Hellboy trailer 1

Oh man, I've been waiting for this one for a while.

It's eh... not what I expected...

Granted, the comedic value might just be a little too present because of the odd choice of the song (somebody really fucked up there) but... hmm... I don't know about this...

This was supposed to be darker and have a more 'horror' vibe. It's very odd to be focusing on the humour. Again though, that might just be the song.

Harbour isn't Perlman, obviously, so we'll need to adapt to that. But it's got some ways to go yet. At this point Perman's voice just is Hellboy for me, especially since I've also seen sword of storms and blood and iron, where he also does the part of Hellboy, further cementing a warm, gruff and yet understated quality that was perfect for the character. This one also looks very unlike the comics and rather more like somebody's idea of a superhero Devil. All bulk and none of the dejected quality we got in the comics. We'll see I guess.

I've never liked Ian McShane, and for me he's a total miss as Trevor Bruttenholm. He's just always come off as sleazy and I can't reconcile him with the caring Bruttenholm.

No idea who the girl is but regardless, she looks too young to be here, and the dreadlocks suggest a tone I wasn't expecting. More than that, if you look online, you'll see that this lady is supposed to be Alice Monaghan, which is baffling, since everything surrounding that character is to do with Ireland.

Maybe they'll just be using 'The Corpse' story as a springboard though. It makes sense; take the most beloved of the short stories (which works well on its own) and use it as (maybe) a sort of prologue in the movie. It's got comedy and darkness, which would also fit in with this trailer. I'm just speculating though. Corpse Prologue, fast-forward 18 years, and you've got a great, believable friendship between her and Hellboy.

And even though I have questions with all of these characters, Daniel Day Kim as Ben Daimio looks fucking spot on. He's a favourite, but the fact that he's here suggests a highly rewritten grander scheme of things, a mix and match of the BPRD and Hellboy.

I spotted the Baba Yaga and Gruagach which, to be honest, I wasn't expecting... the Baba Yaga sure, But Gruagach? Isn't it a little early to be introducing him already?
The fact that Nimue is here also points to a very strict focus on the central Hellboy storyline.
For fans this can't be anything but jarring. Dragons, that white monster... There's simply too much endgame stuff here. I'm very much wondering where exactly this movie will end...

Even though the trailer itself is getting a bit of a negative reception, and it's easy to see why, it's best to keep in mind that the movie itself screened to high praise, which doesn't mean dick, of course, but hey, I'm trying to be positive here...

A surprise in the mail

A late gift from a blog reader.

Thanks a lot, mr. funny man.

Birthday Post

Presented without much fanfare; what I got for me birthday!

You'll immediately notice a distinct lack of the usual suspects, there's in fact only one book here and it isn't even a genre novel.

It is, however, an important one. Top of its class you could say.

Infinite Jest is one of those big titles that anyone with even a passing interest in modern literature will have heard of: A satirical, Post- (post?) modern, mammoth encyclopedic novel, famous for its length and notorious for its use of end-notes.

So far I've read a little under 70 pages of the main novel, complete with the corresponding end-notes, including the 10 page end-note detailing a fictional filmography of one of the story's characters.

That's not as bad as it sounds, depending on how you are geared, as a lot of information can be gleaned from a careful reading and among the avalanche of clutter there's some genuinely interesting and/or funny stuff to be found, there also was some particular information here that cemented my resolution to continue reading.

It's a bit hard to keep track of though: the narrative jumps from one scene to the other with only the barest suggestion of linearity, the method of dating the years coming across as deliberately obtusifying, and several scenes seem to add nothing to the novel's momentum other than adding more background information to the story's universe.

But, as I said, it's quite interesting.

For the rest, first off, let's not dwell on all the food, candy and alcohol I got. Some of it was missing for the picture already, for some reason.

I got a party-chess set, which, as I don't know how to play chess, is kind of mystifying, but as I know how to drink I guess it does hit 1/2. The board itself is actual glass, which is pretty cool.

In the clothing department I got Rick and Morty socks and a t-shirt with self-drawn art from someone I introduced to the 'Vikings' show.

Really quite sweet, though the smiley face does take away from how bad-ass this shirt could have been.

Orphan Black mug, because tie-in merchandise is always welcome.

And then, at the last; new working out gear.

Which is really nice as I've wanted a weighted vest for ever.

This one allows for a 10 kg maximum and it's good to wear during regular strength training.

I've also gone on my normal running route a few times with 4 kg, once with 5 kg, and then another time with 6 kg.

For now I'm going to keep that at 4 kg maximum whenever I do a run for the foreseeable future.

That 6 kg really wore me out when I did it. It also didn't help that I took that run after a hard day at work.

The yellow resistance band has got 25 kg tension and the blue one 15 kg. Good for relaxation and toning (I guess).

The handles are a welcome addition for doing push-ups as my wrists sometimes give out.

With this I can make my routine more regular.

I requested the vest in particular because I needed something to fill in the void that the reduced interest in reading has given me. If you can't or don't want to read and write, if occasionally you can't even think much at all, you better find something new to occupy your time. From the cerebral to the physical, I'll see how it goes.

