the young cats, a couple of voices from a distance heralded the coming of the people who'd open the gates and give me all the information I needed. Sure enough, within a few minutes I was being told that indeed, there was a five Euros fee that I had to pay in order to get in.

I had no cash on me, only my debit card, and naturally, they had no means there of accepting a payment of that kind. Even so, I would not have paid the fee, even if I had cash on me. I can understand why they charge the fee, but I did not agree with it. Feigning interest in purchasing a ticket, I asked if there was another booth where I could pay with my card. I was informed that if I was to go back down the path for a couple hundred yards and back to where the two roads divided, if I took the road on the left hand path, I'd eventually come across another booth right next to the entrance to the Pena Palace. I nodded, and made my way to that very spot.

All in all, I had not seen a living soul during my trek, until I talked to these guys, and the only other people I saw there was a guy and a girl, that because of the gear they were carrying, looked for all intents and purposes like a news crew. They made their way past me, and we did not spare each other a second glance.

At last I found myself on a conventional road, black cobblestones glistening with dewy drops that cascaded from the trees, and in yet another booth there I saw another cat. This one came running towards me as soon as I caught its attention, and I spent a few minutes there playing with it. I got the feeling the poor cat was somewhat neglected, because it purred so at my petting, and flopped down on the floor, belly up, for me to stroke it... the cat just seemed to be positively melting on account of my caressing.

I took this time to catch my breath, before I set out again. Bidding farewell to the fancy cat, I started on the way to the palace, and I was struck by sudden inspiration. If I wasn't to go, as I had originally intended, to the Moorish castle, then I could go to the High Cross. As I walked towards the Palace's entrance, I checked a map that detailed where I was and how far I was from the High Cross... I judged it to be a fair distance from where I stood, and asked a girl in the ticket office if she knew of a way to get that there. She told me that the only way she knew of was to go through the palace itself, but I'd have to buy a ticket to get in. Not wanting to do that, even though the admission fee to the Palace was more than well worth it, for it is a thing of beauty, both the palace and its lush gardens, I walked away, thinking that my feet would be enough to take me to where I wanted to go.

Down, further down, and still downhill I walked for a number of minutes, until once more I found myself having to decide between two paths. I took the one to the left; this time I decided to adopt a brisker pace, and soon I found myself amidst a thicket of trees, and branches. As I moved ever deeper into the forest, the at one time wide path I was on started to narrow and the branches tugged fiercely at my jacket. Looking forward, I saw that there was no clear path ahead, and turned around. Doing so, I took yet another approach this time; fallen and yellowed leaves cracked underfoot, and the soil, wet still from the previous night, was mushy in some places, which made the walking a more difficult effort. I reached yet another dead-end; that is to say, there was a path, sort of, but I judged it to be less than ideally secure, and I turned back again. I climbed through some rocks, and soon I was near the original path where the roads had divided after walking down from the palace. But I was on a higher footing, and walked alongside an ancient bit of wall that formed a secondary path, but it ultimately led nowhere. Weaving back to the fork in the road, I went up a very steep hill to my right side, and very soon I found myself in a grove where the trees and the foliage seemed to thicken menacingly. From either side, bramble and black briar thorns worked at my shins, alder boughs snaked down forlornly from high above, and just as it seemed to be closing in on me, threatening to overtake me, to make me one of their own forever more, it gave way to a sudden opening.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Striking the path before me, thereupon I saw myself in a clearing where golden sunlight filtered through the canopies, slanting down through the leaves, bathing me in its radiance – in this tranquil place, I sat down for a few moments, in perfect solitude. All around me there was silence, silence only broken by tweets of birdsong, and the buzzsong of insects that flew lazily by. Mulchy as the ground was, I still managed to find a dry enough place amongst the leaves, and I lay down for a a number of minutes. I took in the green hues that clad my surroundings, and, closing my eyes, I fell downwards into the earth, in a communion of will and spirit.

Down where the leaves remained untrodden, and where the very earth remained unperturbed, I lingered in a sacred and silent repose, wishing that it would be unending, and that my end there would ever remain unspoken.

These nihilistic notions that were taking hold of me somewhat spurred me back to life, and brushing myself of the dirt and leaves that now clung to me, I again started to walk.

Thinking myself to be still quite distant from the High Cross, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my wanderings had taken me to Saint Euphemia. Distant from the High Cross, yes, but then, once there, I decided to not go any further, and stay there.

Immediately, memories of the last time I had been there came rushing to my mind; seven years had passed since then, and I was such a different person back then, that the mere remembrance of my former self made me question whether or not he had ever been real or not. I don't recall what it felt like being that other me, and I don't think I liked the person I was back then that much. Still, on the other hand, I can see how very much together I actually was – in a sense I was a much more adult person, with more clear-cut definitions of responsibility.

I brushed away those memories, and climbed the gentle slope that took me to Saint Euphemia's cross – there the view turned to the sprawling cities rising in the distance, threatening to engulf the sea of green that encircled them. Behind me, and to both my sides, wilderness ran almost without check, and leaning against the cross, I allowed myself to wander for a bit.

I realized then and there that those memories I had thought of minutes earlier were, in the end, inescapable to me. Not because of who I was and who I was with, but because that one night was like a beacon of light in the otherwise gloomy life I had back then... that night I spent there with people who, for a while, were very close to me, was, in a sense, magical – and that was because of how spontaneous and natural everything had been, as opposed to how forced I felt my previous failed attempts at happiness were. The great thing is that I found myself feeling happy with myself, at the time, hoping for the future, looking at what might come with a different point of view. That was not to last, though, but at least I was happy for a while.

These memories that raced through my head served as a catalyst for something that, I guess, needed to happen. Wearied as I was from not having slept, and after walking for hours, I just gave up on what was holding me back, and I let it all out. I think I was in dire need of a good, long cry – things haven't been particularly good for me, and for a long time I'd been feeling like I needed to vent somehow... so I took that opportunity to cleanse my soul.

After having spent a good while lost in my thoughts, I began to feel a certain chill creeping over me; I had forgotten how prone to sudden and fell chills Sintra really is. Adjusting the collar of my jacket, I got up and took a final glance at the scenery : to the west, dark clouds gathering, sure to bring down rain with them. A storm, for certain, was coming this way, and I decided it was time to go back.

This time round, instead of going back through the same paths that I had initially taken, I took a different route down to the town – shortly after I started to regret it, for it was a great deal less picturesque than I had envisioned, and the uneven roads sought to hurt my feet. Eventually, and after a great deal of walking I finally started to see some signs of civilization. Not feeling quite sure where I was, and which way would take me faster down to the train station, I had to ask for directions. This man tells me to walk straight ahead for a few minutes, and then I'd reach a very famous local restaurant. After that I'd have to take my first right, walk down for about a hundred yards or so, and then I'd be really close to the station itself. Only thing is, after nearly forty-five minutes walking, I was still no closer to the train station... a hundred yards, indeed!

In time I did arrive at the train station, and had to wait an excrutiatingly long twenty minutes before the train came... I was feeling so tired and hungry, all I wanted was to go to bed and sleep until the following day... when the train came, I hopped aboard it, closed my eyes, and opened them only when it reached its final destination.

It was time to go home, to shower, to grab something to eat, and then to rest. I don't know how, but I managed to stay awake for a few hours more, but then my body just gave up on me and crashed... I slept soundly until midnight or so, remained awake for a couple of hours, and drifted off to sleep until midday the following day.

On the horizon, where seas meet clouds, a scenery shimmers beyond reality.

I woke up feeling rested, if somewhat spent. That lightness I had felt in Sintra lingered over me still, and that, in a really strange way, made me have a really good day at work yesterday – the first good day I've had here in a long, long time.

It's amazing how much letting go of things can help you, how much it can heal you. A part of me feels completely rejuvenated, with renewed vigour for what lies ahead. If this is a thing that'll last; I know not. I care only that for the moment, I am at ease.

There is one irony that does not escape me, though : this is something that I wanted to have done with you in September, and the fact that we did not, considering all that had happened, serves well to illustrate the story of us. But the place is still there, and those paths can still be walked anew.

I hope one day you will come to walk them, too.

Avengers Assemble!

2010-11-13T14:31:00.000Z

As most of those who read my musings in my blogs, erstwhile or extant, I have a long-running love for that which is considered by many to be the ninth art. Truth is, I have always loved comics, and not just because of the pretty pictures… very early on I found myself acknowledging and responding to stories of a certain bent, stories that seemed to hint at more than just a number of spandex-wearing heroes hooking up every month to defeat the menace to the earth du jour. No, I started to see that, indeed, these writers were trying to make the characters they wrote more and more human, and humane too. Above all, they were characters that, and in a very real sense, you could relate to. So I grew up reading the stories of happy-go-lucky Peter Parker and his alter ego, the Amazing Spider-Man. The ever misunderstood Bruce Banner and the curse his other half represented – the Incredible Hulk. The greatest outcasts in the world, and their mutant misadventures – the Uncanny X-Men. The first family of the Marvel Universe and their cosmic exploits – the Fantastic Four. But the ones I liked the best? Oh man, those were the Invincible Iron Man, the Mighty Thor, and the Sentinel of Liberty himself – Captain America. These three… they were (and are) the holy trinity, the big three, the best and the brightest in the Marvel Universe… and when, as a child, I discovered that these paragons of virtue banded together and founded the Mighty Avengers, my mind near went mad with excitement. I still recall that the very first story I read with the Avengers was the famous ‘Kree- Skrull War’, written by Roy Thomas and with the amazing Neal Adams delivering his typically lavish pencils. I was introduced to a slew of other legendary Avengers – the Lion of Olympus, Hercules! The greatest Marksman on earth, Hawkeye! The android Vision! The mutant Scarlet Witch, with her hex powers, and her brother the marauding speedster Quicksilver! The ingenious Hank Pym, and his many personas : Ant-Man, Giant-Man, and later on, Yellowjacket, as well as his wife, the tiny – but always fashion conscious – Wasp.

They were the ones I first got to know when I was a child, and those that formed such a huge part of the mythos… but always, one question lingered inside me… what mighty and portentous event could have happened that brought these heroes together? Could there really have happened something so horrendous that it required the intervention of these heroes in order to contain it?

Avengers Assemble!

Avengers V1 by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby

The answer to my question was answered in a reprint of the very first few issues of the original comic, and I saw with my own eyes the menace that loomed over the world, the threat that promised doom and disaster should it go unchecked. Loki, the Norse god of mischief, plotted to wreak havoc on earth; he sought nothing more than wanton destruction and misrule.

All this happened unbeknownst to our heroes; they lived and fought their many battles, but always the outcome was never in doubt. Their days, filled with strife though they were, were also days of an age of innocence.

Eventually, though, signs of a nameless force began to be felt, and it soon became apparent that there was more to the seemingly senseless rampages of the Incredible Hulk, and that there was a hidden hand, operating in secrecy, behind all the mayhem. Surely such a menace would be too much for any one of these heroes?

And lo! There came a day, unlike any other day, when Earth’s Mightiest Heroes were united against a common threat, to fight the foes no single super- hero could withstand. On that day, the Avengers were born!

During those halcyon days of the '60's, many legendary tales were crafted by the stellar team-up of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, and , with time, a number of other writers and artists picked up the reins, and took the mighty Avengers to distant worlds and places. And, as with everything, there came a time, and then yet again every so often, where the old order changeth, and new characters, some of them with less than ideal backgrounds, became Avengers, and by doing so, became forces for good in their own right.

I followed The Avengers religiously thorughout the '80's, reading Brazilian reprints with stories originally published in the '70's, eventually catching up with what was being published stateside. It was, for me and for the characters, a golden age : they had people like Steve Englehart, Roger Stern, the awesome George Pérez, Jim Shooter, John Buscema and Steve Epting chronicling their exploits, and oh, what menaces and allies they'd encounter along the way : Thanos the Mad Titan! Korvac! The Red Ronin! Marcus, son of Immortus! The Guardians of the Galaxy, heroes from a thousand years away! The Elements of Doom! The Celestial Madonna, Mantis! The Masters of Evil! The Squadron Supreme!

These were moments of absolute joy for me, when I'd spend countless hours reading those adventures, moments wherein I'd fancy myself the Thunder God or the Sentinel of Liberty at times, while at others I imagined I was the Golden Avenger or the Expert Marksman.

But then... then something happened : the '90's. I have already written – at some length – about how generally bad the '90's were for comics; in an attempt to make them 'harder' and more 'realistic', our once shining paragons of virtue all took a turn for the dark, becoming grimmer, grittier... And our beloved heroes were not the exception to the rule : for the betterv part of the decade, the once mighty franchise became a shadow of itself; the stories were poorly written, and the art, in most cases, sub-par. It seemed as though the very concept of The Avengers was tainted, and not even the likes of Mark Waid could fix it... and then, things got even worse : the 'Heroes Reborn' debacle, wherein Jim Lee and Rob Liefeld, two of the Image masterminds, saw fit to 'update' our heroes for a new era. Lee took 'Fantastic Four' and 'Iron Man' under his wing, and Liefeld took over 'Captain America' and 'Avengers'. The tenure lasted for about ten issues, until they were given over to Jim Lee to finish the run.

These few issues of Cap and Avengers much maligned amongst fans of the titles, and rightly so. They almost destroyed the very concepts of the books, drove fans away by the thousands, and failed even to garner new fans in number enough to actually break even. Marvel had dropped the ball here, and they knew they'd have to do something special in order to win back the fans of old, bring in new fans, and recapture the magic of what once was The Avengers.

Avengers V2 by Rob Liefeld and Jim Valentino

A new Golden Age

Avengers V3 by Kurt Busiek and George Pérez

And so they did. They brought in the team of Kurt Busiek and George Pérez as writer and artist, respectively. And what Busiek did was nothing sort of astonishing : by going back to basics, he managed to bring about the best in all the characters, and in the first arc alone, pretty much everyone who's ever been an Avenger assembled together, once more to fight that menace that no single hero could withstand. Along with Pérez's superb pencils (he'll always be the ultimate Avengers artist for me), they ushered in a new era for these men and women, who truly were Earth's mightiest heroes. Their long run ended after fifty issues, and maybe a year or so later, it was time for Busiek to leave the title, only to be replaced by a young Geoff Johns, who had a memorable but woefully short run in the title.

In between, Busiek still graced us with the best Avengers stories ever : 'Ultron unleashed', and with the aid of Roger Stern, 'Avengers Forever', drawn by the great Carlos Pacheco. This story is the very definition of 'Epic'. He also did the mini 'Avengers Two' with Mark Bagley, and with the same artist launched the revolutionary 'Thunderbolts'; the fact that it endures still to this day is testament to his genius.

But after Johns left, things took a turn for the strange. He was replaced by Chuck Austen, a man who was no stranger to controversy, and he also had a short run there, not highly regarded by many fans, but one I enjoyed nonetheless. The departure of Johns was indeed a huge blow for the franchise, who was banking on him to continue the work of Busiek, but Johns opted for a long term exclusive with DC, and Marvel had to settle for something more temporary while they sought out for the perfect writer.

And that came in the form of another young, up-and-coming, hotshot writer, Brian Michael Bendis.

Bendis, who'd made a name himself writing indy classics like 'Torso', 'Jinx', and 'A.K.A. Goldfish', was riding high on the success of his first Marvel hit, 'Ultimate Spider-Man', was not, at first sight, someone who'd be considered a natural fit for the book. But apparently, he had a plan. A long term plan, at that, with the Avengers at their core, but whose outcome would be felt throughout the entirety of the Marvel Universe.

And the first part of that plan? To destroy the Avengers. And it would be one of their own to do just that.

Disassembled!

Avengers v3 #500 by BMB and David Finch

That's exactly what he did – he disassembled the mighty Avengers, in an arc of the same name. His approach was radically different than anyone who'd ever been there before, and while it might have put some longtime readers off by his choices, he brought in many more. His goal was to redefine what the Avengers are and what they mean for a new generation, while never losing sight of what they have meant to the generations before. During this first arc, and what would eventually turn out to be the last arc of the Avengers proper for a number of years, he began seeding his masterplan... one that would come to bear fruits years hence.

