Life that isn't life

I move in half-life. Everything me is a great lethargy.
There is a sweltering heat, but this isn't what suppresses me, what pushes me under.
A pink slide of mind-control is the benefactor, and the bane.
It lies before me, forcing me out of the mind's twilight:
Decisions must be made.

My limbs are imbued with a great restlessness. I need to move, but as I am consigned to healing, I know I should not. And yet, I can do no less, because this force, its force, is moving me.
But my mind is dead, and it wants for nothing, has its eyes on nothing, and can be moved by nothing.
The only movement here is a circle, and it is a pointless one.

I talk better, yes, this much is true.
Inhibition is no longer part of me and I am become my potential.
I am small and barely out of the cocoon, but already I see, already I know; you enjoy me more.
But I don't.

Because I am not myself and I feel nothing of myself.

Wreck me, ruin me. This here is not what I want.
To be miserable is better than this vacancy, this dampening of my emotions.
When I move around others, this vacuity is a boon. It deflects and delegates, it renders immediacy a comfortable lie. Something rational, finally, out of what used to be an ever-present and ever-pressing need. But I miss that need.

I say it dampens my emotions, and it helps; certainly with the bad. But where is my good, these things that were me also?
Let me feel them instead. Let me feel you. Unconstrained as I was, I could feel you, I could move in you. I was understanding.
I was emotion, what am I now?

And on my own, I am drowned.
I look away and hours pass, my thoughts a blank.
My desperation is shoved aside, out of sight. It helps so much, I am aware of this.
But everything else is there too, in the dark with it, and that is unacceptable.
I am now a drone, where before I was a whine, a whisper, a shout, a scream. A multitude of howling potential.

This will not do.

Live on my own, or with you. For who am I living now?
I think not even for myself.

Penguin Epics: Beowulf

My second Penguin Epics acquisition; this time it's number 14 out of the 20. I'm reading this one in preparation for the Grendel Fantasy masterwork, which will give an alternate take on the old English epic, which I (for shame!) hadn't read yet.

I've also already finished Gilgamesh, which I found okay, but very repetitive and with a little too much name-dropping without relevancy; a roll-call of Gods and Goddesses without end. But it was a quick read and hugely important in its place in world literature. So, kudos to me; more experience and another book under my belt. Not hugely memorable though.

But Beowulf on the other hand: on page 5 already, I hit a point where I practically squealed.

This little part alludes to an interpretation of what the mark of Cain might be:

God looks at Cain's act, humanity's first murder, and gifts/damns him with a beast's horn, which makes him the father of Monsters. The beast's horn, supposedly, is also what causes his death: Cain, because of the horn, is in a hunt supposedly mistaken to be an animal and then shot to death with a bow and arrow, by a blind man and his something-something grandson. Who upon realizing who it is he has just shot to death, in recognition that Cain's curse will hit his line, claps his hands together in despair and hits his something-something grandson accidentally to death, thus immediately taking care of the curse of the first murderer.

It's pretty incredible to see the link here in this particular text, the most important work of Old English literature. 

I'm glad I picked this one to read next; it's already an interesting and compelling read.

Some music

Yeah, this is still incredibly good.

Lessons from Seven to Eternity

"There's the way things are and the way you want 'em to be.

One way you can navigate with compromise.

The other you have to throw your life at with no promise of even affecting the smallest change."

"The balance between doing what's right an' the overwhelmingly human sense of self preservation.

Justice is a mortal-made concept and every man's definition's different.

A billion souls, all knowing what's right for everyone else, until their justice conflicts with their interests."

"No one is a good person.

You tell yourself people are good for an artificial sense of order and security.

We are simply machines fueled by desire.

Fulfilled by any means.

Men like you and your father punish themselves by adhering to values that the world around them does not share.

-Striving for freedom and helping others ain't a punishment.

That road isn't really about helping others...

... it's about making yourself a hero.

But the pragmatist lives on the graves of those idealists.

-An ideal gives a man something to live for.

It also makes them delusional and easier for men like me to manipulate them.

Convince a man he's a righteous hero and he'll march to any war with fervour.

He knows he's good and right, thus his enemy must be wrong and evil."

Yeah. I only finished it yesterday after the two available volumes had been sitting on my shelves for months and months, and I'm feeling a bit stupid. This one is going to grow bigger with time. If you want a comparison: It's like a mix of the ideas behind the Darkness that Comes Before, Tokyo Ghost's more fantastical elements (read: it's definitely more fantasy than sci-fi), and something that is obviously out of its mind on drugs. There's just so much going on: The constantly widening and opening up magic system, the insanely varied environments, the ideas, the story, the pacing, it's all just so damn fast.

This is by the same team that created that other super good sci-fi comic; Fear Agent, so there's no reason why this should've taken so long to get a look, and honestly, I have no excuses. Either way though: it was totally worth it.