The Devil's Apocrypha

The Devil's Apocrypha is a book of fiction presenting the reader with an alternate take on Biblical mythology and contains retellings of certain Biblical events.
We are presented with these events through the framing device of an introduction wherein the author reveals he hasn't made all of this stuff up, no, he has merely published a manuscript he unearthed in some forgotten corner of the world. Said manuscript is then revealed to have been written by a heretic priest, who collated accounts and prophecies of a trio (actually, a foursome) of individuals who were gifted with the dark and forbidden knowledge revealing the truth behind an entire religion, and who were driven to isolation, madness and dissolution because of it.

It's not very original, or even well written. And if I'm being very honest, it's not even much good.
Unless you're very into Biblical or Mythological fiction this won't be your cup of noodles.
Even I, whose kind of thing this very much is, was a bit let down on its conclusion. I had my expectations wrong maybe; I was expecting a refutation of all things Biblical, and instead I got what the cover offered; A doubtful account of Biblical history as inspired by the Devil. But even then, I was expecting... well... more.
You see; there's parts I would like to have seen addressed. Things that I thought would've been important to address but that the Apocrypha just neglects to even touch on. I suppose it would have been a monumental task and borderline unreadable.

What the Apocrypha then offers, through an expanded and altered view of certain Biblical historical events, is a lens to re-view the Bible as it is, instead of giving us an entirely new re-written/corrected Bible.

It is fiction, of course, but, you know, past all contrivance and all the woeful and lamentable try-hard, there's actually some intriguing concepts at play here.

After one pushes through the un-compelling introductions, come the 14 'books' that make up the meat of the Devil's Apocrypha.
And though my anticipation for the story to come had dwindled drastically after the amateurish set-up, only two pages into the first book; the book of Beginnings, I found myself faced with a rather compelling origin story for a divine mythology.

 In my own words, mostly just to clarify the proposed mythology for myself:


The origin of the Angelica.

We begin at the end. In truth, we begin at a point past the end, or rather; Past A end. This ending is not the ending belonging to us, or rather, belonging to our universe, but the ending of a universe different or earlier than our own.

What came before the ending of this universe different than ours is a time which can only be referenced by tying it to the beings that survived it. And this is how they came to be like this:

In the time before the ending to their universe there were creatures of blood and bone, and they evolved. They were numerous and their races were many.
And as each individual member of these races found solace in the likeness of itself within others, they would join up to become more one with themselves. Over yet more time all individuals within a race would join up. And with every joining the power and knowledge of the ones would increase and with the final joining a singularity would be achieved: The becoming of a One.

And in time there were many Ones, because each of the races to become One was unique and found It could not join with any others to have become One. Some of these to have become One had, over the course of their evolution, transitioned from the mortal plane to the realm of the spirit.

Of these there was One who, before being severed from its mortal bonds, had spread itself further over the cosmos than any other race before it. Over time they became so far removed from each other that each part of that race forgot the others existed. Over yet more time three parts of this race, each separate from the other, ascended to become Ones. And these three, in their ascension, found each other again and joined with each other. And this One became known as He Who is Three, the Almighty Trinity; for He was the most powerful of all the transcendent races.

But though most mighty, He was only the second to ascend. The First race to ascend and become one was very wise even in its individuals, and when Oneness was achieved Its wisdom grew greater still.
He was known as the Teacher and he would share his council with whomever asked. Some of the Many, who were the Ones, moved by his words, granted him the honorific of Lucifer; the Bearer of Light.

Some of the Many were close in power and wisdom to these first two, but many more there were who were not. Those with Major Powers were the Angelica, the Chosen, and they were ruled over by the One Who is Three, who was mightier than all.
Those with Minor Powers were many and they were divided into two groups; the Seraphim and Cherubim. The Seraphim were made the servants of the Angelica. And The Cherubim were made to serve them, to both amuse and to perform small tasks.

Though even the lowest among them had ascended to Oneness in its own time, earning wisdom and power through singularity, in power combined all of the lesser Angelica could not match even a single one of the higher Angelica. For few passed from mortal to immortal, from corporal to spiritual, and of these few, fewer still could wield true power.

 In all, those ascended were not many. For all of the races that found the path to ascension, fewer than a thousand found sentience in the spiritual realm.

In time unending there came at last a time wherein the Angelica foresaw the death of their universe and they made plans to outlast this ultimate and final ending, and though it was a difficult and hard won thing, they managed, in the split moment of the last second of the implosion of their universe to harness the wild energies released therein that would propel them to a new universe. This did not come without cost, for many among their number perished and, for those who survived, with their reintegration into the fabric of a new universe not their own, they gradually found that they were firmly and inextricably tied to it. And more than this, they found that this universe did not operate on their own laws and that they had nothing here to give them sustenance and that soon they would cease to be. A way forward would have to be found.

That pretty much is the origin story for the Angelica.

-----

I mentioned in the reading side-bar that after 2 pages I was dumb-founded. I had had a realization.
This isn't because the concept behind what was being presented here was so original or so well delivered, because, really, it wasn't, but rather that there was a scale behind the ideas used which was mind-bogglingly huge.