So what comes after all the destruction and grief he put these heroes through? A rebirth, of sorts. He and superstar to be artist David Finch brought us the New Avengers, with an all-new line-up, a different mission statement, and a new-found purpose. In were perennial favourites like Wolverine and Spider-Man, Luke Cage and Spider-Woman, with new faces like Ronin, Echo and Doctor Voodoo would eventually join the ranks. It was during the first few arcs that the readers begin to see what the plan was all about : as always, that ever-present menace too great to be faced individually reared its ugly head... and when it did, it promised to bring something an awful lot darker with it...

But before we got there, they'd have to go through many crucibles and hardships, much pain and heartache... and never more so than during 'House of M', a crossover with the X-Men, that sought to take care once and for all of the Scarlet Witch situation, responsible for, and literally so, the chaos that befell the team during the Disassembled arc.

'House of M' worked better as a concept rather than its execution, but it brought with it a new paradigm for mutantdom : where once there were millions, a mere 198 remained now. And the Avengers had to deal with the outcome of what had transpired. Tragedy soon struck again during the events of 'Civil War', an event that caused a massive division between the heroes of the MU : after the publicity seeking New Warriors accidentally cause the death of hundres of innocent bystanders, a law is put in motion to register the so-called superheroes; the reasoning behind this was if you own a gun, you'd have to register it, so it stood to reason that if you were a walking weapon of mass destruction, then it would make perfect sense that you'd have to be fully trained and registered in order to be out on the streets fighting the good fight.

Now, what this did, it created a schism between the heroes of the MU, dividing those who were pro-registration against those who opposed it fiercely.

How this affected the Avengers was that, by the end of it, factions from each side had their own team, and this, coupled with the supposed assassination of Captain America, led to some pretty dark times for the MU in general.

On one side, we had an officially sanctioned team, The Mighty Avengers, whereas on the other side we had a team on the run, hounded and persecuted by those who once were more than mere allies... they were steadfast friends, brothers in arms. This New Avengers team reflected a more urban side of the MU, as seen by both the roster and the type of stories BMB decided to tell.

But they'd soon learn that there were greater menaces at large, as well as some others that had yet to reveal themselves... soon they'd all know.

New Avengers V1 by BMB and David Finch

A Secret Invasion leads to a Dark Reign

Secret Invasion
by BMB and Leinil Francis Yu

And so it was that the larger piece of BMB's plan for the Avengers began to be revealed. Ancillary titles like Thunderbolts, Young Avengers, and Secret War provided further clues as to what was bound to happen, and when both sides were least prepared, the villainous Skrulls, who had been plotting their sweet revenge since the events depicted in the mini Avengers : The Illuminatti, revealed themselves to be in control of certain key figures in the MU, having effectively infiltrated every layer of society. With this reveal, which caught all parties unawares, a massive fight for the planet took place in the pages of the event called Secret Invasion, that ended in such a manner as to, for all intents and purposes, cause a massive paradigm shift in the MU.

Tony Stark, the Iron Man, who rose to the rank of S.H.I.E.L.D. Director after Civil War, swiftly fell from grace after the Skrull invasion, only to be replaced by the wrong man, who was in the right place at the right time : the notorious Norman Osborn, once presumed dead, and maniac alter ego of the Green Goblin.

Dark Avengers
by BMB and Mike Deodato Jr.

And thus, with the rise to power of the psychotic Norman Osborn, jewfro and all, heralded a very dark time for the MU in general, and the Avengers in particular... in a spectacular reversal, the Mighty Avengers team (or a different incarnation thereof) became part of the opposition to the dark status quo that took hold of the MU, while the New Avengers team remained ever at large, but still trying to unseat the new overseer of the fates of the free peoples.

Osborn, meanwhile, crafted an Avengers team of his own, dubbed the Dark Avengers, which was comprised of characters with colourful, troubled and very violent pasts. The villains Moonstone, Daken, Bullseye, and Venom became Ms. Marvel, Wolverine, Hawkeye and Spider-Man, and Joe Q. Public was none the wiser as to who they actually were. Together with the God of War Ares, Marvel Boy, The Sentry and Osborn himself as Iron Patriot, this disaster in the making spread as much terror throughout the world as they did peace...

It was in this series that BMB perhaps shined more during his run in the Avengers up until then.

There was a time were his stories in New Avengers, entertaining though they were, seemed to be going nowhere, and his short run in The Mighty Avengers had some pretty neat superheroics, but in Dark Avengers? There he let loose all his creative juices, and to get into the hearts and minds of so many fragmented psyches meant for hugely entertaining amounts of bloodshed and violence, allusions to all kinds of sexual trysts between members of the team, and deep psychological insights of characters who'd been only barely explored before.

As the series title indicated, it reflected the dark times the MU was facing, and our man Norman decided to make them darker. Whoever did not comply with his edicts was instantly branded a traitor.

To make matters worse, he'd created a cabal of the most powerful in MU villaindom : Namor, Dr. Doom, the White Queen, Loki, and the upstart The Hood. For a common man, (at least as he was perceived by these perfidious characters), to approach them and put them in a position of being glorified vassals was nothing short of an effrontery without measure, but he had a secret weapon at his beck and call in order to hold sway over them. Doom himself felt the fury of this secret weapon firsthand.

With this power behind him, and with Loki whispering at his ear, matters that were bad enough to begin with, soon took a turn for the worse, as the ranks of villains in the MU began to organize themselves, and with a carte blanche from Osborn, director of H.A.M.M.E.R., began going after the heroes themselves.

And when things couldn't possibly get any worse, when there might have still remained a glimmer of hope, a new disaster strikes the heartland of the MU.

Asgard under Siege

Siege
by BMB and Olivier Coipel

The mighty city of Asgard, home of the Aesir – the Norse gods of old – lay floating above the small and tranquil city of Broxton, Oklahoma. An easy peace was soon struck between its inhabitants and the returned gods.

Elsewhere, the God of mischief Loki plotted to bring down the great city, and added further poison to Osborn's evil mind.

After gaining control of the MU's criminal underground, and having effectively held much of the U.S. in a grip of terror, Osborn set his sights on loftier ambitions : the destruction of Asgard, and if that meant deicide on a large scale, then so be it.

But how to do it, when the public's opinion was in favour of the Golden Realm? Here the dastardly hands of Loki began their pernicious work.

Volstagg the Voluminous, Aesir born, a God amongst men, a meber of the fabled Warriors Three, found himself at the epicentre of yet another cataclysmic event, one that would lead to a number of innocent bystanders dying, and that would set the invasion of Asgard in motion.

In due time, and soon enough, the armies under Osborn's control amassed at the very borders of the golden city of Asgard. His Dark Avengers beside him, the destruction of Asgard began in earnest. Man turned against the Gods themselves, and the outcome was never in question, even with the Mighty Thor battling for Asgard, the man with the power of a million exploding suns, the Sentry finally succeeded in bringing down legendary Asgard... and with its fall, so too something began to change in the MU.

The Avengers rallied under one single banner, and the returned Steve Rogers assumed the mantle of leadership once more, and something that had not happened in an age finally came to pass : the Big Three assembled with the Avengers once again. Thor, Iron Man, and Captain America, aided and abetted by a number of other Avengers, both present and past, put aside their differences to fight back the Osborn menace for good and all.

Ultimately, the Sentry's dark half – The Void – manifested itself, and it proved to be a mighty foe indeed. It took the combined effort of the Avengers Resistance and the Shadow Initiative to bring it down, and with a flurry of thunderbolts, Thor eventually kills the gestalt entity that was The Sentry/The Void.

In the aftermath of this, Norman Osborn fell from grace, and his H.A.M.M.E.R gave way to S.H.I.E.L.D once more. The darkness seemed to be fading at long last, and the dark age that had been dominant of late heralded a return to a new age of heroes.

The Heroic age – A new Golden age for the Avengers?

New Avengers V2
by BMB and Stuart Immonen

Avengers V4
by BMB and JRJr

And with the end of Dark Reign, came the Heroic Age, and so with it, brand new Avengers titles : out went Dark Avengers, Avengers : The Initiative, The Mighty Avengers, and New Avengers finished its first volume.

New titles include the second volume of New Avengers (by BMB and Stuart Immonen), the fourth volume of Avengers (by BMB and John Romita Jr.), Secret Avengers (by Ed Brubaker and Mike Deodato Jr.) and Avengers Academy (by Christos N. Gage and Mike McKone), as well as a number of other peripheral titles.

These titles all reflect a different viewpoint of what being an Avenger is all about, sometimes leading to radically new interpretations of the concept : in Secret Avengers, the noirish and cover fell imbued by writer Brubaker and so deftly illustrated my Deodato Jr. Shows a seedier, darker corner of the MU... on earth and beyond, dealing with matters both mortal and godly. It is rather closely tied to events that Brubaker is chronicling in his tenure as Captain America writer, and has pretty much the same feel. In New Avengers, BMB is going for that urban feel yet again, a place where he seems to excel, but this time round, he'd bringing a good dose of epic to go with it. In Avengers proper, you have the good old-fashioned superheroics, with the mightiest of Avengers teams standing as the greatest force for good the MU can muster.

This is, by far, the best the Avengers have been under BMB. Here, and for the first time, he truly lets his considerable imagination run wild, bringing an undeniable sense of wonder and dread to the pages of the title. Of course, it being illustrated by the mighty John Romita Jr, makes it as epic as it's ever been. The greatest strength in this title is the return, at long last, to the very roots of the concept; it's not just fighting the menace du jour, it's really about assembling to fight the menace that no single hero can withstand. And here, here BMB delivers in spades, even successfully tying the first arc to the awesome Next Avengers animated movie, introducing its characters to the Avengers lore, while setting up a huge slew of mysteries that are destined to shape what the franchise will be for the foreseeable future.

Secret Avengers
by Ed Brubaker and Mike Deodato Jr

But the breakout hit of the lot? Avengers Academy by Gage and McKone. Much as I am loving this current volume of the Avengers, there's something about Avengers Academy that gives it an edge over Avengers V4.

I'm tempted to say that it's ultimately due to Christos N. Gage's scripting – he is just as good as BMB when it comes to ideas, but is his superior in actually writing the stories. Featuring a cast largely comprised of brand new characters, as well as some old staples, Gage has a gift for getting the characters down pat. The sheer premise of the title – that these young heroes could be the next generation of Avengers – is turned on its head by the reveal that in fact, the reason (or one of the reasons...) why they are being trained and monitored is because they have the potential to be the greatest menaces the MU will face in the future. Artist McKone delivers the best art in his storied career, and month in, month out, this is the Avengers book that I look forward to the most.

Avengers Academy
by Christos N. Gage and Mike McKone

But not only in comics can we find the Avengers... recently, a new animated series began airing, and by Jove, this time they got it right! And I say 'this time' because years ago there was a rather forgettable Avengers series, and that fact seemed to hang over this new series, weighing it down even before it premiered.

However, the series absolutely rocks. It's The Avengers as we know it, everyone's there. Thor. Cap. Iron Man. Giant Man. The Wasp. And The Hulk. Yes, they did something that I figured ought to have been done many, many years ago : the green behemoth should have joined the ranks of the Avengers once more, he who was a founding member.

But there's also Hawkeye, Wonder Man, Black Panther, and so many more of Marvel's characters... it's an absolute joy to watch this series.

And, on the horizon, is the culmination of one of my lifelong dreams : The Avengers movie.

After it was first teased in the first Iron Man movie, with furher hints in The Incredible Hulk, and with Iron Man 2 seeding even more plants, upcoming movies featuring Thor and Captain America will lay the path for the 2012 release of the Avengers movie, as directed by the legendary Joss Whedon.

With Chris Evans as Captain America, Mark Ruffalo as the Hulk, Robert Downey Jr. As Iron Man, Chris Hemsworth as Thor, Scarlett Johansson as Black widow, Jeremy Renner as Hawkeye and Samuel L. Jackson as Nick Fury, this movie has the potential to set the standard for widescreen epic action movies.

It's going to be a long time until 2012, but hey, there's still the Cap and Thor movies to make the wait more bearable.

All in all, this is an awesome time to be an Avengers fan : the titles are the best they've been in years, the ancillary titles featuring the main characters are excellent as well, there's a bloody good animated series on TV right now, and a number of cinematic endeavours to satisfy even the most die-hard of fanboys.

Here's to the assembled ranks of the Avengers!

Excelsior!

Birth of the three

2010-10-23T13:52:00.001+01:00

I do apologise for the lack of updates here -- many a thing these past few weeks have conspired to keep me from writing here, and to top it all off, this week I got really sick, and just wasn't in the mood to write. Well, here, at least.
I am, though, in the process of finishing a comics related post, that should be finished sometime around next week. I needed to check a couple of things first, before I rounded it off, and since I did just that this very morning, I can now proceed to finishing it. Soon.
Other than that, (and even when/while I'm playing the addictive Plants vs. Zombies...) I've been doing a lot of thinking. Yes, it's that time again, where I must reassess my situation, consider what's essential to me and what isn't, so I can move forward from here. There have been a few projects that are nearing completion, one of which will be finished on the 29th, its first phase at least. Then in December, I guess, it's on to phase two.
Random thoughts swirling inside my head pertain to the influence that Metal has had in my writing. Not so much the sound itself, but because of both the mythic quality to certain genres and the poetic nature of the writings of some of my favourite lyricists.
That being said, there's also something to be said about the imagery invoked therein, and of the mood so deftly established by the choicest of words. It comes as no surprise then, that, and on an emotional level -- the kind of primal and visceral emotions -- I feel so drawn to it. It's an instinct that I cannot fight, and I find myself writing all the better when I choose to embrace that instinct, rather than struggling against it.
At the moment, I am writing three different stories : a ghost story with a rather unique twist, (at least in the sense that I have never heard of a story like it), which is to be called 'Until the light takes us', from Burzum's 'Hvis lyset tar oss', and a documentary of the same name about the Norwegian Black Metal movement from the early 90's; then, two other stories relating to 'One Nation' : 'Gilraen', a prequel set many thousands of years in the past, and in the second world. The name itself comes from Tolkien, though I'm guessing I heard it first in maybe a Blind Guardian album or something like that, and 'The story of the Three Sons of Seven', a sister story to 'One Nation' detailing the story of -- you guessed it -- the deadly trio that is set to be one of the main antagonists in my story. Originally, and way back when, when the story that was to become 'One Nation' was nothing more than a pitch I was working on to try and sell to Marvel Comics, which was really an Avengers story leading to an Invaders series, I was toying with the idea of making Taskmaster the ultimate badass villain he should be. But then, and as years passed, that story began to change, and I eventually merged it with another idea I was working on -- an end of days type superhero story with all kinds of religious imagery thrown in. That meant I had to run with it, and create my own characters. Well, one of the first to come to me was actually something that was pretty much the dark side of the mirror to a Captain America type character, someone who'd been experimented upon, someone who was but a number in a series of experiments to try and develop the ultimate super-soldier. Yes, I am well aware of the Wolverine/Weapon X parallels, but this is actually something different... I wanted my character to be both parts Taskmaster and Bullseye, and thus 'Seven' was born.
Somewhere along the way, though, and after he had caused all kinds of havoc and carnage, something (which I can't reveal here) happens to Seven, and the ultimate killing machine is finally taken down. The trouble is that the evil bastard had sired three children, and each of them had inherited one of his unique deadly traits... and now, the Three Sons of Seven are coming for revenge, and no one will be able to stop them once on their path.
I took the name, but it has actually nothing to do with the concept thereof, from Orphaned Land's magnificent 'Mabool - The Story of the Three Sons of Seven'.
More updates soon!

My mind has changed my body's frame, but God I like it.

2010-09-16T23:47:00.000+01:00

Phonogram : The Singles Club 07

I guess I may have touched lightly upon the wonderful Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie series ´Phonogram’ and its sequel, ‘The Singles Club’ a few months ago in a post I wrote about MSP’S ‘The Holy Bible’. Now, and as I re-read both volumes in their entirety, I cannot help but feel awed by the sheer brilliance that is issue 07 of ‘The Singles Club’, called ‘Wolf Like Me’.

Now, one of the things that I have always looked for in a comic is a way to actually work songs into the story, without it sounding and looking way too contrived. Rather than adapting a song into story form, I was looking for stories that took something from a song, and then ran with it. Maybe, and I’m not too sure here, the earliest examples of this was way back in the ‘80’s, in the Grant Morrison penned ‘Animal Man’, wherein I recognized a lot of stuff from the likes of Peter Murphy, and others. ‘Sandman’, too, used the power of music to add to the story. So it comes as no surprise whatsoever that most of my musings include music in some form – ’36 songs’ was a prime example of that, as was ‘How it ends’, though they were, at their core, prose efforts only. I had an inkling of an idea, very early on, that the story that would become ‘How it ends’, when it was still called something else that for the life of me I can´t rightly what – though ‘Two more years’ sound very likely –, would work best as a visual story , but that never came through, for whatever reason. I then tinkered a bit with the idea of commissioning some illustrations from some folk I know, but that went nowhere, too.