As you can see, Jerome Opena's art style is insanely intricate.

It's maintained throughout 9 issues except where James Harren takes over in issues 7 and 8 where different stories start to diverge. Anything other than the art style featured above can only be a step down, so don't hold that against him.

And the story, man, the story is a moody one. Though, I'll admit, it can be quite hard to follow.

We follow around Adam Osidis on a quest of vengeance and self-preservation after an attack on his father's farm where he and his family live. The Mud King, the so-called God of Whispers, has finally come to deal with the last of the magic-wielding Mosak warriors. That's issue one.

By the end of Issue three we finally understand what the title is about* and we've been constantly bombarded with some rather original world building.

-----

This story and especially the art style needs a large print version though. I do believe I'll be getting the deluxe version when it finally comes out, probably somewhere, some months after volume 3 comes out, if Image does its usual thing. Volume 2 ended on a very nice emotional cliffhanger so as Volume three is slated for release somewhere in December so I'll be getting that when it comes out too.

*although I'm guessing it's one of those titles that's going to have multiple meanings when the entirety of the telling has been done.

The young dude and the Sea

Whelp, I'm back. Went to Nieuwpoort for a few days.

It was mostly boring, and although I had good moments, I slept a hell of a lot, which isn't great.

The meds working overtime to subdue stress and anxiety maybe. As you might remember; I don't go out a lot, so travelling, while not exactly new, has become something rather significant and very stress-inducing.

Also, my bed was pretty horrible as it was one of those metal ones whose bottom starts to sag after a while (cue joke here), and because of that I ended up leaving more tired and with more backache than I came in with. At this point it's become quite a nuisance, but, it'll settle in a while.

Old man points at sea.

So, shortly after arriving we walked to the sea, where we indulged in staring at every grain of sand like the tourists we were before making our slow, sedate way to the pier.

The pier had plastic bottlecaps placed around some of its screws, wherever that was possible, making for an occasional quite colourful stretch of boardwalk.

Some sort of tradition among the youth, I'm guessing.

Old man stares at tiny lighthouse.

I ate out only once, on the day we arrived, which is something of an achievement for me (that I ate out at all, that is).

And the food was, if nothing quite out of the ordinary, very damn tasty.

Massive, fucking steak. And they didn't even frown when I asked for it to be well-done.

On day two I also made an effort to be a part of things rather than just lying in my bed trying to read.

(And no. I didn't even read a single page of Moby Dick.

I stuck to Summer of Night and even then I only read about 50 pages of that.

It's how books start to stack up: you make plans but then something else happens and then the book you were gonna read ends up at the back of the shelf somewhere.

Ah, well. There's worse things that can happen.)

I went along to the old harbour in spite of my disturbed sleeping pattern, various aches, complaints and disinterest in all things 'old harbour'. I came here to look at the ocean, goddamnit, and I already did that didn't I? Yes, yes I did. Which means that this point I was ready to go home, but still, as I said; I made a determined effort to be a part of things and have a good time.

Picture of the artist's backside as a young man.

Some cool pirate-looking boats out there... Or is it ships?

Well, let's see:

Ships solely for cargo, whether that's passengers or transported goods, also; ocean-going.

Boats can be carried on ships, but ships cannot be carried on boats. Boats also have a variety of uses, and aren't just for transport.

Eh...Vague definitions, vague definitions everywhere.

So, anyway, yes, Ships. And boats. I also saw boats.

We ended our lengthy walk (lengthy by my standards --- I don't do walks. I either run, or I sit.) with trying to get to the top of this monument. 

But, alas, it was closed. Bit of a shame really, as it looked really high and I would've liked to go up there. Apparently we'd been here once before, as squealing children, at its peak. Can't remember anything of it though.

I gather there was some maintenance going on, right before the tourist season begins in full.

Pretty impressive place actually.

After that, I ditched the parents and went to the house to sleep again, but not before making a photo with just the three of us. The day after, we went home. 

Pretty boring, as I said. But, going through the pictures, some nostalgic joy has seeped in and I must admit that I did enjoy the whole experience.

Give it time and it'll be one of those best-time-of-my-life kind of things.
It's how the mind works, the lovely bastard.

Personal Update Time

Is it that time already?
Yes, I guess it is.

So, I'm on medication now.

Ari- something. I can't remember it as it's got a ridiculously long and convoluted name.

Yes, that, exactly, that.

The pills are pink, and right before you down them, they taste like vanilla.

I'm taking one a day, before bed, and they're making me tired in the mornings and lethargic throughout the entirety of that day, unless I'm doing heavy work or exercise, and then only for as long as that's going on (though today they made me feel very hyper until I worked out). That's still better than what it did at the start of the adaptation period, which was make me feel very numb all day long, with heavy legs and arms and no interest in doing anything at all, except napping. As it was very sunny then, I mostly laid my ass smack-dab in the rays and dozed. I tanned a lot.