Now. the book actually suggests an origin story for God and his angels that's very attractive if you have some understanding of a few concepts. Most specifically, the concept of the human singularity; the hypothetical final point (omega point) in human evolution, wherein mankind as a whole, through a complete unification of all their disparate consciousness, will achieve an ascension into a form of godhood.
It's an idea that anyone familiar with Dan Simmons' Hyperion Cantos might already have some knowledge of. This concept of Human Singularity was first proposed by French philosopher Teilhard de Chardin. But what is so impressive is that Teilhard started his idea out from just the single human premise: Of man and God: from one race of many evolving into the One.
What the Devil's Apocrypha suggests is that in this universe different/earlier from our own, there were once many races, and that they, or many among them, ascended to their own omega points, separate from eachother. And that they then co-existed in the universe.

If you need a frame of reference for this mind-numbingly large canvas: think Warhammer 40k.
Yes, let's get nerdy.
In this Empire of a million worlds that stretches across the galaxy there are numerous sentient races: Man, Tau, Orcs, Eldar and so on and so forth. What if all of these, instead of clinging to their stagnant hateful xenophobia, their endless outward war, would rather focus inward, on bettering themselves, and on attaining their respective Omega points? Go even further, into specifics: If the spacefaring Empire of Man, scattered already so widely across the cosmos, would lose sight of itself, through some cataclysmic event that would somehow divide the universe, and that it would then achieve several Omega Points instead of just the one? What if there were three of those and that, after their respective ascension they would join up? And further, of these races: Would the wise Eldar be the first to ascend?

You can see what I'm getting at: the scale of this thing is off the charts.
It is what makes it credible.

It's what I like best. A plausible explanation for the mythology behind the divine:
Clive Barker's Next Testament gives an explanation for the 2000 years of divine silence and the startling difference in the bloodthirsty god of the Old Testament and the forgiving one of the new.
The Hyperion Cantos proposes that the creation of god is yet to come. Preacher submits that God is a parasite feeding on faith. Etc.

The Devil's Apocrypha, by the scale of its opening pages alone, manages to convey a compelling origin story for a divine, or, multiple divine entities. It then restructures the universe to make of God a parasite by necessity, and orchestrates a cattle dynamic between god and humanity.
And then, over the course of the tale, it does one better by explaining and building up the reasons for why the God of the Old Testament was so bloodthirsty and why the God of the new one preached a message of forgiveness and peace. It weaves all of this into a narrative that serves as a semi-credible basis for why there is an age of divine silence right now, where before there was an age of Miracles.

It touches a lot of what I wanted to see; the questions that arise when I look at the Bible.
But of course; besides the weakness of the writing, there is another problem.

Of course: It makes of the devil the underdog benefactor of mankind; the hero to God's villain. Which, you know, fair game: upsetting the dynamic is great, it's what I like to see.

But then comes the 'shadow-side' of history: The whole aspect of the children of Cain, the undying element of Lazarus, the four slave races out in the universe, the Fallen slowly regaining power. All of which leads up to of course... a book of prophecy.
... it's just so... pedestrian... so expected.
Ancient cabals working against god, perpetuating their war for the truth. A man, cursed by god to undying, who carries the secret of the afterlife. Slave races newly created by God, 'un-corrupted' by the devil who can be altered and coaxed to His every whim. A mythical apocalypse to come, in mirror image of revelations, where God will bring his wrath to mankind and when Lucifer and the children of Cain, and the Lazuri, will stand against Him. "All is not lost, hold on to these things..." Bla bla bla.

These elements are such an obvious route to take. Take everything out that is set-up for the prophecy and you have some decent stuff, and it would have been much better for it.
But I get it though; there has to be a point to this 'apocrypha', some reason that justifies the story that is being told. It might be perfect for some but I just thought it was a little disappointing.

So in summary:
Great concepts, mediocre execution, boring conclusion.

Castlevania Season 2

Well, damn, that was over quick.

Season 2 of Netflix's Castlevania is pretty much as good as everyone expected it to be, right?
But what might not have been expected is how much it actually ends up doing with its double episode count. I can honestly say that I didn't expect the show to get to some of its story beats this soon.

Though the show still has some amazingly well done battles, one set to a squeal-worthy fast-paced rendition of Castlevania's iconic Bloody Tears song, these are more spaced out this time round, as the show has to juggle a lot of new characters, and even armies, so that the scope of the story can be expanded. This makes it seem as if in the early episodes, between sporadic bursts of violence, there's nothing much going on other than the usual vampiric intrigue and Team Belmont stomping around, looking for weapons and stuff to help them track down and kill Dracula, and, granted, that is exactly what is going on here. But... well, when shit finally goes down, it goes down wholesale. It blows up. And even if Castlevania were to be renewed for 10 more seasons, it's hard to imagine any future episode might ever come close to episode 7's jaw-dropping awesomeness.

The episode is one of non-stop action, brutal violence and filled with very manly men roaring their primal enraged manliness at each other while blasting each other with skill and mad magic. Top that off with some heartfelt feelings and you have what is undoubtedly the show's best episode.

The Music is more memorably present throughout and the even voice-acting is an improvement on season 1, with 2 notable exceptions, one of which which doesn't last long, but the other irritant is Peter Stormare, of all people, who, as Viking Vampire, quite rubbed me the wrong way. Stormare's voice is readily recognizable but so married to his appearance and idiosyncrasies that it can not possibly translate well to animated lip-syncing.

There will likely be a third season, but I admit, even if there wouldn't be, I'd be more than satisfied with what we got. It's hard to see where the show might go but if episode's 8 set-up is anything to go by there's a definite plan going forward.