Hell, even now, as I write my Untitled Ghost Story, I find myself interweaving lots of stuff from my Metal Years into the story – and it increasingly looks like the story’s name itself will come from that darker side as well.

But fuck, whenever I read P:TSC 07 now, I just want to a) not write anymore or b) write even more so I can achieve this level of mastery over the visual part of storytelling. It varies, really – I’ve read it some ten times alone today, and It always affects me in a different way. So the reason why I’ve read it so many times today alone is quite simply – it’s a largely visual issue, with sparse dialogue, and at that only in the first and last couple of pages. What words there are besides those, though, are pictorial and/or pertinent to the title track that lends its name to the story, ‘Wolf Like Me’ from TV on The Radio. All the rest – the words, the images, and the spaces in between, well… they are nothing short of a storytelling tour de force. On the one hand, you have Gillen, who for my money is one of the most gifted new writers – he always makes me wanting to read more of his stuff – ,and who’s someone who clearly knows what works visually and what doesn’t. For my part, thinking visually does not come easily, and a writer that does so with such aplomb, is always worthy of praise. But all those virtues are as naught if you’re paired with (or impaired by) a less than apt artist, with nothing less than a complete mastery of the storytelling techniques required to make a largely silent story work, and work so well.

Fortunately, though, he had McKelvie, who delivers all that in spades. Not only does he pull off the wonderful feat of making the characters seem all too real – especially during Kid With Knife’s altercation with the chavs – he also wields with such precision the skill to endow each character with his or her own specific nuances; their faces and expressions so finely formed and honed, their physical language, the way they are themselves beyond the shadow of any doubt… it’s staggering, really.

See, what it is really, is that comics amount to a combination of different languages to form a whole : on one hand, you have what´s written, and therein you find what´s written for the artist to interpret and what´s written for you to read. Artwise, there is the language of story-telling, and the physicality of making 2D characters come to life, and when those two languages come together, something else is born, something not bound or constrained by budget limitations or by the whims of an actor/director – you get an unique art form that does, and especially when done well, what no other form of art can do.

And even though what Gillen and McKelvie do here is no strictly **re-inventing** the silent story format, or coming up with a clever way of making it work, they excel in combining their skills with the idea of music – insofar as the intent was that selfsame, and the outcome, and for me at least, was the presence of the songs right inside my mind just as I read the issues. And `Wolf Like Me’, the song and the story, what they managed to do is nothing short of laudable – to imbue the spirit of the song in the story they crafted, to make it come to life in such a way as to make both song and story nigh on indivisible from each other, that´s the work of a master right there.

I mean, reading the story, and following the path that Kid With Knife chose that night, and seeing that look on his eyes – that primal, visceral, sexual look that my very eyes had so many times before – easily you can see why the song becomes the story, literally and figuratively.

Each of the sixteen pages that make up for the story are perfectly plotted, illustrated, and when they need to, dialogued as well. Every beat is pitch perfect, every picture spot on, and that conspires to give you the ultimate entertainment. As Kid With Knife himself answered the question he was being asked, - ‘Was… was that some kind of magic?’ – ‘I don´t know. You tell me.’

Meifumado

2010-08-14T01:05:00.002+01:00

What means the Manji?

Protection against evil! The source of infinite virtue!

Listen well… The Manji is the sign of all enlightened Bodhisattva, radiating the heavenly light of Dharma truth from the breast of the virtuous and majestic Kongo Manji. Manji, also Kaimaen, destroyer of evil. With the hundred thousand lights, the Bodhisattva Asangra illuminates the world of those who follow the Buddha. Likewise, upon the breast of the virtuous and majestic Dharma–Kaya Bodhisattva, Manji extinguishes heavenly light, revealing in an instant the hundred thousand wisdoms and virtues to all Bhodisattvva.

Assassin of the way of demons… at one with the Rikudo Shisho, the six paths and the four lives! Surely you know the Jizo Bodhisattva of the six paths… speak!

First, Yo-Tenka Jizo, Bodhisattva of Tendo, the way of Heaven! Bearing in his left hand the Nyoi Hoso jewel of Dharma truth, and making with his right the Seppo Mudra of the Dharma.

Second, the Bodhisattva of Jindo, the way of Man, Hokoo Jizo! In his left, a Shajuko pilgrim’ staff, with his right the Mudra of Yogan, prayers granted!

Third, the Bodhisattva of Shurado, way of Slaughter, Kongodo Jizo, the flag of Kongo diamond truth on his left, with his right the Semui Mudra, virtue to the masses!

Fourth, the Bodhisattva of Chikushodo, way of the Beast, Kongohi Jizo! In his left, the Shakujo staff, with his right the Mudra of Inse!

Fifth, the Bodhisattva of Kigado, way of Starvation, Kongoho Jizo! In his left, the Hokshu jewel, with his right, the Mudra of Manna, Kanro!

Last, the Bodhisattva of Jigokudo, the way of hell, Kongogan Jizo! The Kaenmado in his left, while with the right hand upon right ankle, he signs the Mudra of Joben, hope fulfilled!

In short : The way of Heaven, the way of Man, the way of Slaughter, the way of the Beast, the way of Starvation, the way of Hell. The Bodhisattva manifestations of the six ways! The Bodhisattva of those who live in Meifumado in pursuit of their quest.

Oh woe is me...

2010-08-05T09:55:00.002+01:00

I am thoroughly gutted. After going through three (that’s right, three) new pc’s in six days, and on the verge of having to go for a fourth one, light dawned on me and I started to see that one of my favourite programs ever might actually be causing the computers to crash. Yes, Total Commander does not seem to be compatible with my Windows 7 enabled laptops. It is a sad day indeed…

The Fellowship of the... Vuvuzela?

2010-06-23T12:48:00.000+01:00

Winter is coming...

2010-06-16T12:36:00.000+01:00

Live together or die alone.

2010-05-28T11:44:00.000+01:00

The ending to 'Lost' was something that I was, in a sense, expecting. It's the logical ending, and it's a great thing indeed that most of the mysteries - old and new alike - remained unanswered. I was indeed expecting, on an emotional level, a punch to the gut. How mistaken I was to expect that. What I got was something akin to an eight-hit combo that left me in tears a number of times, especially the Jin & Sun bits, as well as Charlie & Claire's. And then there's the ending itself - I saw the episode twice, and both times I got a different idea of what the ending actually means. The highest kudos must be given to the writers who worked on the six seasons, but for my money, none are more deserving than the writing team of Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse; by far, the best episodes in every season were the ones they wrote.
So there it is, six incredible, sometimes mind-bending, seasons later, it'a fond farewell I bid to 'Lost'. For now, at least. Sometime in the next six to twelve months I expect to see the entirety of the thing again, and when I do that, I'll be able to write a few lines about the series.

[As a bonus, here's a clip with the alternate endings to the series, as written by Lindelof and Cuse.]

I close my eyes and this is yesterday.

2010-05-19T12:37:00.000+01:00

[Not long ago, in conversation with S. , I mentioned that I had a semi-finished post I’d written maybe last year, I think, about the comic Phonogram, by Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie. I’d re-read the first series in anticipation of the new one – The singles club – and after doing so, I wanted to write about it. In truth, whatever my initial ideas for it were, I had written little over a couple of paragraphs before I gave up on it. Whether I thought I would eventually return to it – or not – I no longer remember. So what I do now, is that the gist of what I think I wanted to write about, wrap it around a further re-reading of both series, add a dash of my own personal views on the ideas offered by the series, and write a small post about three of the things I love the most : me, music, and comics!]