I've been sleeping irregularly, but that was the case even before the meds. Now I wake up at pretty much all hours on a bad night, and on the good ones I only wake up around somewhere between 3 and 4. You know what time that is, don't you? I mentioned it before.

I've got a short story around here somewhere; Premature Noxia, by 'Horror Master' Thomas Tessier; that deals with a man who wakes up every night at the same time.
I want to read it, but also really not. It's silly, but I just know that when I then wake up I'm going to be thinking about it, and if the story's well written, well then, in the middle of the night, tired and annoyed, thinking about whatever that story might offer, might wake me up more than I would want. Not to mention the possible scare-factor. It's probably not that good though, like probably not as good as the Ritual novel which seriously creeped me out when I was trying to sleep on the night I first read it.

Anyway, these days, not even at the end of the adaptation period, the meds, besides making me slightly lethargic throughout and overly tired in the morning, allow me to move past hang-ups and open up, in speech, in person, in a way that's rather new and pleasant. I worry less, and there don't seem to be much, if any, blocks where my brain just seems to halt and shut down, or where it convulses in upon itself like a turtle coming into close contact with a red-hot razor.
I think it's boostin my confidence by taking away inhibition or something. It allows me to make a fool of myself without a problem. That's actually kind of nice, you know, not worrying about it all the time. Self-awareness gets pushed back a bit.

As this is primarily a narcissism post, here's a pic of me with a mohawk.

I did say I wanted to do something crazy with my hair, but that was already after I had done it.

I shaved that off really quickly though. I'm thinking about letting it just grow back like that now.

We'll see. This is mostly idle thoughts, really. Inhibitions out the window and all that.

Though I am interested in doing stuff, like reading, and writing about books, I find I don't have much willpower to start it, though I did do a post today. It doesn't feel as if that isn't part of the medication, so I'm putting that squarely on its pink little curves. When I start writing or the blog, there's a constant pull on my attention. I'm not absorbed as I used to be. But as long as I keep going, the words keep spilling out. But it takes a lot of effort.

The pills are making me restless, in mind and body. I want to read, but I barely can, except when I'm moving a little, or when I'm contorting myself every few seconds. I've somehow got a nasty ache in my back this week, so that might have something to do with that. I have little or no attention for movies or games, even though Nioh's combat system is engrossing and reasonably rewarding, in spite of its lackluster story. I might just not be into the whole Japanese aesthetic, I'm not sure.

So, when all my traditional ways of passing the time have fallen temporarily by the wayside, what's there left to do in the dull hours then?

How about something new?

For some reason, I've begun to occasionally paint my face, with children's parties face paint, as it's easy to wash off.

You'll likely have already seen the updated profile picture, based on Simon Davis' version of Slaine, but then in blue, because that is my favourite colour. I never used it in the thematic layout for the blog, because blue on a computer screen is generally a hideous affair.

There's also some obvious inspiration from Vikings here: something in imitation of Ragnar's side-raven, because he is Odinsson, after all, and below somewhat like Floki, but over the top, with black and red added into the mix.

Hey, don't crap on it. I'm very new at this, and this is probably very temporary until the meds allow me to keep focused on shit again. Right now it's giving me something that I can't get any other way.

Some way to deal with subconscious stress, some sort of instant-improvement while I force myself to be calm and restful while my back and left leg heal themselves, maybe it's a new outpouring of creative energy, or a way to deal with the frustration of constant lethargy, I don't know.

Maybe it's the madness displaying itself without, after having seeped through the skin. It's got no place to go so it's made manifest during a few hours each evening, when I'm alone and can let it all out. Whatever. Point is: for now I'm enjoying it.

We're also getting a new dog, from Portugal, in a week or two. Her name is Saffy or something. I'm looking forward to meeting her. The house has been without the padding of paws for too long since our old lovable couch potato of a bitch died, and I've missed it, and her. I need something to lavish some love on too, maybe.

We'll see how that goes, it'll be a slow but rewarding process, no doubt. I should spend more words on this, but the truth is I'm not thinking about it so much. I'm still very aware of all my own shit to be too worried about what's coming. 

Tomorrow I'm going to go to Nieuwpoort and stay in a little home for a few days. I plan on seeing, sitting and reading by the ocean. I was going to have Summer of Night finished before starting something new, but that's not going to happen. It's either going to be continue reading that, or finally read the gorgeous new book below. Expect some pictures of my little holiday somewhere next week.

I'm taking a camera and my smartphone for pictures but I'll be leaving my pc behind because if you're going on a holiday, why would you even want to stay connected to the world? This time's all about me, peeps. See you next week.