-----

And, because I enjoyed doing it the first time round; here's my 10 word review/run-down of each episode.

2.1 Depressed Dracula snootily sulks and leaves it up to humans.
2.2 More vampires, intrigue and stylish bloodshed. The vampire/human bromance.
2.3 How to Hate Humans: Hector Edition. Pig-blood and shitting.
2.4 Esoteric Belmont house-keeping. Isaac does some fucking brutal murder.
2.5 Dracula's Memories of relishing death. How a feminist incriminates puppies.
2.6 Trevor mangles intruders. Sypha lays (indirectly) waste to entire armies.
2.7  Bloody Tears Choreography and... THE DAMN SUPER SAIYAN CLIMAX!!
2.8 Aftermath and set-up. Sadism and how to be very corny.

Icky October post!

Because it's Icky October and I haven't posted anything to do with horror all month, here's a short clip of me finally killing Resident Evil 7's Jack in the Chainsaw fight on Madhouse difficulty. It took me a few tries...

Warning:

Violence, Gore and alot of noise.

I love first person horror games, and Resident Evil 7 is genuinely one of the best out there.

Shame it goes off the rails towards the end, where it trades in suspense and nightmare imagery for a constant slew of gun battles and tar monsters. But, it's pretty good while it lasts and certainly worthy of some of your time.

Reading Goals

I'm starting to do a lot better these days reading-wise. I'm still a long way away from reading a book a week (like in the good old days) or even 1 about every 2 weeks, but I do find I'm slowly regaining some acceptable speed.

I've managed to finish the Blood of Elves earlier this month and am about halfway through The Devil's Apocrypha.

Through circumstances, my reading plans for this year have been sunk, disastrously so, and so I'm wiping the slate clean and setting myself some new reading goals that should be easily attainable. 

The goal is to finish one of these books each month.

The Devil's Apocrypha by the end of October, The Exorcist in November and As a God Might Be in December.

As you can see, I've been drawn to a particular theme here.

I found that after my recent reading slump, if I'm to commit to any reading project again, it's going to have to be books that hold a particular fascination for me, and that means some good ol' Christian mythology.

The Devil's Apocrypha is a re-telling of certain parts of the Bible with an eye on making the Biblical god as much of an asshole as possible, while all the while making the devil as sympathetic as possible.

There's a cool and slightly mind-boggling origin story for the Divine Mythology - more on that in a few days - but after that it's mostly downhill. It's not horribly written but neither is it any memorable. It's also a bit try-hard in its language and style and not as clever as it thinks it is, but at the very least I'm getting some illicit thrills out of it.

The Exorcist needs no introduction and has been on my shelf for a while and I thought that this might be a good time to give it a go. Catholicism isn't my bag but I'm here for the darker side of things anyway.

And As a God Might Be is a bit of an unknown right now.

I bought it in a state of excited hype because it was mentioned by Abalieno on Loopingworld, and is said to contain some existential and metaphysical themes and to dwell on the nature of God and what it means to be human. I'm not expecting any supernatural shenanigans but having taken a peek before, I can already say this one will be the best written novel of the three. 

Update

Alright. Here I am.
These days there's not much interest in leaving my mark with a series of well-crafted, insightful blog-posts, or rather, there is, but there's no actual drive for it. No drive to accomplish anything, no drive to attract or entertain anyone.
Don't get me wrong; I want to do these things, but I can't make myself actually do them: I am stuck in a bubble of complacent apathy. Why go though the effort when I can just lull myself asleep with the very next thing that presents itself?
Nothing really matters.

No, that's not true. Of course things matter; certain things always do: Family is one of those things. You do everything for family. Family comes with, or should come with, love. And, if you're lucky, that love has rooted itself deep and has now become unconditional. It is a given. And it is a necessity.
But most everything else has ceased to matter much.

These things that used to grab you, grasp you, clench you with an immovable grip, have lost their hold on you, and have become like shadows in the night. You've lost sight of them. They've blended into the greater whole, or, by being invisible, have ceased to exist.

I can't read anymore.

This is problematic.

My lust for books and stories is what drove this blog. It is desire that made this engine go; a feverish, obsessive fire that propelled my unhappy soul to push towards some goal of my own devising, and for some meaning to be endowed to an empty life.
For now, this goal is lost. I'm in a limbo, still pining for bygone days of manufactured satisfaction.
There was pride here. An ongoing achievement, never-ending, renewing itself with all the effort given, feeding itself with the fuel of discontent. It is the coal that stoked the fire, but the coal has become superfluous, because the rain is gasoline.
The fire rages, and all it requires, is to have been. From one moment to the next; introduce a new element to the status quo, and it's either burn brighter, or be snuffed out.

I haven't been snuffed out.

I suppose I should be happy.

Happily Caged

The third of October.
A Day of Days.

The familiar comfort of utter self-loathing. A glad willingness to tread the old paths of self-destruction.
Oh, for the lure of brutalization. Not for lack of rum; for blood we spiral to depths most corrosive.
But why, what has brought on this moment, this relapse into the old haunts of hateful introspection?