I was told something once, long ago, which I didn’t believe way back then, and that took me a number of years to finally come to believe. And, to make it all worse, I was told this lie by someone whom I considered a good friend, someone whose word I trusted implicitly – a guy I used to know by the name of Nelson. Now, this guy and I met in really weird circumstances – he was, after all, the son of my dad’s then girlfriend, and how weird is that right there? Even typing it doesn’t make it any less strange that old people, way beyond their best by date, could still have girlfriends… anyway, after being absent from my family’s life for a couple of years, my dad waltzes along, determined to win us back, and dad just goes and tries to make up for all the crap he pulled. Oh, I knew what his game on, and since I never liked the sonofabitch anyway, I made the most of it. I never felt bad, not even for one second, when I knew I was mooching as much off of him as I could – dear old dad had lost the privilege of eliciting a valid emotional response from me years and years before. That’s what too many whippings and punches to your face will do to you. Be that as it may, in he comes all gallant like, and soon enough he takes us (me and the sister) to meet the old lady he’d hooked up with. Can’t remember her name, maybe something that begins with a G. Or with an M., I don’t know. I dimly recall not liking her very much, for no real reason. But I did really like her son, Nelson. He was maybe a couple of years older than me, and in a way, we liked pretty much the same stuff. We listened to the same kind of music, to an extent, we liked comics and books, and games and football, and everything else. It was music, though, that swiftly bonded us, for – and as I stated – we listened to pretty much the same music, there was a much more alternative bent to his taste than mine. Between us, we had a pretty nifty collection of tapes we’d borrow from off of each other, and a wealth of new sounds to be discovered. This was maybe, what?, ’92 or so, when we first met, and my tastes ran the general metal gamut. Back then, I still listened religiously to the riffs of Metallica and Megadeth, Testament and Kreator, Sepultura and Overkill. I was also beginning to feel much more pulled towards the more extreme disciplines metal had on offer – if I considered Slayer to be one of the most brutal things I had listened to up until then, though I never liked them, bands like Deicide, Death, Morbid Angel or Benediction were something else. Insofar as it was possible, I strove to listen to the noisiest, foulest, unholiest (which, or so my computer tells me, isn’t even a word…) sounds out there. That was my goal, then and there - to listen to the heaviest stuff possible. And this Nelson dude, well, he was just happy to listen to whatever I gave him. More often than not, it would turn out that whatever death-metal hymn I was addicted to was something that he didn’t really appreciate. Even then, he was the sort of guy who loved Entombed (another band whose allure always escaped me) more than Brutal Truth. And in turn, in turn I’d have to do the same. He’d give me some tapes, every week or so, with stuff that he’d recorded from off the radio, or whole albums that someone somewhere had recorded for him. In those tapes, I found many of the bands that went on to make a name for themselves a bit later, or were about to make it, bands that I could never really like no way, nohow. Among those - Pearl Jam! Nirvana! Temple of the dog! Sonic Youth!, as well as countless others. But also, and on the opposite spectrum, you could find bands such as : Sleater Kinney (though I haven’t listened to these girls in ages), The Tear Garden, Faith No More, and Manic Street Preachers.
And that’s the crux of all this, MSP. I guess I was aware of them early on in their career : I can recall, but only dimly, seeing a bit of the video to Motorcycle emptiness in my place years ago, on one of those Top 40 style shows, or whatever, and I liked the guitar solo quite a bit, but man, how could it compare to the hellish solos delivered by Hammett and Mustaine, Kisser and Murphy? No way in hell it could. It would be a few years more before that particular MSP song would come back to haunt me, and stay with me forever.
No, what happened was that a few of the songs that I listened to from them in those old tapes were just good enough for me to register their name, to make a mental note of it, a thumbs up of a sort. In my teenaged mind, I was okaying these guys, admitting that their death-metal grunt-free music was listenable enough, and boy, did that make a difference. Had it been, say, a year earlier or so, and I would not have even entertained the notion of listening to anything other than metal. Well, that is, something other than that which I knew, that which I listened to before I really came into metal…
And so, on and off for some two years, but much rarer as time moved on, Nelson and I had our music exchange program going in full swing. I can’t tell you what happened – either I no longer remember it, or maybe it was for one of those silly reasons, but eventually, gradually, we drifted apart, stopped talking to each other. Maybe it was because dad and his mom split up, but I don’t know. Whatever the cause, we stopped talking, I didn’t even call him on his home phone, nor he called me. This was on the day before cell phones were common, or cheap enough for everyone to have three, before text messages and all these new technologies. But the last time I saw him, if I recall correctly, was when pagers became really popular among the young folk, and as chance would have it, I met him in a bus I was catching on my way home. We didn’t spend that much time together, my stop was a few minutes away from where I had originally got in, but he did give me his pager number, something with maybe some twelve to fifteen digits, and he also told me that thing I mentioned earlier. And what he told me was that he’d just listened to one of the heaviest things he’d ever listened to. I could barely imagine what exactly it was he was talking about - this was during the summer of ’94, late summer, and there was so much stuff going around, music-wise, that could fit that description, that my mind raced at the thought. Could it be that he’d learned of Tiamat? But then, heavy though they were, I’d hardly call them the heaviest. Samael? Maybe… Samael circa Blood Ritual was heavy as all get out, but even so? Nah, not them. And certainly not the likes of Moonspell. Ah, then it could only be Cradle of Filth. They were, back then, the epitome of what extreme metal could be, at least for me. I smiled knowingly, waiting for him to tell me what it was. And then he said, ‘The Holy Bible, by the Manic Street Preachers’.
What the fucking fuck? Huh? Come again? Certainly, my disbelief at such a claim was so apparent that he reiterated his statement. The Holy fucking Bible by the Manic fucking Street Preachers. I checked my data banks for info I might have stored regarding them, and what my mind came up with sure as hell didn’t match with what I was being told just then. How exactly do you mean, ‘heaviest’? is it the sound? What?
And so he told me thus – or something along the lines of : it’s the sound, it’ the words, it’s everything. You gotta listen to it. You’ll be sorry if you don’t. Take my word on it. It’s gonna fucking floor you.
Admittedly, I didn’t rush out and listened to it. I sure as hell wouldn’t spend money I didn’t have on it, and I knew not of anyone else - save for Nelson – who had it, so it took a while before I got a hold of a copy of the record. I guess it must have been closer to the end of the year, I had put in my papers to enlist in the Air Force, I had dropped out of school, and my final year of English had ended at the same time. Looking back on it? Jesus, if I was American I would be white trash… anyway, moving on, I did still keep in touch with some of the people from English class, and there was a guy from my First Certificate year called Antonio (I think…), the only person I knew back then that wore more black than I did, and who was a self-avowed nihilist of the Nietszchean school of thought that, only too naturally, had his own copy of ‘The Holy Bible’. On a whim, I borrowed it from him, and it wasn’t long in the returning; maybe a few days later only I was giving it back to him. Maybe he asked me what I thought of it. Maybe not. He wasn’t the sort of guy to make pointless questions. Nothing was really that important to him, vital though they were, in part, to his very existence.
To myself, I kept the knowledge that I had listened to the entirety of the thing all of one time, and I considered it to be an hour ill wasted. I couldn’t, for the life of me, begin to fathom how the guy had the gall to call this – not a piece of shit, I knew this much even then – tame and somewhat subdued record one of the heaviest things that he’d ever listened to. One listen was more than enough for me to make my mind up. Nothing I heard there was heavy in the least : not the songs, (the ‘heaviest’ being maybe ‘Faster’), and though here and there I heard words that recalled what seemed to me as violence and bloodshed, shit, I was weaned on the writings of Carcass and Cannibal Corpse, how could that compare?
And right here is where I ask that you forgive me. Yes, I was only seventeen, but I don’t hide behind that excuse. The fault was entirely another. You see, I was still too romantic in my thoughts, too connected to more chivalrous writings on one hand, and too in love with the darkest of possibilities whispered in those anthems of metal. My mind was as that of a child helplessly in love with his favourite cartoons, when something else comes along to challenge that love – and even if you can see some quality there – your true love speaks louder, and blinds you. Moreover, it deafens you. All this said, I can also admit that in my (assumed) seventeen years of sage wisdom, I was stupid as hell. Goddamn, if I could go back in time, I’d kick the shit out of myself. I did, and said, and presumed, and took to thinking, some pretty stupid shit way back then. And it does infuriate me, more’n just a tad, to realize how much I lost by being that way, for not knowing better. For thinking that I knew better, when all along all I knew was chicken shit.
But eventually, change came to me… slowly, very slowly at first, but I changed over time. And a huge catalyst for that change was my ex Dora. I guess I wrote a lot, probably much more than they ever deserved, about some of the girls I used to go out with, and then again I may have never wrote a line, or scarcely more than that, about Dora.
There are things in her, about her, that I have never seen in anyone else. She has the strength of a thousand men, and nothing can keep her down for too long. If anything, faced with difficulties she will only strengthen her resolve and find a way. She is someone – and this I greatly admire in everyone who possesses this quality – incapable of doing nothing, of just lounging around, lazing by, procrastinating. She’s always doing something, she is. But this is my vision of the girl with whom I spent eight long years of my life, or near enough as makes no difference. We split up a long time ago, and I’d like to think that she’s still like this, but then I no longer know her that well anymore. But what she also was when we lived together was someone who was capable of sudden mood swings, that went from the high – wherein she could wax lyrical about Agatha Christie, Queensryche, or Brazilian comics – to the low – where, sometimes, we’d be talking about something, anything, and suddenly she’d fall silent, and look at me, her eyes big and on the verge of tears, asking me questions that I couldn’t possibly answer, her despair deepening at my own silence, and I felt helpless beyond any and all hope : however much I wanted to help her, I couldn’t, I didn’t know how to. And just like that, snap! , it was back to normal all over again. But being with her, living with her, staying with her… it took me in unexpected directions, some bad, most of them good. A while ago, a thought crossed my mind that I never really had those small things you end up dreaming of, like spending lazy summer afternoons in the sun, letting them drift on to the evening, and watching the sun set with your loved one nearby, or coming home on one of those very summer afternoons after a day’s work, to find a fresh pitcher of lemonade in the fridge, waiting for you. This is – as usual – a typically selfish thought of mine. Of course I had all this; moreover, I had the chance to savour all this, and let it pass me by, time and time again.
But going back to the matter at hand, these years that we spent together – or some of them, at least – marked a period of definite growth in me. I realized that within a year or so of going out with her, my horizons had broadened considerably. Now and again, we’d spend a few hours sitting down somewhere discussing Hegel (of whom I knew little about) or spending equal amounts of time listening to the likes of Amorphis and Maiden, or L7 and The Black Crows. For every The Gathering, there was a Mr. Big, for every LaVey, there was a Poirot mystery to be solved. These things – small though they may seem – paved the way for my second attempt at ‘The Holy Bible’.
Sometime in 1997, I had started to listen to The Smiths, Depeche Mode and the likes again, after a few years away from them. It was a much needed fresh of breath air from the heavier sounds I’d been listening for the better part of a decade, and around that time – perhaps a bit earlier, I can’t say for sure – the radios and the TV were being invaded by the new wave of British pop music. To be sure, everywhere you went it was hard not to hear a song by Oasis or Blur. Some Suede and Pulp, even, or Shed 7 or Elastica. While I acknowledged this new sound that permeated the airwaves, it still didn’t mean that much to me. Not until a few months later, in the summer of ’98. It was the summer of the expo here in Lisbon, and my days couldn’t be more different than my nights, whether on a music or on a personal basis. I think I spent much of that summer in a constant state of inebriation, countless days I’d sleep maybe two, three hours before going to work only to do the same all over again. The nights, I’d spend with Tiago, nights spent in Alfama or Cais do Sodre, drinking as much as we could for no reason other than the hell of it, sometimes with Dora tagging along. Those nights, those legendary nights, were nights played to the soundtrack of Helloween (I can), Angra (Lisbon), Blind Guardian (Mirror Mirror), Hammerfall (Glory to the brave), and so many others… but the days, and especially the day when I worked with my supervisor Hugo – those were days filled with all the best that Britain had to give us. And sure, there were all those bands I mentioned above, but more as well. Healthy doses of Blondie, Madness, and Dexy’s Midnight Runners abounded. Quite likely, there was some Lush as well. Kenickie, for sure. I would never have enjoyed Kenickie quite as much – and this became eerily and quickly apparent soon thereafter – had I never been with Dora and listened to Bricks are heavy. And that’s when ‘The Holy Bible’ comes into my life again, when Hugo one day pops in the tape into the recorder, and ‘Yes’ comes along. Truth be told, it was kind of hard to pay attention – at least the attention it merited – whilst working, so all I did was give it a perfunctory listen, and I didn’t leave work that day without it inside my walkman. Oh yeah, baby. One of those big, clunky ones, when if you wanted to save precious battery, you’d stick a pen on one of the holes in the tape and wind it to your heart’s content, and your hand’s complaint.
In the days that followed, and whenever I was by myself, I listened to it intently, and only after a few listens I understood it, I understood what my stupid seventeen year old self could not have possibly grasped. But mostly, I saw how easy it actually is to misunderstand it. It’s all too easy to fall prey to the beauty of the songs, because it’s there, and it’s not ashamed to be there. But it takes a keen listening to realize that it’s an ugly beauty, harsh and raspy at the edges, and it threatened to consume and overcome you. It’s the beauty in the words of a man profoundly sad with the world we live in, with our fellow man, with the shallow values of modern life and society. It’s a beauty that you can only fully understand, and be aware of, after you experience heartache and loss and you finally come to see the world as it is, rather than what’s spoon fed to you by those who decide if we live or die. It’s the beauty in the duality of being something, only to be labeled wholly different thing (see, for example, the lyrics to ‘Faster’). It’s the beauty of words put into chords by hands that seem to foretell of the coming tragedy that would afflict the band. It’s the beauty of being uncompromising, standing up for what you believe in, even if you must etch into your own flesh, carving the very words of that belief. It’s all this, and so much more. And then, maybe it’s nothing like this at all. This is what is to me, to someone else, I don’t know. Maybe it’s something completely different to someone else.
All I know is that whatever it means, The Holy Bible, Richey, Britpop, the dirty and the dandy, the music and the words of those times… well, it marked a generation. Possibly not mine, though surely a number of my peers, but certainly the following. And all this is wonderfully told in words and pictures in the comic book series ‘Phonogram’. Comprising of two separate series, two different tales, but with the same backdrop and intent, Phonogram is not unlike a love letter to music in general (overall) but to britpop and the indie/alternative scene in particular – especially in the first volume, called ‘Rue Britannia’. The premise behind this? A quite simple one : that music is magic. But more than in the metaphoric sense here. In the world of Gillen and McKelvie, music is magic in a very real way – particularly for those who can really get in touch with it, and that, in turn can lead to spectacular or disastrous results. These music magic adepts call themselves ‘Phonomancers’, men and women with the power to make music come alive, to make music burst into light, or to curse the fools that cross them with a non-stop constant rendition of the whole of M People’s third album. In the first arc, we see the story through the vantage point of a phonomancer by the name of David Kohl, he of the midnight black attire, neat haircut and ‘existentialist poet’ glasses. His world is that of the ironically glitzy indie crowd, of the beautiful ones, of sex and drugs and cigarettes and alcohol. He makes his way amongst droves of black-clad men and women who live in nightclubs, shaking their bits to the hits. In his very own, and in a way I found somewhat detached, he does live a happy life. He knows his music, and what’s worse, the music – indeed, its spirit – knows him, and that’s where his troubles – his, hah, curse – truly begin. The first volume offers a thorough analysis on what it meant to be touched by the hand of their chosen deity – Pop Music. In the second volume, Kohl takes a backseat to the main event, and while he is an integral part of the story, it’s actually the story itself, and the storytelling invested in it, that outshine the very characters in it. The format is hardly original (sorry, Gillen and McKelvie!), and it reminded me of the format used by The League of Gentlemen in the third and final season of the show : one main story, with a number of ancillary, concurrent events all leading up to the inevitable climax. Art-wise, I liked the second series quite a bit more than the first. Initially, I thought that it was because the second series was actually in colour, but upon reading if a second time, I saw that there was a real evolution in McKelvie’s line. Originally, I found it oddly reminiscent of Jacen Burrow’s art, which is always good, but I also felt the potential for something more, and that’s just what the second series delivers. Pretty soon I’ll have to check out his Suburban Glamour, I think. And Kieron Gillen is fast becoming one of those writers that I’ll follow anywhere. Besides these two series, his Marvel work has been highly enjoyable too. His S.W.O.R.D. series was fun, but short-lived, and I’m really liking his Thor run. No mean feat, replacing JMS, and making the book your own straight away. But here, though, in these two series, it’s absolutely uncanny how much of what he writes and holds as true actually mirror my own thoughts. There are a number of threads used in ‘Phonogram’ that are akin to many that have been circling inside my head for well over ten years now, things that I intended to use in ‘One Nation’, but I am happy to see them used in a much better – and frankly, in a way that makes much more sense – than I’d have used them. I guess that the character of David Kohl must, partially at least, reflective of Gillen himself, and in both the writing and in Kohl, I see a lot of myself, and the life I used to lead a few years ago. There’s a scene in the first series where Kohl goes back to one of his abandoned, and previously regular, haunts that is very similar to something I went through myself, a few years ago. But not only that – there were times, always on the dance floor, where I felt, truly felt, that the music I was listening to was really magical. Maybe it was because of the ritual involved – the dancing, the moving, the shuffling of bodies and feet, the adrenalin, the energy, the sweat, the pent-up rage, the sex, the will to power inherent in all that… sometimes I saw lights that weren’t there, halos and wings of angels in the person who was dancing with me. Was that, as Queen would have us believe, a kind of magic? Oh yes, yes it was.

[So, there : in this wee post I managed to write about all that I set out to – comics, myself, and music. And therein lies the rub, you see? For what I am about to impart to you, my audience, my two faithful readers – you know who you are – is that for a long time now I have been feeling myself drifting away from the words… but not in their written form, no. Rather, with every passing day I feel myself wanting to speak less and less… and I fear that, given enough time, I’ll give up on speaking for good. But speaking… that’s only part of the problem, see? The long and short of it is that these past few years that part of me that once – so long ago, but it seems like it was only yesterday – was capable of the most loquacious of discourses and capable of such eloquent speeches as to raise the dead from their very graves has been slowly dying… Ok, yeah, I exaggerated a bit there, but I know that I was far more communicative and commander of a wider range of conversation-worthy subjects… I’m sure you’ll have noticed how withdrawn I have become, how strangely difficult it has becomes to wring a word out of me. Looking back at this neat little piece, it’s over four thousand five hundred words, right here. When was the last time I spoke more than a few words that were not about trivial things? Not much can be done, at least not for the moment, I’m afraid. I myself have been pondering a great deal about this, but oddly… I am not overly worried about this : for as long as I can write, then I can still say what I feel]

(Hades) Pluton

2010-05-17T18:14:00.000+01:00

I dreamt that I was lying on the bottom of the dark and never-ending sea, on a bed that my dead lover was preparing with his own skeleton for me ...
("...bring us a goat and we'll show you the way straight through the realm of the fallen and slain ...")
I sensed the wretched spectres of the drowned staring across from some distant shore, and in my sadness I drew closer, to condole and somewhat to implore...
I'm like the doubtful kiss of a corpse or maybe the kiss of an ancient stone. Yes, it's like kissing some marble statue that has neither warmth nor life of its own...
("...down, further down, where the gloom becomes sound, onto the cell where your love might be found ...")

Cover the mirrors, fragile has died, leaving but a starless ruin behind! Shatter the mirrors, so that he can never be called from the blesses silence of his sacred vault...
No, no, no...- put an end to the show! I am going back to the land where the bone-flowers grow, to "the wild, weird clime that lies, sublime, out of Space and out of Time" ...
See the shape, but can't see through, no-one can ever hate me as well as I do. Know when to throw a laugh, know how to force a smile, whatever the intention ...- I'm such a "friendly" lie!
("...bring us only this goat and we'll lead you to him, it shall open the gates, so we can sneak you in...")

"Bring us a goat and we'll show you the way straight through the realm of the fallen and slain. Down, further down, where the gloom becomes sound, onto the cell, where your love might be found ... Bring us only this goat and we'll lead you to him, it will open the gates, so we can sneak you in. Oh, it's cold and so dark here, and you must keep in mind, no-one can get you out, if you overstep time...!"

When will the banners and the victory parades celebrate the day a better world was won? Now, and forever.

2010-05-10T18:56:00.001+01:00

I'm about to do something which I rarely - indeed, if ever at all - I did on my blogs, which is to write about football. Insofar as I've been able to, I have not allowed footie to come into play in my musings, because It's all too easy for me to write ginormous ramblings full of invective and derision, and I've opted to let that pass. The closest I ever came to that was when I wrote a couple of posts for a long-abandoned blog, but then that was its sole purpose, for me to wax lyrical on footie.
But today... today, it's stronger than me. I could write at length about what this year meant for me as a SLB fan, but I shan't.
Instead, I want to say a heartfelt thank you to the sixty-five thousand that filled the Cathedral yesterday, always shouting, leading the team on. I want to say thank you to the two hundred thousand revelers that filled the city's streets last night, and deservedly celebrated after too long a time of waiting. I want to thank the millions of people all over the country that yelled as one yesterday when the game was over, and for hours and hours after that.
As well, a thank you to the millions of fans all over the world, in all of the continents, who celebrated like there was no tomorrow. A huge thank you to the brave souls who celebrated this victory in what, to my disgust, have become bastions of terrorism in Portugal : the cities of Porto and Braga. It's sad indeed that two beautiful cities are riddled with such hatred. But thank you anyway, it just goes to show the enormity of our victory, and that of our beloved club.
Everyone in the staff - from the guy who washes the kits and carries the balls, to the guy whose work is to give massages to our heroes, to the assistant coaches : thank you.
To the gaffer, Jorge Jesus : Thank you. You gave Benfica back to millions of us.
To the president, Luis Filipe Vieira and the general manager, Rui Costa : Thank you. Great challenges lie ahead for you now, and you have the hopes of millions in your hands. It's time to forge a new dynasty, and you are the right people for the job.
To every single of our players, from the guys who didn't play a single minute, but whose mere presence was absolutely crucial, to those who played sparingly and did what they had to do with aplomb, to those who week in, week out went into the pitch and gave their all, and often even more than that, to those who kept the balls from going into our nets, to those that scored the many goals we scored this year : I humbly thank you.
But winning is something that comes directly from being better than the opposing teams, and by beating them consistently. And this year, we had many, many obstacles to fend off. From the teams who played (or tried to play) the games of their lives against us, to the referees who made a point to show everyone where their loyalties lie, to the backstage shenanigans orchestrated by our adversaries, that only backfired on them, to those who brilliantly kept pace with us until the bitter end for them, I thank you. Fifteen other teams there are, and we faced each twice. Seventy eight times our balls flew into your nets, providing us with many joys, and only twenty of yours went into our nets.
Of worthy thanks are our media darlings, who ceaselessly tried to come up of new ways to destabilize us. We know you will never learn, but you can't stop us. The giant is awakening, and everything in our path will be destroyed. Where you stand is up to you, we don't care. But be aware that we will retaliate, and you court out displeasure at your own peril.
So that's it... one season of great football, of goals and victories, of joys unending, even when (rarely) defeat came knocking at our doors. I already eagerly await next season, with the full knowledge that some of our players will have moved on to other teams, but also raring to see the new recruits in action. If they are all that they are supposed to be, then we'll have new heroes soon enough. Bring on the new season already!

Something better...

2010-05-05T19:40:00.000+01:00

Three days. And it felt so good... to rest, once more. To sleep again. To be with you. And I will make you words mine : 'All I wanted was you. and me. together. making this Happen. once and for all. forever and for ever. world without end..'

