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.

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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.