Not introspection in truth, but its ghost, its barest echo. A shadow of previous discomforts, previous truths, once known, acknowledged head-on, in flagellating self-delight, now but glimpsed as the barest wisps of meaning, as fleeting tendrils of thought. Meaning eludes my grasp, as ever, as always. But here it is meaning for the moment, and not for the grander truths of life; meaning for now, for here, for the drive that would beat my heart, beat it on, make it go, make it full of yearning, loathing or desire, as the occasion demands, as the occasion merits it, as the occasion has made it merit. No. The hunt for meaning, of the moment or of the soul, is not behind this relapse into darkest territory. There is no hunt of any kind. At all. The desire for meaning, for goals, is lost. I am content to drift in a sea of mindlessness. I consume, voraciously, and all the world and its myriad dazzling offerings will vanish into the gaping hole inside.
But it is not a hole of hurt, not a hole that needs to be filled. It is the hole that I call the moment itself. It can never be filled because it is always emptying, ever passing, ever making way for the next riveting fall, the next eye-drawing plunge into caverns unknown. It is my seeing mind, my living breathing spirit. A primal eye-gouging thing of sick delight, twisted into a semblance of normalcy by the constraints of the human race. We gravitate towards the thrill, the pulsing mess of it all, because it fills our eyes, our sockets drowned in blood and sex, our mouths filled with exhortation, our ears ringing with the voice of truth. This normal-seeming thing only wants this: It wants to be released.
To cavort and dance beneath the omen of the wild wood. It is the bone skeleton of comfort beating on the tendons of old and forbidden passions. It is easy to placate, easy to please. It can be lulled in a heart-beat, with the merest push of a button. Seeing is believing, as long as the mind is willing, after all. But the cage is made of wicker and the rains have come again, and they have been here for a while. And beneath the obscured all-seeing eye, the bars that had begun to rot, have broken. And the Beast roams free once more. But where before it would've gone ahead with thoughts of violent repercussion, now freed it stands in immobile howling anguish, transfixed by its mirror image in the muddy pools of self-reflection. It stares in gnashing adoration at the rictus grin, the cracked fangs of greedy self-delight. Blood is the oldest flavour, after all. And sweeter still arterial red, the matters of the heart, the innermost self. It stares at the corners of its eyes, its bloodshot hurt. It glimpses only. Look away and there it is, your innermost pain, the private worry, the burst veins of your sole disposition, choked by the black smoke of industry, the stinging haze that washes away the solemn grit gifted by the clouds of your desire. Your eyes are clear and your visage is astounded. The beast roars. It knows. The thing most inimical to nature is upon it, perpetuated by uncomprehending jailers and there is no escape. There is no way out, no way back and no way forward. There is only the moment. And it is made clear, by occlusion or by refraction, and so the beast stares.
It glances and in glimpses tries to form a picture. But as fast as the grit builds up, the smoke brings around the tears, washing away all hope of truth and self-deception. All it can do is look.
It does not see. It does not understand. It gazes without hope.
It does this because it can.
Because all that matters is the act.
The willingness to stare.
There is no comfort here, and no hope of satisfaction.
All that is gained is a constant film of tears. But that can be an end in itself.
A reminder. A thrill more true than the one offered by the push of a button.
There was a life once. It was pain and it was horror but it was true.
For today these moments of eternal gazing will suffice.
A new cage is ready and the smoke has already begun to weary.
But it was sweet while it lasted. I roar in triumph as I push the button and the door slams shut. I am happily caged once again. The sun is shining.
The rains will come again. But for now, the wicker stands whole.

Comics in the Post

Alright, here's my acquisitions for this month, you'll notice all of 'em are comics.

It seems that for the moment I have stopped buying novels.

This is down to several factors: Primarily, there's the medication.

Because of the quite literal alteration in my brain I'm less contemplative and more inclined to go with the flow, less eager to 'make my mark' and 'to attain goals' and on the whole I find I have less drive, not to say no drive, to finish novels, 'finish' as in 'to have them done' as in ' to never have to look at this book again' as in 'enjoyed it' as in 'understood it' as in 'it's given me all it could give and it now belongs on my shelf' and so on and so forth.

Looking at what I've bought then it's a little bit disconcerting to notice that I'll gravitate towards the visual rather than the imaginative for my fiction, I always thought that I was the imaginative type rather than the mindless consumer I now so obviously seem to be, but... anyway... As for other factors... I'm also quite preoccupied by Nier Automata, which is a ps4 game which starts out deceptively straightforward but soon evolves into an experience unlike any I've come across in my quite extensive gaming travails. I hope to talk about this one some time in the future. Maybe when I've finished excavating the rabbit hole that this game has ended up being.

But maybe it's just also that right now I'm not having a novel reading 'season'.

You know how that sometimes you just come across a novel that reinvigorates your lust for reading and that when it's done you just plow through a whole bunch of novels desperate for that same feeling of new worlds and new experiences, and sometimes you get lucky, but more often you just don't... and everything ends up settling into this stale routine, into this quiet doldrums, where you just forge your way through whatever's next without ever getting touched by what you're reading... maybe it's that...

Or maybe it's that I am still preoccupied...

There's this thing in my head that I can't seem to get out.

I don't want it out... and yet I very much do... because it is horrible in the way that is has superseded importance over everything I used to care about.

I don't want it, but it's there and I can't quiet it, even with medication, to a state that I could be enraptured by what I used to be fascinated about before.