Blacklist : 'Midnight of the century' (2009)

2010-04-29T16:45:00.000+01:00

Ok, so yeah, I have to admit that being unemployed right now does grant me an inordinate amount of free time. On top of that, for the past few weeks I've been having a really hard time sleeping... these days I sleep maybe about three/four hours a day, and that's it. That means that a lot of my waking time is spent during the night - very often I spend whole nights writing, or reading, or whatever. It's a sort of forced procrastination due, in part, to the mere fact that there's nothing else to do at night, so I take the road more frequently traveled and just stay home.
So what do I do at night? Well, when I'm writing or reading I actually prefer to remain in silence. It helps me to concentrate, and also gives me one less unwitting source of inspiration... I find myself writing parts of things that I'm listening to or watching into whatever my project is, and though I don't have a problem with that, insofar as it helps things move along, when it actually becomes detrimental to my stories, then I'd rather be in total isolation.
Given that, whenever I'm doing something else, like playing Solitaire or SFIV, I like to be listening to something. I've already posted about some of the really neat stuff I've been listening to lately, with the promise that I'd write about something really peculiar I've been listening to as well, but that particular post will only be done sometime around next week.
Ok. With all that out of the way, I am very pleased to say that this here band - Blacklist - are plain awesome. This is one of the best things I listened to in ages, and considering that I hated, hated, hated it the very first time'round, that's saying something.
Wow, there, hoss! 'Hated', you say? That's right. So what happened is that when I downloaded these guys I don't know, a year or so ago, maybe, they were considered the band du jour, the bee's knees and all that. First time I listened to them, I was in Sister Ray, one of the best record stores I've ever had the pleasure of spending money in, and I went up to the counter where asked a really nice looking girl if we were listening to the new Interpol or the new She Wants Revenge. The girl - suddenly not nice at all - looks at me all disgusted like, disgusted!, I say, and tells me, 'Like, no?'
Ah. 'So... what is it, then?, asks I. She shook her head sadly, and replasked, 'Blacklist?'.
How hard was that? I make a note of it, go home, download it, and listen to it. I could only think : 'Utter Shite'.
What was on offer, was more of the derivative post-punk revival in the vein of Interpol, She Wants Revenge, Editors, Catpeople and god knows how many. Worse, this sounded to me something so badly ripped off of White Lies, that I almost threw up.
Never again did I pay any attention to them. And then a few weeks ago, while pondering on what I'd listen to next... Sure, why not?, let's give these guys another chance. And after only a few minutes, I was asking myself what drugs I had been taking months ago, because these guys are really good. Yes, the sound is derivative of their own influences, but they take no shame in showing off just how influenced they are by the darker bands of the 80's... in fact, I think that Blacklist are the band that managed to out-80's the 80's themselves.
From beginning to end, they take us on a trip where you can see some Duran Duran, some U2, a lot of Joy Division, certainly a good deal of Manic Street Preachers, and ridiculous as it might sound, I see a little bit of Paradise Lost there as well... it's not very recognizable, but it's there. Where these guys shine is in the lyrics department. A far cry from the tired and tried words of most other bands today, and certainly even farther away than the nonsensical childish musings of White Lies, they incorporate the words and works of famed philosophers and authors, embuing them with an overtly political charge, making them all the more relevant and poignant.
There are a number of really great tracks here - my favourites being the darkly anthemic 'Language of the living dead' and 'Frontiers', and 'When worlds collide'. The very last song, 'The Believer' is one of the most The Smiths - like songs I've ever heard, and that's always a plus.
Once again, I highly recommend these guys. The whole album is on repeat right now!

'Midnight of the century' (2009)

1 - Still changes
2 - Flight of the demoiselles
3 - Shock in the Hotel Falcon
4 - Language of the living dead
5 - Odessa
6 - Julie speaks
7 - Poison for tomorrow
8 - Frontiers
9 - The cunning of history
10 - When worlds collide
11 - The believer

Burzum : ‘Dauði Baldrs’ (1997) & ‘Hliðskjálf’ (1999)

2010-04-26T10:09:00.003+01:00

Hey kids! Black Metal! And all that comes with it! So, bring out all your ‘Satan’s, in your best Ghaal, all your church burning, your corpsepaint, your ‘Fuck them! You know what I mean?’s, and let’s go for a wild, wild ride with this Burzum twofer.
And I’d really, really like to give you a detailed account of the life and times of one man band Varg Vikernes (a.k.a Count Grishnackh, but to be fair, I think I’d be better off trying to explain almost fifty years of convoluted X-Men continuity, alternate realities and all.
Long story short? Crazy boy Vikernes hooks up with equally demented Satanists, joins band, forms band of his own, burns churches and probably tortured cats too, has a falling-out with former band, kills former band mate Euronymous, goes to prison for a long time like all psychos should, and while in prison, the Norwegian tax-payer’s money was partially spent (however marginally) on the recording of these works of art.
So there you go, and that’s all you need to know. Sort of. Well, let’s get on with it, let’s review these two landmarks of Black Met…. Er. What? What do you mean ‘these are not Black Metal records’? By god, man! You mean to infer that this paragon of darkness somehow produced anything else other than one of those legendary antichristian manifestos of his? I say thee : nay!
I can only imagine what dumbstruck, diehard, hardcore Burzum fans must have felt like when they first listened to these records… quite possibly many retched in disgust, while others shook their heads sadly, proclaiming Black Metal to be Dead. With a capital ‘D’ and all, so it becomes all the more ironic. (Wiki Mayhem and Dead if you want to know what I’m talking about.)
So it stands that while imprisoned, Mr. Vikernes here wasn’t allowed any other instrument other than synthesizers, and as such, he felt upon himself to release these two pieces of art to the sensitive ears of mankind the world over.
I’m pretty sure that by now you must have noticed the sarcasm in what I write. These two albums – while far from really bad, considering the pick of the crop from Black Metal – are actually as far from Black Metal as anything can be, at least in terms of sound. What we’ve actually got here are two attempts at creating something maybe in the vein of Dark Ambient music, with some splashes of medieval folk and classical music. And, you know, all things considered… it could have been much worse. The first album, ‘Dauði Baldrs’, made me laugh out loud at how childish everything was, from execution to outcome. I’m sure the guy’s intents were good in the first place, but the roughly forty minutes that make up this record are unbelievably juvenile in the listening. Of course, I knew, going in, that this man here normally comes up with a basic and catchy hook for his songs, almost like a pop song, and then repeats said hook for however long he wants. In the record ‘ Filsofem’, there’s a song that’s about 25 minutes long called ‘Rundgang Um Die Transzendentale Säule Der Singularität’ that’s exactly that…. And so it remains, but at least now (or ten years ago, really) he didn’t go for much longer than seven or eight minutes at a time.
And yeah, I know that what with him being in prison, and having to record everything (presumably) in midi format, severely limited his ideas, but this work dedicated to the death of Norse god Balder is so poorly conceived and executed, it hurts. I don’t mind the repetitiveness of the songs, it’s only that for most of the time it sounds as if the guy actually had no idea what he was doing.
But give him a couple of years practice, and by 1999’s ‘Hliðskjálf’ things were a bit different. It saw a more – dare I say it? – mature (musically speaking) Vikernes, who, this time round seemed to know just what he could do with the tools at his disposal. Not only was me more mature, he was also more ambitious. He even attempts some orchestrations and arrangements. Of the two records, this is by far the better one.
It’s a fine attempt at something grander than the previous effort, but that still falls short of actually being what could be considered a good record. No-one in their right minds could ever consider this guy a musical genius, (after all, he is batshit crazy, though in some respects also a guy that must be really interesting in a VERY disturbing kind of way), but if anything, he is wildly successful at creating droning, sleep-inducing music. All in all,these are interesting – if ultimately rather pointless and not really on the rewarding side - listens, so if you ever find yourself with forty spare minutes, and you’ve got nothing better to do or to listen to, check these out. Or, alternatively, don’t. I hear silence can be rather good, too…

‘Dauði Baldrs’ (1997)
1 - Dauði Baldrs (1997)
2 - Hermoðr á helferð
3 - Bálferð Baldrs
4 - Í heimr heljar
5 - Illa tiðandi
6 - Móti ragnarokum

'Hliðskjálf' (1999)
1 - Tuistos Herz
2 - Der Tod Wuotans
3 - Ansuzgardaraiwô
4 - Die Liebe Nerþus
5 - Frijôs einsames Trauern
6 - Einfühlungsvermögen
7 - Frijôs goldene Tränen
8 - Der weinende Hadnur

Valravn : 'Valravn' (2007) & 'Koder pa snor' (2009)

2010-04-23T14:41:00.001+01:00

To whit : for the past week and a half, I’ve been undergoing a musical endavour that has proved to be much more of a crucible than I was expecting. Even though I won’t say what it is right now, I’ll tell you that, to be sure, it has proved to be one of the more trying auditions I ever experienced.
So much so that to keep myself sane, I decided to listen to other stuff in between. I guess I’m still a few days away from deciding whether or not I liked that particular ordeal I’ve been putting myself through, so in the meantime I’ll be reporting on the great stuff I’ve been listening to.
So, first up, and all the way from Denmark, we have Valravn. And what do these guys sound like? Well, they sound like a celtic/folk combo, with some splashes, here and there (more prominent on the second album) of minimalist electronica. Sung in, you guessed it, Danish. And you know what? Against all odds – or probably despite them… - it all works out smoothly.
To be fair, there isn’t anything terribly original at work here, after all, and to some degree, bands like Subway to Sally, In Extremo, Saltatio Mortis, and even Skyclad are guilty of ateempting this kind of stuff before. But this… this is different. It’s, for one, a much gentler type of sound, and that’s mainly due to the great vocals of the lead singer. Unsurprisingly, for so it would seem that pretty much everyone that comes from Northern Europe sings just like her, she has a Bjork-ish voice, but only very slightly. The beauty of her voice is how angry she sometimes seems – there’s some nifty pieces of yelling to be found here. Musically, well, if you’re into folk music, then you know what to expect here. The twist being the excellent programming and deft use of electronic elements to add even more depth to the songs. Sure and you’ll find your foot tapping to these jigs in no time, and as much as you could wish otherwise, expect a good dose of the shaking of the hips. You’ll not understand a word of what she says (unless you’re Danish or speak it fluently, that is), but that’s ok. Valravn are bloody good, and it’s one of the best finds in recent years.
They have released a couple of albums, as far as I can ascertain. The first is self-titles, and the second, issued last year, has the promising name of ‘Koder pa snor’, whatever that means. I enjoyed them both a great deal, and though on the second one you find much better production values and a more widespread use of the aforementioned electronics, I somehow found myself more drawn to the first album, but that’s probably because I only just recently downloaded the second album and still haven’t listened to it as much as I did the first one.

Valravn – Valravn (2007)

1: Hedebys
2: Dromte mig en drom
3: Krummi
4: Svend i Rosengaard
5: Marsk
6: Vallevan
7: Under bolgen blaa
8: Olavur Riddararos
9: Kom alle vaesener
10: Bialowieska
11: Harra Paetur og Elinborg

Valravn - Koder pa snor (2009)

1:Koder pa snor
2:Kelling
3:Sjon
4:Kraka
5:Seersken
6:Fuglar
7:Kroppar
8:Lysabild
9:Farin ut tan at vera vekk

O.M.D. - Architecture & Morality (1981)

2010-04-19T18:33:00.000+01:00

I have often said to any who would listen to me that one of my favourite songs ever to come out from the ‘80’s was O.M.D.’s ‘Souvenir’. Now that I come to think about it, this is quite probably one of my earliest musical memories. I recall being inside my father’s car when I was very young, and listening to this song on the radio. It stayed with me for a long time, but somewhere in the early ‘90’s, I guess, it just faded away from my memory, and only some four, maybe five years ago did I start listening to it again. A while ago it struck me that, while I had listened to this song hundreds of times, I knew nothing about the album in which it originally appeared. I had downloaded some time ago a file with the complete O.M.D. discography, and immediately sought out which album contained it. Seeing as it was included on their third album, I then had to make a choice : I’d either listen to their albums chronologically… or I’d take the lazy way out, which was just listening to the album straight away. So I did, and for the past few weeks I have been listening to it almost on a daily basis.

The tracklisting is as follows :

1 – The new stone age

2 – She’s leaving

3 – Souvenir

4 – Sealand

5 – Joan of Arc

6 – Joan of Arc (Maid of Orleans)

7 – Architecture & Morality

8 – Georgia

9 – The beginning and the end

The version I have is the 2003 remastered reissue that contains a number of remixes, B sides from the album’s singles and outtakes for songs would appear in following albums. They are :

10 – Extended Souvenir

11 – Motion and heart

12 – Sacred heart

13 – The romance of the telescope

14 – Navigation

15 – Of all the things we’ve made

16 - Gravity never failed

So, going in to the original version of the record, the 1981 edition, once you first listen to it you can see that this is very much a two-sided record, if you’ll pardon the now semi-anachronistic pun. On the A side, things begin in quite frantic manner with the first couple of tracks. There’s a dark element there that’s highly reminiscent of some Joy Division, and the band seem eager to have their music reach you, and take hold of you. So these first two songs do that just fine, setting up the wonderful ‘Souvenir’ quite nicely, to be followed by the majestic ‘Sealand’, the album’s best song, alongside ‘Souvenir’. As we move on to the B side, and following the cue set by ‘Sealand’, the next few tracks seem to fizz out a bit when it comes to their energy and relevance. It struck me as odd that I didn’t find myself able to like what are considered to be some of their best songs, though not at all famous, like the ‘Joan of Arc’ suite, and ‘Georgia’. Don’t get me wrong, they are fine songs, yes, but nowhere near as good as the songs found on the other side of the record. The song that lends its name to the album’s title is a drab little instrumental that seemed more like an experiment with sound and noise than a proper piece of music. The last song, ‘The beginning and the end’, though, kicks things up a notch, and sort of redeems what I considered to be a less than stellar B side. But, and at least for my part, the real gems are the songs found on the 2003 reissue. Here you’ll find songs that are just as good as any of the best in the original issue, and actually better than most of the album’s songs. You’ll also find a not really necessary extended mix of ‘Souvenir’, wherein you only find minimal changes to the original version. But songs like ‘The Romance of the telescope’ and ‘Of all the things we’ve made’, the video to which can be seen below, are real gems worthy of repeated listening. In truth, these days when I listen to the album, it’s always looking forward to the last few songs. Sure, I could just play them outright, and forget about the others, but for the moment I’m still willing to give them a chance to grow on me.

When all’s said and done, I’m sure this won’t be the O.M.D. album that I’ll like the most, but it’s worth it for the handful of songs I mentioned. Apparently, this has been their most successful album ever, both commercially and critically, but I wouldn’t rate it overall more than maybe 3.5 out of 5, though some songs here are absolute gold.

To want this,
Of everything we've made.
The times it's worked before.
Of all the things we've said,
Times that worked before today.
Of all the things we've said,
They've always worked before today.

This is not how the world ends.

2010-04-15T10:49:00.001+01:00

This is not how the world ends.

That is the recurring theme of one of the best first issues of a comic I have ever read, Marvel Comics’s ‘S.H.I.E.L.D.’, by the team of writer Jonathan Hickman and artist Dustin Weaver. Hickman, himself responsible for another of my favourites – the uber- ambitious Secret Warriors -, also from Marvel, as well as some indy gems like A Red Mass for Mars and Pax Romana, draws heavily from the long-running history of the Marvel universe here; but not only that : he posits quite valid questions, the answers to which are just as surprising as they are logic. One of them is, who were the protectors of the earth before the Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, the X-Men or Captain America were around? Who fended off the constant threats – be they internal or external – and kept humanity on course for the realization of a potential only known by a few? The answer is : Imhotep. Galileo. Da Vinci. Isaac Newton. Nostradamus. Men of unsurpassed knowledge and creativity, along the ages they found themselves a part of something bigger than themselves. Their weapon was the spear, and their sigil was the shield. And so throughout the centuries the shield became that which bound them to this eternal duty : the protection of humankind.

Of course, it helps if you know decades of Marvel universe lore, but it’s not, in fact, something that is wholly necessary to fully enjoy this story. All you need to know is that, sometime in our past, the fathers of Tony ‘Iron Man’ Stark and Reed ‘Mr. Fantastic’ Richards also found themselves an integral part of this covenant of the shield, and, in turn, they would eventually plant the seeds of what would become S.H.I.E.L.D., thereby furthering an already legendary legacy.

The genius of this story is, really, how writer Hickman takes these seemingly random characters and eras, and ties them beautifully together. The seeming disparity twixt these figures of our own world and those of the fictional Marvel world are rendered moot by the realization – and explanation – that, since these aforementioned characters were, in a very real way, already larger than life during their own time and even unto this day, it only made sense that these would have been our guardians over the ages.

The artist, Dustin Weaver, is someone whose work I recall only from here and there, but in this series he shines. Already I consider him one of the few worthy of note to appear in these past few years, and if the work presented in this first issue is testament of what lies ahead, then this is an artist whose work I’ll be following for a long time. The way he brings to life – so to speak – all characters, whether they’re fictional or merely the whimsical archetypes of this world imposed on the Marvel world, is absolutely outstanding. His command of illustration as a language, coupled with a superior sense of storytelling, make him the perfect fit for this story. I read an interview with Hickman recently where he talked about what he has in store for the series, and he revealed that it was the artist’s decision, as well as his own, to pepper this debut issue with subtle references to both the works of our own world’s geniuses, as well to some longstanding characters from the Marvel Universe. Sharp-eyed readers will notice the deft inclusion of both En Sabah Nur and Moon Knight (or rather, the avatar of Konshu), in a very specific scene.