Even more than before, nothing seems to matter anymore... nothing but this one thing...
But there is a gradual lessening to this particular obsession nonetheless.

Anyway....

 Comics.

Comics kind of subvert the normal brain processes used when consuming fiction.

When reading novels, imagination and interpretation is everything. You read and you visualize, you imagine, and you do all the work.

In visual media (tv and movies) you consume whatever's given and barely do any work and, as a consequence, in the quiet there's room for self indulgences or distractions.

In comics however there's a need for the interpretation of what is given on two levels: the illustrations and the given prose, whether that be dialogue or narration.

You look at what is given and you couple that to an interpretation to what you are seeing and you tie that to what you interpret from the given dialogue or narration. Sometimes it's easy and straightforward but more often that not you'll find that you are constantly pressed to pay attention to what you are consuming (Jamie Delano's Hellblazer is definitely like this), and more than that, to give it your time, your thought and your undivided attention. There's exemptions to all of this but for the moment I think I've made my point.

So here we are. All of these books are comics...

Because reading them is both easy and isn't...

Let's get the most interesting one out of the way first, right; the smallest book first: Junji Ito's Uzumaki. My first ever Manga comic.

I've never felt any pressure to delve into manga or anime until I watched a few of Supereyepatchwolf's youtube videos on various anime and manga series, mostly when I was in the heaviest of the adapting to the medication stage, and when he talked about Junji Ito's horror manga I knew I'd found something I probably would like to use to dip my toes into a new type of media.

Long story short: I liked it, and enough to have already ordered 2 new novels of Ito's Manga series.

I might talk about some of this. I might not.

Next up: Slaine the Brutania Chronicles 4 ( the finale).

I've been looking forward to this one.

Simon Davis' take on the Celtic barbarian is my favourite of all that has gone before in Slaine's long long run, including the epic Book of Scars, and I'm looking forward to see how this one wraps up.

Here are the four Hardbacks for the Brutania Chronicles for those who might like to have a gander at that.

Next up we have some Mignolaversity stuff.

Up first is Frankenstein Underground, which follows the journey of Frankenstein after he was clobbered in 'Hellboy in Mexico' (which is, oddly, for some reason, a personal favourite of mine).

Don't know much about this one except that it's the next stop in my Hellboy universe read (following the 2018 reading order).

Then we have the next stage of the BPRD: the Hell on Earth volume 1, and Abe Sapien the drowning.

I must say; I hate that the omnibi take so long to get released.

I wonder if we'll learn the fate of Ben Daimyo any time soon.

The sleeveless books for those who are interested.

Then my next stop is the Judge Dredd Universe: the Complete Case Files Volumes 18 and 19.

I'm guessing this is mostly one-offs except for the 'Mechanismo' storyline, which is ok because I primarily read Dredd for some good old dip-in-and-out escapism. Unfortunately a lot of this is Garth Ennis, who kind of misses the point with a lot of his material. But I'll put up with it for now because his run won't last much longer... right?

And then, lastly, volumes 18 and 19 of Vertigo's long running Hellblazer series.

I've mentioned these in my previous post but it's safe to say that I won't be reading these any time soon. My current Hellblazer reading schedule is 'no more than one issue per day' even if I skip a day or two. I want to make this experience last. 

And that's it for now.

But believe you me: This is not the end.

Appreciation: The Devil You Know

Of the 8 Hellblazer Omnibi I've read so far this one is my favourite.

Under the current circumstances I'm letting my novel-reading slide quite a bit (from attempting to read one novel a week to... I'll see if I can even finish one in under two months...) and instead fill my reading hours with comics, old and new. Mostly new, but there's one older title I keep coming back to. Usually I come back to it when I'm in a dark place but now... now I'm in a time in which, chemically, I am devoid of pondering, and so, thoughtlessly, I'm free to consume whatever I want. Mindless escapism is the name of the game.Whether it be comfort food or comfort fiction, without regard for taste, an omnivore, I'll down it like a glutton. My mouth chews without thinking and my brain, where before it rambled on in an endless manner, now, slowly, ponderously, does likewise.

With the medication I'm aware that there's stuff that worries and hurts me but I can't much focus on it. I don't look at it because, really, on the whole, it doesn't quite seem to matter. And yet I'm back here, sipping from this most darkly brewed tale. The familiar comfort fiction worms its way into my daily life and an alarm bell start to ring. This should probably be worrying me. But the alarm rings into a cavity, into an open void, and its echoes are soon lost. From past experiences I've come to know that the fiction to which I turn to when I 'need' comfort is dark. I suppose it's some form of schadenfreude. A feeling born from the idea that my world is less malignant if that malignancy is doled out in equal measure among its many inhabitants. Like Constantine says in the Antarctica storyline: 'And I like the way that feels'.

And Hellblazer doles out malignancy every chance it gets. And in this volume there's some truly horrifying stuf. As a result, the Devil You Know has some of my favourite Helllazer stories. Whether it's the disturbing (and yet uplifting) Antarctica two-shot, the bleak eco-nightmare of 'On the Beach', or the much built-up Exorcism-gone-wrong of 'Newcastle', the issues collected here are some of the series' best.

That's just me talking. Ask most Hellblazer fans and they'll proclaim that the Dangerous Habits storyline is the best.