This is not how the world ends. And, indeed, so much more than a mere catchphrase, it serves as a mission statement for the whole series. Through the eyes of the characters introduced to us on this first issue, we see a number of scenes, taken directly from the lore of the Marvel universe, and brought to the forefront via the interaction of said characters, where our world seems at peril. Alas, as time and time again they would say, ‘This is not how the world ends’. For these purveyors of the Greater Science, the Quiet Math, the Silent Truth, the Hidden Arts and the Secret Alchemy know, mankind’s destiny is not to perish anytime soon.

You can't take a picture of this. It's already gone.

2010-04-13T17:01:00.001+01:00

And one morning, a morning just like so many before it, he woke up and suddenly knew what to say : all the words that had been welling up inside him were fighting a desperate struggle against each other to just come out spewing forth from his mouth, wanting to be heard. They felt in such a state of uproar because at long last they were the right words. So he picked up his phone, and it rang three times on the other end before she picked it up. He had no doubts whatsoever that this was the right thing to do – after all, they hadn’t spoken in months, well over a year, because it seemed as if they were afraid to just talk to each other. He was afraid of saying the wrong thing, and she was afraid of hurting him once again. So when it all came crashing down, the fact that they drifted ever apart was only natural. But it was wrong, and this he’d known for a long time; they weren’t meant to be apart, not now, not ever, not on this lifetime or any other. The ocean of silence between them was wrong, and he was to blame for that.

When her voice spoke from the other end, wherever she was now, it was as if she was standing right next to him, it was as if everything made sense again. His voice rich with emotion, she asked that she bear with him for a moment. There were things he needed, no, wanted, to say, and those words took their own time, after all the feelings he had of an uncontrollable, torrential diatribe. He sighed, softly and inwardly, and then he spoke. And she listened; raptly, she listened to each and every word he said, and for the longest time said nothing. When finally he did stop, he asked her a question. She said yes, and a few days after that conversation, they’d meet for dinner somewhere, and talk some more.

And talk they did, at great length, until they finally agreed that the time had finally come when the past was just the past. All that was left was now, and the future. It beckoned to them with such puissance that the mere idea of it edged them onwards.

Months after that, she was getting home – their own place at last – and quickly went to find him. He was sitting at his desk writing another chapter of his novel while his muse still served him. She kissed him behind his neck, and as he swiveled his chair sideways, she sat down on his lap and whispered quietly in his ear that she had a surprise for him. Giddy with anticipation, and with a little bit of dread thrown in as well, for he was normally wary of such things, he asked her what it was. She sat on his lap looking at him, stroking his hair, holding him close, praying to god that he never went away. She made him feel as loved as any human soul ever had the right to feel, and when she told him that soon, yes, soon enough the two would become three, they both saw that everything was finally right.

When the time came, they named the child Hunter. And so did the three of them finally felt what true happiness meant; even though the both of them – together or alone – felt like they’d gone through heaven and through hell, they now knew that all trials they’d experienced were but the stepping stones that brought them to this perfect moment.

I am lost, in our rainbow, now our rainbow has gone,
Overcast, by your shadow, as our worlds move on,
But in this shirt, I can be you, to be near you for a while.
There's a crane, knocking down all those things, that we were,
I awake, in the night, to hear the engines purr,
There's a pain, it does ripple through my frame, makes me lame,
There's a thorn, in my side, it's the shame, it's the pride...
Of you and me, ever changing, moving on now, moving fast,
And his touch, must be wanted, must become, through your ask,
But I need Jake to tell you, that I love you, it never rests,
And I've bled every day now, for a year, for a year,
I did send you a note on the wind for to read....
... Our names there together must have fallen like a seed...
... To the depths of the soil buried deep in the ground,
On the wind, I could hear you, call my name, held the sounds,
I am lost,
I am lost, in our rainbow, now our rainbow has gone,
I am lost, in our rainbow, now our rainbow has gone,
I am lost.

[And if never you felt curious enough to listen to one of these songs I post here, do yourself the favour of listening to this song. This is, by far, the most beautiful song you'll hear this year, and quite likely, one of the most beautiful songs ever written as well. These precious few minutes will redefine genius and beauty as you know it.]

And then you whisper in my ear, 'I know what you're doing here'...

2010-04-10T19:31:00.001+01:00

I wanted to write something today, but I'm just too tired... no energy whatsoever for little stories. Likely they'll only come out again after I have finished this current project. I'm thinking that today should be a really productive night. And tomorrow, too. But... and before I go, I just want to plug this song... In truth, I listen to the the self-titled Azure Ray debut album at least three times a day now, after quite a few years of neglect. This harrowing song is called 'Rise'.

Today I'll crawl out of bed
I can't stand your shadow is too heavy to lift
Maybe we'll go for a ride
You said you'd take me nowhere
I said that suits me just fine
I know you've always been near
Whispering secrets i know I'm not supposed to hear
Hold your heart with two hands
Give it to me only to disappear
Look how low I've sunk
Don't ask me to rise
I'll only lose you when I'm high
All alone in the dark
Love survives only when we are apart
Your voice still sounds in my ears
Soft explosions that blossom with the beat of my heart
Hey hey look how low I've sunk
Don't ask me to rise
I lost you when I was high.

Holy fuckballs, YES!

2010-04-08T13:33:00.000+01:00

I knew that this day would come sooner or later. I felt my mind on the cusp of making or breaking for a long time now, and guess what? I'm on fire, I'm on a roll. It's not ready yet, but it should be done in hopefully under a week. Then I'll take another pass at it, polish some stuff, check for consistency and congruency, and then unleash it on the chosen few.

[And Silvia, I truly can not help but think about you a lot when I hear this song. I have always loved it, even when I hated it years ago because everybody liked it. This song reminds me so much of you, that I... nah, that would be telling. Wait and see. This is 'Butterfly : dance!']

The sound of galaxies playing the music of our lives.

2010-04-02T17:28:00.002+01:00

Underneath the world built by reason lay the foundations of a different perception , putting light on a brand new horizon. Remodeling our own life's conception, opening views of another dimension, revealing a home of outstanding proportions.
Radiating from one's own reflection, energy's nucleus : height, density, concentration.
Feeling incomplete before the meeting while the rest of me wants to gather.
Sociability, sensibility, clear out charm of world illusions. Philanthropy to felicity, so why can't we live with one another?
Dissolved, diluted, restored and regrouped : waiting for crystallization.
Reunion of different principles leading to cohesion and different conclusions.
Fundamental and perennial, the law of movement intersideral.
One small step, one giant step, interdependent and connected thought.
Omnipotence giving the access to your own soul, to other galaxies, at your own depth, reality subject to hazard.
Susceptibility, emotionally, physically bound and tied.
Understanding before standing, always digging your views a little deeper. Vision and dream accorded with one another.
Giving an answer to all you wonder, sun on your soul is significant to your own environment. See through the night with an open mind, catch up with the light, your way, you'll find feeling.
Incomplete before the meeting while the rest of me wants to gather.

An ode to their plight is this dirge.

2010-03-31T16:18:00.001+01:00

He was falling. Hurtling down an endless expanse of nothingness. Slowly. Then fast. But always falling. Always, always falling. Like a star from the skies, like a raging comet across the universe. Falling down, sometimes sideways, he'd chance a look every now and again at whatever infinity of blackness went past him, only to see the ghosts of scorching, fiery contrails for as far as the eye could see. And here, the eye could see very far indeed.Downwards, ever downwards, the man stared at the gaping maw of an abyss far below him : it forebode of more flight through this desolation, probably into another dimension of despair. And suddenly, it was like he accelerated, he started to fall faster and faster. He likened this fall to the original fall; and, in a way, it made all too perfect sense to him that he was falling, likely never to ascend again. This fall justified everything that happened before, whatever that was, whenever that was. Still faster he fell, by now faster than the speed of light, the abyss that once seemed distant now aeons behind him. In the approaching distance, the man saw a light : a light at the end of the tunnel, in a way. A light at the end of all the darkness, and he fell towards it. And when he reached it, he woke up.

And he woke up in the middle of the night with the feeling that this had not been the first time he'd dreamt this dream. No, there was something too familiar there, something that spoke to him from time out of mind. A sort of cosmic, all-seeing, all-knowing presence lingered there, just at the edge of existence, in his dream. He always felt that he was trying to tell him something, and he could just remember hearing... what? a voice? No, a song, that's what it was. But he could never figure out the words to it, and like as not, would probably not even be able to comprehend them at all.
But it's still early in the night, a few hours before dawn, and there wasn't much to do. He wasn't in a reading mood, and it was too early yet for him to turn on the computer and see what was going on in the world. He needed something more... more active? More physical? Well, something that made him actually do things. And so he thought he'd make try and make a sense out of his room, a chaotic jumble of things long in dire need of a complete overhaul.
He got out of bed, went to the kitchen. From the fridge he took out milk, and on his way out, just as he turned off the light, he took some biscuits from the nearby cupboard, so he'd have something to nibble while he worked.
The first order of business would be to look through the dozens of boxes of all sizes that were in his room; he needed to sort out what was to be kept, and what was to be thrown out. It took him a few hours, but soon enough that chore was behind him. Bags full of once treasured possessions were filled, and he quickly moved on to the drawers that were full to bursting with long-forgotten items. This he dreaded the most, for there were things there that were purposely kept out of sight. He found it somewhat surprising to see that truly, most of what sat inside the drawers, amounted to be nothing but mementos of a bygone era. With a smile, he sifted through the papers, the photos, the memories... most of it he threw out, they no longer had any sort of sentimental attachment to him.
He surveyed the scene, and saw that it was good. The place was looking like something different. It was somehow lighter, much less cluttered. Something had been set free.
But still something nagged at him. Oh. Yes. He'd forgotten to go through his wardrobe. He moved towards it, opened up the doors, and felt at ease with knowledge that there was only the bare essential of clothing there. He looked down, and he saw a box. A black, unassuming box. From the first look he gave, he knew what was inside the box.
Her letters, her drawings of him, her words to him. The sound of her voice, the smell of her perfume wafting from the papers, even after so long.
He picked up the box, and sat down on his bed.
And then he opened the box.

Where do all dreams go when they die?

2010-03-29T16:02:00.000+01:00

Breathing. Spirit. Discipline. Focus the mind. Cleanse the soul. Keep sight on my target. Concentrate. Focus...

Be prepared for the unexpected. Concentrate…mind and body as one. Achieve tranquility through movement.

Integrate spirit and flesh. Channel the powers. Focus the mind. Cleanse the soul.

Release that which is negative. Separate darkness and light.

Mind and body as one.

Give birth to yourself.

Oneness, through knowledge.

Define your existence.

Oneness, through emotions.

Create your divination.

Oneness, with the heavens..

From strength, learn gentleness. Through gentleness, strength will prevail.

There the road begins where another one will end.

2010-03-25T14:43:00.001Z

It was a beautiful day out there : the sun was shining, birds were singing. Early spring already held the promise of a glorious summer, and as he walked out on to the street, the wonderful warmth of the sun bathed him in golden waves.
Today would be a a lazy day, he'd decided. And so, and seemingly at random, he wove in and out of the city's streets, stopping here and there wehn necessary. On one such stop. he bought something to eat later on, as well as water to keep him from becoming parched.
After walking for a while underneath the sweltering yellow globe above, he made his way into the garden. By sheer dint of its verdant nature, it kept temperatures just a tad cooler, and that was good.
Fir, ash, oak and pine greeted him, were all around him. He walked by the solitude of trees, crouched near a forlorn bramble where a small cat had disappeared into seconds earlier : he wanted to see if it was still there, or at least nearby. He inserted one hand in the shrubbery, pushed it aside, but the cat was gone. When he made to remove his hand, he pricked his thumb on a blackbriar thorn. He sucked at it for a bit, and sure enough, the bleeding soon stopped.
Walking on, and past an artificially engineered stream of water where ducks and various other fowl lounged and swam to and fro, he slowly - but steadily - made his way to the amphitheatre. In the open air, beneatht the blue sky, savouring the sun, and spread somewhat thin all over the amphitheatre, sat a dozen or two other souls. Some just sat, their feet resting on the seats in front of them, their eyes closed, their faces turned skywards. Younger people studied what might have been quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore. Not far from him, a beautiful girl sat listening to music, whilst writing down on a notebook. Soon, he sat down and rested.
So rested he, by the shade of the lemon tree, that after a score of minutes of idle thinking, he looked inside his shopping bag : he took out the bottle of water, and a small plastic container with cherry tomatoes. He unscrewed the cap, and drank eagerly from the water. Afterwards, he opened the container, removed the thin plastic film, tipped the bottle over it, let it pour down over the tomatoes, and the water fell on the cobblestones from the orifices in the container. He lay everything on the seat next to him, and every now and again, he'd remove a tomato, and proceed to eat.
They tasted of earth, still, and this made them all the more delicious. In his mind he could imagine torrential rains falling over the plains whence these small, red orbs once grew, imbuing them with the taste of the very earth around them, over them. Under the sun, and with the insects buzzing and droning all around him, he almost dozed, almost surrendered to the day's sweetness. But the shrill cry of a bird flying above lurched him into sudden wakefulness.
Weary, he understood at last a fundamental truth that had been eluding him. It wasn't something that couldn't be rightly put into words, because it was an internal action; it was as if gears had shifted, and he suddenly realized that something was different, that something within him had changed.
It was time. It was time, and he no longer cared, no longer wanted to hold it in. It's time to break down. Yes, a breakdown, of a sort, but the sort that you need to go through before you can start picking up the pieces again, and reassemble yourself anew.
And so he let it all out.

[In another world, in another life, he'd have stared a bit longer at the beautiful girl and noticed that her purse was a perfect match for his jacket. He'd have found a way to make conversation with her, and then mention this. She'd agree, and they'd laugh. Then, just before he left, he'd tell her that if she wanted it, she could keep the jacket. It'd fit her just fine, she'd look amazing in it. She'd reply that she couldn't possibly take it, but he'd insist so much that eventually she'd give in. She would thank him, and just before he made to leave, she'd offer to give him something in return. It was now his turn to decline, but she moved closer, so much closer, and kissed him full on the lips. And he'd wonder why she had done such a stupid thing.]

I've found a way to make you free : kill that sound!

Sometime around midnight.

2010-03-24T15:10:00.002Z

And it starts sometime around midnight, or at least that's when you lose yourself for a minute or two. As you stand under the bar lights and the band plays some song about forgetting yourself for a while, and the piano's this melancholy soundtrack to her smile, and that white dress she's wearing, you haven't seen her for a while. But you know that she's watching : she's laughing, she's turning, she's holding her tonic like a cross, the room's suddenly spinning.
She walks up and asks how you are so you can smell her perfume; you can see her lying naked in your arms. And so there's a change in your emotions, and all of these memories come rushing like feral waves to your mind : of the curl of your bodies like two perfect circles entwined ,and you feel hopeless, and homeless and lost in the haze of the wine. And she leaves with someone you don't know, but she makes sure you saw her. She looks right at you and bolts as she walks out the door. Your blood boiling, your stomach in ropes, and when your friends say, "What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."
And you walk under the streetlights, and you're too drunk to notice that everyone is staring at you. You just don't care what you look like, the world is falling around you. You just have to see her. You just have to see her. You just have to see her. You just have to see her. You just have to see her.
And you know that she'll break you in two.

Un fantasma tra noi.

2010-03-23T14:53:00.002Z

The woman was raging fire, a deluge from on high sent by the gods themselves. She was the blaze that consumed forests, that drove men to madness, that sent soldiers hurtling down the battlements of well-guarded keeps, and that plunged priests into such longing and desire that, prostrated before the cross, they'd curse and denounce the lord.
She was a snake, wrapped sevenfold in in temptation, a lush garden of desires in her veiled sex, her heaving bosoms seemingly ransacked from the very heavens. She was fire, she was the devil, she was the rage of God, the sword that cuts night into day, the ax that cleaves the seasons accordingly.
At least, this was how she felt. As she stood regarding herself in the mirror, in her skimpy, skinny Daisy Dukes, she knew that tonight all kinds of hell would be raised for her. She liked this. She smiles at herself, and the reflection, the one with the little devil on her shoulder said, 'Go get'em, tiger'.
And so she did.

You're the links that you move. You shine from the light that you shed.

Flames to dust, lovers to friends. Why do all good things come to an end?

2010-03-22T14:43:00.001Z

And even though they were in the same physical space, even though they sat but a foot or two apart from each other in the same bed, it was as if they were, in all actuality, worlds away from each other. There was a great sadness between them, they sensed it, and for some reason this sadness that kept them apart seemed to be stronger than love. Even if they wanted to say something, whatever they came up with died stillborn in their mouths. It was important that something be said, but a knot around their throats was choking them. So they sat on opposite ends of the bed, backs to each other. He thought only of the many bad things he'd done, and how much those actions had poisoned this person he so loved. He blamed himself, mostly. It was his weakness, his lack of character if you want to call it that, that brought upon these blunders, that led him down the path of temptation. He figured if things remained hidden, then all this would never come to pass. But truth has a way, quite like bad blood : it will always out.
It was hard enough admitting to those past misdeeds; he had regretted them a number of times before, but never moreso than now. Moreover, he could not put into words how ashamed he felt. It didn't feel right, he thought, that this cross he carried could so easily be explained. And even though he tried hard to form mere words into a coherent phrase, he'd often just stand looking at her, opening his mouth as if to speak, shutting it again, opening it once more, then finally giving up. 'What?', she'd often ask. 'Nothin'.', he'd reply.
But that had been long ago, really. What surprised her - and maybe even vexed her - was how fresh she had allowed the feelings to remain inside her. Was she not capable of putting things behind her? Was she not in control of herself? She thought she was, she really did. And then she realized that, pretty much just like everyone else, she is human, only human, after all, and that made her indeed a slave to emotional outbursts. Back turned to this man she thinks she loves, or loved, but she's not yet sure, she ponders all this. It is beginning to dawn on her that indeed, this is becoming too much to take, it's hard to bear, it's like wanting to scream all the time, and not being able to. Maybe if she hit him, or stabbed him, or hurt him in return she'd feel better. But she knew she wouldn't, not really. Likely never would.
He got up from the bed, and moved closer to her. He hesitated for a bit, it felt like she was going to do something, and then felt more at ease and said, : 'Hey. I'm, huh, I'm gonna go now. I'll understand if you never talk to me again. God alone knows that even I don't want much to do with myself nowadays. But I gotta tell you this. I will always love you, from the bottom of my heart. Only right now, right now it's not the best for any of us if I just stay and hope for the best. Clearly, you need something that I can't offer you anymore. You need something that you will only get with me leaving. But it'll come. And soon, this thing between us, this ghost that never wanes? Well, darling, just like me, it'll only be a bad memory.'

Come take me down to your heart of gold, and I will hear your song.
Cover me up in your fantasy world, where I can do you no harm.
And hold me now close to you, fear the thoughts I am sending.
Hold me now close again, this dream is almost ending.

Come take me down to your victory waltz, and I will break your heart.
Gaze once again at the promise we made, that I have torn all apart.
And hold me now close to you, as though we're still pretending.
Hold me now close again, this dream is almost ending.

When we made love you used to cry; You said 'I'll love you like the stars above, I'll love you 'till I die'.

2010-03-19T16:41:00.000Z

The girl wept uncontrollably, and the man next to her, in her bed had no idea why. I mean, he had not a single clue why this was happening. It had just been sex, that's all. And it wasn't like it had been bad; he knew it had been good, at least for him, and he thought that she'd enjoyed it. And now... now she's crying. Truth be told, he had been patient, and bided his time. He liked the girl quite a lot, and he was more than willing to go into a relationship, a proper one, with her.
The problem wasn't the sex. No, not at all. She had liked it, to an extent, but it felt wrong. And she was certain that he would not, could possibly not, understand how she was feeling right now, and she knew that this feeling, well, it might never go away, not entirely.
The thing of it was that it wasn't feeling right. She liked the guy, a little bit, fooled around with him, and decided that he was worthy. But when they lay together... that's where it started going wrong. See, what happened is that his body didn't fit into hers. His presence, his invasion of her, it was almost too much to bear. It felt like something alien was inside her, in her, and after a while... well, after a while the tears started.
And he was tender; he asked if he'd hurt her, or done something wrong. She replied in tears. He sat down on the bed, by the foot of the bed, and hung his head in sorrow. He wondered what the hell just happened, and if there was anything he could do to make things right.
In the silence of the night, all that was heard was the gentle sobbing of the girl. He tried to lay next to her, but it was as if she was somewhere else.
It finally dawned, and he dressed himself with his clothes that were carelessly thrown to the floor. Inside, he'd given up trying to understand. As he made his way out of the room, he turned his head and stared at the girl. She looked right at him, with vacant eyes. He could tell that something was missing inside her.
He chanced, 'How are we? Where does this leave us?', and the girl just shook her head, sadly.

I'll be there as soon as I can, but I'm busy mending broken pieces of the life I had before.

2010-03-18T15:19:00.000Z

Somewhere in the city, a man is lying in his bed, doing nothing for no apparent reason. The active principle that should fuel his soul is somewhat at an ebb, and the mere knowledge of this galls him. Let's call him, this man, let's call him 'I.'
Get up. Walk. Move. Do something. And so he did, just as these very thoughts percolated through the recesses of his mind. Let's get physical, let's go places, see faces, hear voices and everything else. And so he did.
And as he walked through these streets, these streets he know so well, streets he's known since he was a small child, he feels justified. It's like the city is finally welcoming him back after a lengthy absence, and now, just like a whore, she spreads herself for him. But he is a tender lover, this man. For he knows where to go, he knows all the little tricks, he knows where he can find pleasure and give it in return. The city knows this, and leads him on.
By now he must have walked miles and miles, but there are so many more left to go. And on he walks.
Hours and hours pass, and on the shade of a tree in a park by the river, he rests for a while. The shade protects him from the searing sun, and invites just a little bit of drowsiness. He sleeps, beneath the tree, for a little while.
After a time, his eyes open, and as he looks to the sky, he senses the onset of evening. His stomach rumbles in protest, and he decides to make his way somewhere, but not home, not yet. A meal will do him wonders, and he knows just what he wants to get.
He walks some more, but not long thereafter his muscles tell him that it would be wiser if he were to find an alternate means of transportation.
I. looks for the nearest bus stop, and a few minutes later he's making his way downtown. Downtown, where all the action should be, should there be any kind of action in this place. But in this light, and in this evening? It's just what he needs.
It's not really a long trip, and his feet guide him to where he wants to go. Uphill he goes, and past all the fashion stores with impossible slim people, past the trendy cafes and restaurants, past the slightly - and the disturbingly early - drunks, and onwards to the narrow streets that will soon be packed with people. But not yet. For now, it's still a bit on the empty side, but that only serves his purposes better. He was listening to music on his mp3 player, new musics, the kind of music that can be safely ignored, the sort of music to which you still have no attachment to, and in a very good way, it distracted him.
So much so that completely by accident he bumped into a couple of people that were coming his way, and just as he was about to apologize, he realizes into whom he had just bumped into.
'Oh. It's you', he said, with a little, little smile. The girl smiled back, and said, 'Yep. It's me.'
A second of protracted silence went by before she spoke again. 'Yeah, and this is. This is J. He's my.. huh.. boyfriend'.
OK, he thought. Bound to happen sooner or later. 'Hi', he said, 'I am I.'
J. broke into a wide smile, and said 'Oh? So you're I., huh? Heard a lot about you.'
'Yes, I am I., and all you've heard about me? Everything is true, I'm said to say.'
'Well... huh...', J. stammered, but before he said anything else, silence cut in once more. I. said, 'Yeah, it's been great, but I really gotta go.' He looked at the girl, and said, 'I am really happy for you, I really am.'
He squeezed her hand tight, swallowed hard, and turned to leave.
As he waved goodbye, he saw her looking back in regret, he thought. Anxiety and a bout of sadness propelled him onward.
In his depths, deep down, he really was happy. She had moved on, and that, in a sense, made him feel more at ease. It was all that mattered, really - her happiness.
He had finally reached his destination, and sat down awaiting for his deserved meal to be served. He ordered a bottle of wine, and drank it eagerly.
That night he went home with her on his mind. As he got in his bed, he felt his mind racing. The wine probably didn't help it, and he knew that he'd have the dreams again tonight. But that's ok, he's had them for years now.
Only tonight... tonight they'll be even more vivid, and he knew that tomorrow when he woke up, the certainty of his love would drive him to tears.

A subtle kiss that no-one sees.

2010-03-15T16:58:00.001Z

To be lost. To be waiting and wanting to be found. To feel adrift in the ebb and tide of life, and to aimlessly wander through streets that, though they may be packed with other souls, still feel deserted nonetheless.
All this was a feeling they had inside : it had crept into their core, nestled there, and refused to let go. A feeling they shared, even though years kept them apart, even though life had taken them down wholly different and divergent paths in the past. And so they endured, with this feeling and all, through what could only be described as a vast solitude of age.
So it came to pass that one day, and years hence from the moment they last saw each other, they would wake up one morning feeling as if the greatest weight in the world had been slightly eased from off of their shoulders. Oh, it was still there, but something - somehow - made it that much easier to bear, at least for a while.
The girl had bought a new dress some weeks ago, but had never worn it. She told herself that she was saving it for a special occasion, but now, and as she held it in her hands after having taken it out from the wardrobe, that reason sounded more and more like something sort of childish. No, it was time she finally wore the red dress. It was time she felt good again. Not just 'ok' good, but 'good' good. It was worth it, and tonight is the night. There's this party she's been invited to, and she's going to wear the dress tonight.
Somewhere in the city, a man is looking at himself in the mirror and wondering whether to shave or not. To be fair, he just doesn't terribly feel like it, but he hasn't shaved in a few weeks now, and it's starting to itch bad.
He shaves, cuts himself below the lower lip, curses, and then drowns his face in cold water to staunch the bleeding for a bit. He then thinks to himself that he shouldn't have shaved after all, but that was too late now, anyway.
His day has been pretty much uneventful : he had woken up early-ish, went for a jog, then showered. Only this, and nothing more. The shaving had come at a later time : he was reading in bed, when his phone rang, and plans were made to go out, for a few drinks, maybe even to a party.
He was up for the drinks, but not so much for the party. As all people are wont to, he'd grown weary of them, and now limited his social outings to special occasions.
But tonight.... yeah. Maybe tonight. He had a good feeling.

It was too loud, and had too many people. So many... where did they all come from? He was pretty sure he knew not half of one third of the people here, but they were all very nice, they all said hello, shook his head, and pecked him on his cheek. But that's ok, it's how things go, and better to let them happen, than to question them and make an already potentially embarrassing situation even more so.
Of course, he'd seen her there. He fought his instincts, and decided to stay. He wasn't entirely sure if she had seen him or not, but it didn't look like she did.

And she was a having a good time! The music was good - albeit a tad on the loud side - , there were nice people there, the food was decent enough, and she just danced with her eyes closed. She was, in a way, in a world of her own, just how she liked it. The dress clung to her body as tightly as a lover does, and made her feel warm on the inside. She felt that all eyes were on her, as she danced. Some were, but she didn't notice them. As the music wound down to a softer beat, she moved away from the empty space in which she danced, and went to get something to drink. And then, then she saw him.

He had turned her back to the room, while he fixed something to drink. She said 'Hello' in that voice he knew so well, but hadn't heard in so many years, and he didn't know if he ought to feel happy or despondent. He helloed back, and looked at her. She smiled, and said nothing. Nothing needed be said, after all. There were no words. No voices could speak what their hearts were saying to each other. All the years suddenly seemed to melt away, all that came before no longer mattered. What was important was this, what was important was now.
He stared ahead, fighting back the tears. He gave up after a while, wiped his eyes, and put his hands on the table where the drinks sat in absolute stillness. She drew closer, and put her left hand on top of his right hand, holding it tight.
She broke the silence, and said 'Everything will be alright. Everything will be alright.'

So far from shores I'd left behind, still far from shores I've yet to reach.

2010-03-12T15:53:00.000Z

I first saw it a couple of nights ago, and I naturally thought that it was just my mind playing tricks on me, at first.
But then, I should know better by now, shouldn't I?
There is a presence in my room.
I first became aware of it as I lay on my bed, and the dim blue light that the mains charger that is plugged to my laptop was enough to cast a shadow on the ceiling. From the opposite to where I lay, I noticed that the shadow lengthened itself across from where I looked at it, and ever so slowly, slid across the ceiling and stopped dead in front of me, on top of me.
I looked at it, and it stared back at me. I know not what it is, I don't even know if that block of sheer darkness above can be considered pure black, or rather just the absence of any light whatsoever. Or maybe even the darkness that exists before light finally comes.
It remains still. It has no eyes, but I can feel them upon me. No mouth, but I can hear it whispering.
Tired, I fell asleep, caring not for whatever eldritch creature kept me company.
Yesterday, when I went to bed end turned off the light, it took only a few minutes for it to appear once more.
Maybe it's not there. Maybe it's all in my mind. Maybe only I see it, and that is to be my everlasting curse. Maybe.
Whatever it is, it exists in a space out of time and out of mind and the voice beckons me ever closer.
I'm not sure whether I like it or not - the primal part of me is scared out of my wits, but another side of the multifaceted diamond that is my psyche feels attracted to it.
If I find there tonight, I shall ask something of it. If it has a voice, then it's possible that it is sentient. If it is, then I have but one question.
Who watches over me?

She said she loved me, but she had somewhere to go.

2010-03-10T16:54:00.003Z

He woke up in the middle of the night, after a few hours of drifting between slumber and wakefulness. It was very early in the morning, close to four, maybe, and his hand ran over his body only to feel a that a thin film of sweat covered it. The man opened his eyes, sighed audibly, and crossed his room almost in its entirety in a few steps. He reached a washing basin, cracked and yellowed with age, turned the tap that freed sweet, cold water and sunk his face in it. After a length of time he looked up. A forlorn, hackneyed mirror presented him with the reflection of someone that looked so much like himself, but so much older, so... tired. Spent.
He inspected the face that stood staring at him, and he thought, 'how did this happen? It was only yesterday that I felt so young...'
And he sighed again.
Looking at the mirror once more, he realized how haggard he looked : his cheekbones were protuberant, a sure sign that he wasn't eating as often as he ought to. His beard was frayed, and sported now only a few patches of a dark colour, which might have once been black, but no longer.
He walked slowly back to his bed, and sat down. He looked to the walls, and saw a number of things he once held dear : photos of loved ones, long gone but never forgotten, and books. He went to pick up a book, any book, a random one would have done, but as his hand reaches for the shelf, he finds it empty of anything.
Ah, one of those. A vision. The ghost of things past. He managed a smile, and turned his back slowly to what wasn't there anymore. His eyes surveyed his room. To call it spartan would have been a compliment. Nothing but a chair at one corner of the dimly lit cubicle kept company to the creaking bed and the basin. A few pieces of threadbare clothing lay strewn on the floor.
A surge of weariness overcame him, and he slept.

He dreamt. He dreamt of a future, a future so distant that the mere thought of it was mind-blowing. For some reason, he alone had survived all of mankind, and his impossibly older self roamed the cosmos on an asteroid, improbably called 'December'. Strange, though, was the fact that he knew that somehow this was destined to happen. The misanthrope he dreamt of certainly seemed to share his fatigue, and... huh. He could have sworn that the older man of his dream suddenly had started to look more intently at something, and when he tried to focus through his eyes, he swore he could see his now-self looking at his dream-self and being seen in turn by himself through the eyes of the dream.
Outside something happened, and the cosmic vagrant suddenly got up from his seat on the throne of long dead nothingness. He hears music... so familiar, but what is it? Old man rover stretches his arms, like christ on a cross, and just before the tidal waves of cosmic energy reduce him to cinder, he says something that only the one who was dreaming of him could possibly understand.