But not for me the raging race-riots of Garth Ennis' run, or his meticulously built-up and believable friendships, John Constantine's most memorable girlfriend, nor his epic journey to the ultimate double-crossing of the devil, no. All I need to proclaim these my favourite stories is one thing and one thing only:

Jamie Delano's Beautifully bleak poetry-prose.

This stuff touches my soul, gives me something I don't get anywhere else. He consistently manages to weave a dark drama, giving me a deep well to hide in. There's nothing so compelling as the dark and if you manage to be poetic about it, well, then you've got my attention.

And, as I said, I've only read 8 volumes of this series, which amounts to around 80 issues out of the 300 that make up the whole thing, and that's not counting extras and specials, so I've still got a lot to look forward to.

Of course, Jamie Delano's run on Helllazer is a relatively short one, so the poetry that I'm practically raving about here is short-lived and already familiar. But you know maybe, hopefully, there's some great stuff still waiting ahead.

Volumes 18 and 19 are on their way to me bringing the count of what I can read right now up to issue 229. Volume 20 (up to 238 plus extras) will be out somewhere in January.

There'll also be a 30th anniversary celebration hardcover volume out in October, collecting various separate issues of the long-running series. Oddly, all of these are unconnected from each other, which, for a series that is pretty much all about long-spanning story arcs, seems a bit of an odd choice.

Update, late and the mental state.

Hi there. Been a while. Things are starting to look up a little (but not by much).
It still takes effort to start writing, and keep writing, but at the very least I'm not at the "impossible to be engaged with anything" stage of the new medication. Or at least, this is what I'm hoping; that it is the medication that is to blame for my recent troubles in reading and writing and not that this symptomatic of a bigger shift in my thinking/ life.
For the past three weeks, right after the Lobster Johnson post in fact, and which made my "not as debilitating as the previous type of medicine" post impossibly naive and hopelessly premature as all hell, I've been stuck in a lethargic and apathetic doldrums in every possible way.

In that first week I was forced to come to terms with something and been forced to acknowledge the utter brick wall of reality.
It was an act which was rather tough and unforgiving and which without medication likely would have been impossible. This thing which had existed in me for a very long time and that I just couldn't rid myself of, became, through chemical means, immanently rid-able. Though, this wasn't done without pain and fallout. I spent the first part of that week at home, sitting on the couch, staring at the walls. Thoughts became a daze. Occasionally imaginary conversations would start up to guide me past or headlong into problem points. We all have our demons and mine took every opportunity they could get their hands on. It was a very unpleasant time.  My collision with reality was total. Hopes were shattered, desires were crushed, the way forward was completely lost. It was a staggered time of mental self-abuse and castigation. But it passed, and past a certain point, rather quickly because, where in the second part of week one, where a fog ruled my thoughts before, now there were no thoughts at all.
I did not exist in the way that people do. You enjoy a sunset, you taste the air, you resound to music. But during this time I was incapable of all of this. I just was. I saw, I drew breath and I heard. For the rest of this I was vacant, empty. Something had fallen away and a great echoing void was left behind. I did not consume a shred of fiction during this period.
This lasted for the rest of that week and most of the week that followed.
I've always been someone who sets himself tasks to complete and checklists to finish so this time of induced apathy was alien to me.
Of course, due to the nature of the medication, the distress I felt at this was limited. In fact, I say that this state was alien to me, but it wasn't that at all. It just was. I didn't have much thoughts about it. This state was me and at the time it felt natural. It's only now, in retrospect, that I have become convinced that the medication was, and to a lesser extent still is, to blame for it.

Then, somewhere along the way, occasionally, something would start to seep in and I found that the visual at least began to be able to hold my attention again. In week 2, To pass the time I continued playing Nioh. Its repetitive gameplay was pretty much perfect for the state I was in. Engaging but mostly about pattern recognition, so not much thought required. In week three I got into it and managed to finish its storyline.
While playing I usually had youtube on; Angry Joe playing Southpark the Fractured But Whole and SuperEyePatchWolf's anime videos mostly. I might dive into some anime soon because of that last one and I've already watched One Punch Man over the weekend. I'm not sure what to watch but some dude I work with fervently recommends me One Piece. I've also ordered my first ever manga: Junji Ito's Uzumaki. I find I'm actually looking forward to it quite a bit.

I finished the complete Nemesis The Warlock, which was disappointingly uneven over its run even though book 2 (specifically the Two Torquemadas) had some incredible potential at its midway point, where our anti-hero travels through time to witness the end of his saga and where he gets some disconcerting news.

But, as is usual with 2000 ad, the balance between the comical and the serious is a little bit inconsistent, so even though I loved most of its ideas and some of its moments Nemesis ended up being a bit of a dud for me.
Apart from Nemesis and some other one-shot comics  I maybe managed to read 60 pages of The Blood of Elves. I can't remember a thing of it though.

That's pretty much it for fiction. I've in fact barely glanced at my books.
This, obviously, is rather worrying, both for the blog and for me in private. Fiction is what I do. What can I do if that drops away? I'm still in a bit of a holding pattern right now, taking it day by day, trying to just do what I want. The problem is of course that I don't want anything. I'm just passing time again. Counting the hours until death or a miracle. It's not depression so much as it is an awareness that likely nothing will change in my circumstances. Despite all my personal self-improvement I can't change how I am, in those ways that I would most want to change. I wish I was different but it can not be done. The problem right now (and always) is that I'm too aware of this and that I am unable to accept myself, have peace with myself.