And he woke up. It wasn't much after he went back to bed, but he couldn't lay in bed any longer. His back ached something fierce, and so he made his way out of the room, and on to a dirty communal bathroom. The hot water brought some blood to his cheeks, and that made him feel oddly alive. The man proceeded with the rest of his morning affairs, and shortly thereafter he got out of the building, and out to a brand new day.
Of course, the days were always easy for him. Well. Easier at least. He'd do any number of things : by now he'd walked the streets of the city so many times that he proverbially knew them like the back of his hands. Sometime he'd walk into libraries and do nothing but look at books, hundreds and hundreds of them. Had he owned them at some time? Maybe even read them?
He did, during the day, whatever was necessary. Ofttimes he'd join those of his age in the park, and play cards, or checkers or chess. Whatever occupied his mind and time. He had little left of the former, and something inside told him that he would have plenty more of the former than he'd ever wish for. But the days were easier to cope with, at any rate, and just like any other day, this one ended like so many before. He stopped at the supermarket, checked his pockets for money, and saw that he could still afford some fruit. Some vegetables, even. Maybe.
In the kitchen he cooked a haphazard combination of leftovers and his shopping, ate it in silence, washed the dishes, went back to the room, and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling.
It was night.
Ah, night. The nights were always the hardest. For at night, it always came back to him. At night he always remembered.
And the thoughts swirled around inside his head, struggled with each other, but they all came flooding back. He so, so wanted to be able to just sleep, and drift into blissful forgetfulness... But alas. That is not how things go for him, now, are they?
So he embraced these thoughts, let them wash over him, let them carry him back to a time in the past. He says nothing. He wallows into this remembrance in a sacred, unspoken, unending way.
The voices, the faces, the cries and the sighs, the tears and the laughter : they all parade before him, and as they do, a solitary trickle streams down his eyes. Why fight it? It's always the same, every night. And somehow, he does feel that he's grown somewhat accustomed to it... To be sure, nothing in this provides him with any kind of closure, but at least this way... this way he can still see her face, and hear her voice, though it breaks his heart every single time.
He knows what happens next, he knows what will happen every night until he finally dies. A sort of smile crosses his lips when he remembers the dream he had the prior night. The old, old man repeated the same thing he has been saying every night for lo these many years.
He's just waiting for sleep and the wretched tiredness to claim him now. It's almost time, and when sleep comes... well, perchance to dream, then.
Eyes closed, and with a great, big heaving lament of grief and yearning, the man sighs ' Oh, Silvia...'

And then he sleeps.

Movie Review : Alice in Wonderland 3D

2010-03-05T16:45:00.001Z

'Twas Brillig when I decided to go and see this movie yesterday. I must confess to feeling like a slithy tove must feel when they gyre and gimble in the wabe. Nay, I would rather say mimsy, just like the borogoves, just before the mome raths outgrabe!

[And if you understand not a single word of all this gibberish, then read no more. Neither the movie nor this review will have been to your liking.]

And so the movie begins in earnest, showing us Alice as a small girl (presumably around the age she first went to Wonderland, in the Disney animated movie), and shortly thereafter we see her as a young woman, on her way to a social engagement of some sort, where another type of engagement (or the worst kept secret ever) waits for her. As soon as she gets there, she senses that something else is demanding her attention : all the while she is distant and aloof, looking for a certain movement from the corner of her eye, and to compound things, the proposal leaves her dazed, so much so that away she runs, and finds a rabbit wearing a waistcoat, grabbing on to a watch, claiming that he's late. After him she runs, and inevitably she falls down the rabbit-hole.
And this, this is when the movie becomes intrinsically Tim Burton. From the moment she arrives in Wonderland, we can feel that this is not a dream, not a vision... it is beautiful, but frightening and menacing as well.
To help her along the way, Tweedledee and Tweedledum and The Dormouse escort her to The Catterpillar, who casts even more doubt on whether or not she is who she says she is, and, more importantly, as to if she is the Alice they were expecting - and sorely needed.
After some deliberation, it is agreed that 'she isn't hardly Alice', and we see for the first time The Knave of Hearts, with his Army, and we are treated to the Jubjub Bird as well as he who must be shunned : the frumious Bandersnatch.
Alice eludes the pursuit, and meets the Mad Hatter, who, for some reason reminded me terribly of Groundskeeper Willie from The Simpsons, red hair and Scottish accent and all. The loony hatter is joined by the hectic March Hare and The Mouse, who try to keep Alice safe at all costs : alas, so that she may remain free, they are captured by the Knave of Hearts.
And how could I forget the scene -stealing ~~Queen of Hearts~~ Red Queen? Every single scene she's in is all the more amazing because of her sheer presence. [But the less said about the confusion between The Queen of Hearts and The Red Queen, the better...]
She naturally strives to make Alice her captive, but she is so blind to all the falsehoods that people her court, that even when Alice is right in front of her, she fails to recognize her. And so it is that Alice becomes faced with a choice : to be the Alice that Wonderland needs, or leave them to their doom.
Just like in every hero's journey, as Joseph Campbell so brilliantly described in his 'The hero with a thousand faces', Alice must meet first attain the legendary weapon that will give her the edge she needs in order to defeat her ultimate foe : The Jabberwock, all eyes of flame, jaws that bite and claws that catch! With The Vorpal Blade in hand, she is ready to slay him, and although we don't get the 'one-two! one-two! and through and through', she did leave it dead. But, alas, with its head she did not go galumphing back...
One last thing... obviously, Cheshire himself was the best part of the whole thing, though I can't help but feel that Nightcrawler from the X-Men did something really nasty to/with Garfield, and thus we have Cheshire... And whoever decided to cast Mr. Stephen Fry as Cheshire deserves an Oscar just for that.

Okay, so all this said.... what did I think of the movie? Nice story, sure, but so full of holes and inconsistencies that a child could see through it. Full of 'girl-power', of course. The voice acting was arguably better than the the other acting, itself. Johnny Depp can't make a bad character, or make a character bad, but his approach to the Mad Hatter was... huh... intriguing. It didn't really work well all the time, but when it did, it was something to behold. The Tweedles, Cheshire and The Red Queen were probably the best of the cast, and they certainly did get the best lines.
However... and bearing all this in mind... it's a freaking beautiful movie in glorious 3D that is worth the price of admission alone. It's enough to make you forget all that's glaringly wrong with it, and give you roughly two hours in Wonderland. It's far from perfect, but it's as close to taking us to Lewis Carroll's fabled land of wonders as we're likely to ever get.

I could use a story...

2010-03-04T15:45:00.000Z

When I was younger, I had a glow. I wanted to make believe, I wanted to grow. Years have gone quickly, and things have changed. We can stand up. We can stand up. Higher and higher, we're gonna take it down to the wire. We're gonna make it out of the fire. Higher and Higher!

If I didn't believe, and if I didn't believe it with all my heart, I would just give up. I can't, and I won't.
The things I do for love...

Well, this is embarassing.

2010-02-26T00:45:00.000Z

A few hours ago, I was a man with a plan. Granted, the plan was quite simple, and one that an infant without much supervision could successfully pull off. The plan was thus : I was supposed to get into a plane, fly for two and a half hours between Switzerland and Portugal, get there, get out of the airport and into a bus, and go home. Shortly thereafter, I would draw a very long and very hot bath, and soak in it for the better part of an hour. Then, I'd shave. The rest of whatever would be left of the evening would depend on how tired and/or willing to do something I was.
Alas, the best laid plans of mice and men, and all that.
So, taking my cue from this latest season of 'Lost', via some Terry Pratchett, let's consider that my actual plans were part of the 'happened somewhere else' bit, and not the real 'does not happen' bit*. Or 'did not happen', as it were...
What did happen, was that as soon as I got to the airport, I noticed that my flight, along with a number of others, had been canceled. Not delayed, CANCELED.
Shite, thinks I. What to do? Ah, I'll just pop down to the Easyjet desk, and ask the nice people there just what the dickens is going on. Unhappily, I wend my way to the desk, but am stopped ere long : a beast of titanic proportions, entirely comprised of people, americans, assorted immigrants, and other rare and strange creatures of the Last Days. This beast was enormous, but my mettle was unyielding, my resolve strong. So I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And, guess what? I waited some more. After all this waiting, and when there's only maybe some twenty-something - thirty people in front of me, I am wakened from a state of trance I was falling into that came from staring at the worst hair I have ever seen on a person. But then again, she might've been a Yeti. A rather ugly one at that, but even so. What woke me was the shrill voice of a little woman saying that we could go to another desk, they were there to help us. Good, now we're getting somewhere. But where I was getting was getting behind all the smart alec people who thought that being behind me entitled them to just jump ahead of the queue, and take my rightfully earned place. So, a nice long stare as well as a biting comment, and I had old ladies who, even though they were grudgingly, but profusely, apologizing, were also quite adept of making a show of just how offended they truly were.
Ok, to the desk I go. In the, what? maybe four or five steps that took me go to where I was to the the new desk, a number of scenarios ran through my mind, and let me tell you, most of them included an apology, and a ticket for a flight to Lisbon from, say, another company or somesuch thing.
But no. Instead, I get a very helpful, 'Hmmm... the morning flight's full, I'll have to put you on the same flight tomorrow.'
I stood staring in absolute horror at this. I wanted to go home immediately, not the day after. So I ask, 'How can this be? I need to be on a plane as soon as possible!', and again, all I get is, 'I can put you in a flight tomorrow. So what'll it be?'
My mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. I wasn't sure what to say, so I said 'Fine. If that's the way it's gotta be. Fine. So... huh... do I just sleep here in the airport, or what?'
The girl sort of smiled a broad, but not very beautiful, smile, and said 'Oh no, sir! We will give you a Hotel voucher, so you can stay there for the night, and dinner as well as tomorrow's breakfast are included! Just take this paper with you, go downstairs to the Special Assistance desk, (Ooooh! 'Special Assistance'!), and we'll have everything sorted out for you.
So, yeah, I do all that, and what do you know? Soon enough I'm at the Hotel, and I get handed a key to the room, a very nice double room, (and by double I mean there's two beds there), a well stocked mini-fridge, but prohibitively expensive, and free internet.
I toss my stuff to a corner, get undressed and start to think about what to do. I could go totally Rock-Star on the hotel, and thrash the room, but that's not me.
In the end, I decided I'd wait a few hours 'til it was dinner time, then come back up, watch some more Seinfeld episodes, and get an early sleep, or whatever. And it went according to plan 'til dinner time, when I had a beer to go with my Cordon Bleu and grazed potatoes, (at least I think that's how they're called, anyways), and I'll be damned if I didn't get a hankering for some more beer. So I went to the reception, and asked the girl there where could I find some sort of supermarket. She tells me I could either to the gas station right next to us, or walk for some ten minutes or so, and I'd find a big shopping centre. I decide on the latter, and after a few minute's walking to and from the place, I find myself with a nice six-pack of beer to make me company through the night. Oh yeah, and crisps as well.
I'll confess that the booze didn't do the intended effect, i.e., knocking me out until tomorrow. I'm still awake, and think I might still be for a while.
Ah, Geneva. Just when I thought I was leaving, you had to keep me here for one more night, eh? Ah, well. It's nearly two in the a.m., and guess who's gonna have that bath right now?

* "He told me that there were more worlds than there are numbers. There is no such thing as 'does not happen.' But there is always 'happened somewhere else'--"
From the incomparable 'Nation', by Terry Pratchett. Go out and buy the damn book and read it.

Genève, or : Farewell to the fairground

2010-02-25T10:33:00.000Z

Genève is a city that I got to know somewhat well in the past few months. Since last September, I have been spending some days every month or so here, and I now know my way around the city quite well. That is to say, I know my way about a part of the city, the one that led down from where I used to stay to the downtown. You could go about it a couple of different ways : sometimes, when I felt like walking a bit, I could go down from Le Grand-Saconnex, and past Le Palais des Nations, and then it would be a nice walk by the lakeside until you reach the centre of the city. On one side of the Rhone, just where it exits the beautiful Lake Geneva, you find the city's main transport hublink, where you can travel to and from all kinds of places inside the country and elsewhere, as well as a handful of interesting places to shop, including one of my favourite comics stores ever, Au Paradoxe Perdu. On the other side of the river, and just past Bel-Air, which, surprisingly - or maybe not - was strangely bereft of Will Smith..., there you'll find all the nice (and expensively so!) places to shop, and also the best vistas the city has to offer. Walk up L'escalade, and at the top you will find a verdant little park that leads directly to La Place Neuve, the centre of cultural life in the city : Museums, The Conservatory and the Theatres. Walking past that, we reach what I believe is called Le Plaine of Plainpalais, but I might be wrong. Near there, I found one of my favourite Video Games store ever, as well. It's called Virtual Dreams, and it's well worth a visit, if you're into Video Games. Be prepared, though, to want to spend thousands and thousands of swiss francs there... the amount of stuff they have on offer is astounding.
Naturally, the other way of doing this would be to just catch one of the regular buses that take you downtown in about 15 minutes. It is by far the quickest and easiest way for you go do this, although I highly recommend strolling through the city as much as you can - it has a certain undescribable quality that soothes you so, and seems to take your cares away.

I can safely say that, had I been to this city, and gotten to know it, say, some ten, fifteen years ago, that I would not have liked it a lot. On the surface, it seems to be way too laid-back, whilst being paradoxically no-nonsense and business-like. If I had been here when I was younger, I'd've thought this city dead, or near lifeless. I would have craved something that, while the city may have on offer, it would be in limited supplies only. And so I would have left, disappointed and bitter, mayhaps never to return. Thank God for getting older, and maybe wiser. As I sit here typing this, I look at a view that my younger self may have scoffed at back in the day. The Alps, snow-peaked and mighty in the distance stare at me, almost daring me to do something. Probably, and ever since I started to make my way around the city, and got to know it; since I started listening to her beat, and to fell her rhythm beneath my feet; since I could close my eyes and then just walk, and know here I'd be just because of the feel of the different cobbles in the pavement... she let me walk around in her streets at ease. It was like there was a proprietary swagger to me, as I walked around the place. It spoke to me, in a way, and I understood what I could not have understood all those years ago, if Destiny had conspired to bring me here.
And now, now comes the time for me so say farewell : not forever, but for a while. Maybe, one day, I'll find my way here again.

Maintenant au revoir, tend tes mains vers le ciel
Laisse cet hymne au courage s'élever dans la nuit

Who are they? Which one? Who the fuck are you talking to? Fuck them!, you know.

2010-02-19T16:44:00.007Z

Do you have any comments about that? Fuck that. Yeah, I have a comment! Fuck you! And on this really nice note, I hope you welcome back United States of Mind.

United States of Mind

My god, look at what we are now - without regret for all the things that we have done.

Six long, long years of waiting...

You are my desire, I set you free.

Impossible, impossible... Your love is something I cannot remember.

Choosing to die.

Wishlist

Counterparts and bleeding hearts & all the things that fall apart for you

The Triple Gem

There's no justice in the world, and there never was.

I thought you were the truth.

And as our energies mix and begin to multiply, everyday situations, they start to simplify. So things will never be the same between you and I, we intertwined our life forces and now we're unified.

Avengers Assemble!

Birth of the three

My mind has changed my body's frame, but God I like it.

Meifumado

Oh woe is me...

The Fellowship of the... Vuvuzela?

Winter is coming...

Live together or die alone.

I close my eyes and this is yesterday.

(Hades) Pluton

When will the banners and the victory parades celebrate the day a better world was won? Now, and forever.

Something better...

Blacklist : 'Midnight of the century' (2009)

Burzum : ‘Dauði Baldrs’ (1997) & ‘Hliðskjálf’ (1999)

Valravn : 'Valravn' (2007) & 'Koder pa snor' (2009)

O.M.D. - Architecture & Morality (1981)

This is not how the world ends.

You can't take a picture of this. It's already gone.

And then you whisper in my ear, 'I know what you're doing here'...

Holy fuckballs, YES!

The sound of galaxies playing the music of our lives.

An ode to their plight is this dirge.

Where do all dreams go when they die?

There the road begins where another one will end.

Sometime around midnight.

Un fantasma tra noi.

Flames to dust, lovers to friends. Why do all good things come to an end?

When we made love you used to cry; You said 'I'll love you like the stars above, I'll love you 'till I die'.

I'll be there as soon as I can, but I'm busy mending broken pieces of the life I had before.

A subtle kiss that no-one sees.

So far from shores I'd left behind, still far from shores I've yet to reach.

She said she loved me, but she had somewhere to go.

Movie Review : Alice in Wonderland 3D

I could use a story...

Well, this is embarassing.

Genève, or : Farewell to the fairground

Who are they? Which one? Who the fuck are you talking to? Fuck them!, you﻿ know.

Who are they? Which one? Who the fuck are you talking to? Fuck them!, you know.