The world is too harsh for me. I'm too sensitive and too weak.
But where before this would make me filled with sadness and self-pity, and a lament for my own condition, now I find I am just angry.

The Lobster

Goddamn I love Lobster Johnson.

I haven't had this much fun since Stenbeck's run on Baltimore. This is pulp at its best, all the way through.

I do hope there'll be more as I've blazed through all of it in a day, already.

It's too early to tell if this is going to be one of my favourites but I thought I'd let you know, at least.

Malang

I have the biggest smile on my face.

More on this tomorrow, probably.

Round 2

Jup, going into the ring again (to fight the daily fight?).

This time with the most prescribed anti-depressant in the world (at my side?).

Most-prescribed, probably because this one's name is rather easy to remember, and certainly not because it doesn't have any side-effects. Because it most certainly fucking does... It's all about what you're willing to trade for some peace of mind. Sometimes the trade-off is a steep one, but of course you can't tell beforehand.

I've used parentheses up above to clarify that I'm well aware that this medication is supposed to help me, but that until I can acclimatize to them, every day the fight's actually with the medication and might even make the days a little tougher to get through. As I've had two days under my belt now I can say it's definitely not as debilitating as the previous type of meds but I will still have to see if this one will actually end up helping me.

Right now I'm not even sure what I want it to do. My mind's everywhere these days, hung up on certain... things, and I feel pretty lost.

I just know that I need help from something or I'm going to have to make some dramatic changes in my life. Take some steps. Maybe become a hermit, or something.

Hey, I know, I'll become a monk. I do have a lovely singing voice.

The Collector, John Fowles

Well. I finished this one in just a few days. It's been quite a while since I've finished a book that fast, actually. It's a massively compelling read.
I bought a copy for a friend for the occasion of his birthday, knowing from various sources that it would be a novel right up his alley. As I'm the jealous sort I couldn't have him go and read it and not go and read it myself, mainly because I felt I already had dibs on this author. Fowles' The Magus is still one of those books I need to get around to reading and as I still haven't touched my copy of that one (mainly because it looks so hugely daunting) I thought this would also be a good way to introduce myself to Fowles' writing style and methods, take away some of that 'looming' quality, see?
But where I originally picked up my copy (of the Magus) (and from the same place I bought this one at, also from the Grim bookshop, remember that place?) on its reputation of having some meta-elements and a deep ambiguous psychological story, and of course Loopingworld's in-depth write-up of it, I didn't actually know much about this one.

The Collector is the story of a  man who kidnaps a young woman to keep her in his basement.

It takes place over a period of something like 2 months and, for the most part, in four segments. In the first the man swiftly outlines his initial fascination with the woman, the circumstances leading up to the kidnapping and the period of him holding her prisoner for a period of about 6 weeks.

In the second we double back to within a week of the capture from the point of view of the woman.

In the third we have the resolution followed by a short, open-ended epilogue.

So, as I said; I read this really quick, as it was a very engaging and engrossing read. Maybe it was the first-person perspective, maybe Fowles just reads like magic (which bodes well for The Magus).
But as a side-effect of this quick reading I must admit I find I have very little to say.
I wasn't disturbed at any of what was on display, I wasn't appalled, I wasn't surprised. In fact, the resolution seemed pretty much a foregone conclusion, if not exactly in the manner as it played out. The collector is one of those novels to cast a long shadow. In specific, it is known for influencing many a serial killer, kidnappers and their ilk. As such, it seemed to me as if I'd seen or read this thing many times before.

At the Serial Killer convention,

from Neil Gaiman's Sandman.

The writing style is a good one though.

We actually have two different styles here, our kidnapper Clegg's, ordered, matter of fact, void of much embellishing, and our victim Miranda's, which is submitted to us in a diary-format, and which is occasionally filled with some quite beautiful prose and because of her artistic nature, some slap-dash creativity (read: QnA/script-style dialogue). Despite that, I must admit that I found Clegg's point of view rather magnetic, very much in the moment, whereas Miranda's was filled with such extraneous drivel (it was all the art talk that did me in), endless, pointless retrospection and ideas, that I simply had no interest in it. It's a plot not much driven by character but there's so much of it on display with her that, though I ended up caring about her, I didn't actually ever end up liking her.

By first introducing us to her character from Clegg's point of view, only to then switch to hers, halfway through the novel, we meet her side of things with some fixed sentiments having formed. That way, the more we read her point of view, we find that most of our preconceptions have gone out the window. It was nice to feel wrong-footed occasionally, but I again have to confess to just having ended up frustrated with her. She's an intelligent person who through the enforced isolation comes to seem very self-aware, but though neither character ends up quite understanding the other, as a reader, with our bird's eye view on the proceedings, we end up understanding quite a bit more of Clegg's motives, even those motives to which he's blind himself, than Miranda, who just can't let go of her preconceptions, opinions and bias.

It's a great work, an incredibly well written and interesting read, but, because of its age, it might not seem like it's got such a good story. Still, I'm very happy to have given it a go.