Stream of Unconsciousness

last night I dreamed there was a bear sleeping on a couch in my house. I decided that a bear shouldn't be in my house and tried to get it out by opening a bunch of doors, and spraying it with some sort of um, anti-bear spray. What happened instead was the bear got really pissed and chased me outside, where I jumped like twenty feet up onto the side of the roof. The bear jumped too, and almost made it, it was hanging onto the edge of the roof, so I proceeded to jump down and onto another roof.

I can't remember anything beyond that.

as an aside, maybe I should just make it official and call this my dream journal. hmm, nah.

livejournal is so much more interesting when you neglect it for half a year then have an archive to read when you return

So I think it began with me dying on the way back from Franc's party. I remember it being night and there being a light coating of snow on the ground.

I ended up in Narnia, like how the children do in the last book after they die, but instead of what happens to them somehow I got sent back to a time in our world before I was born.

At some point I was on a train with David Bowie as a sort of roommate. I remember talking to a woman with fairly short strawberry blonde hair with him. I think it was about something important, and she was hiding something, but we didn't get anything out of her, and instead went back to our room.

I remember I had a red backpack which wasn't capable of holding all my stuff. So Bowie loaned me his, a yellow one, to put a small binder and a big one into. They were important for some reason.

Then we were in a locker room of sorts, like the ones you find at public swimming pools. bowie commented that my binders were falling apart. I shrugged and said I'd just replace them. He looked at me and smiled disbelievingly, thinking I didn't have enough money.

At that point I realized that my red backpack was gone. I started searching everywhere, but Bowie seemed more concerned about finding someone to buy drugs from at this point. So I ran past him up some stairs into a supermarket.

I remember it being the day before some sort of holiday, and thinking that the last shoppers were just starting to leave. The strawberry blonde woman was at one of the registers. So I walked up to her and demanded she close things down and seal up the place until I found who'd stolen my backpack. She smiled and said that the store wasn't responsible for things stolen on their property.

So instead I stood in front of the doors with my elbows out, trying to inconvenience people as much as possible. the strawberry blonde woman's smile faded somewhat, but she shrugged and said, "that won't help you much you know."

So then I yelled "whoever stole my fucking backpack better give it back"

At some point a person I used to know slightly at school came up to me, I think her name was Kathleen Barrosso. Anyway, she asked me what I was talking about, as I plainly had a yellow backpack in my hand.

"This is David Bowie's" I said.

"What does David bowie have to do with this?" she said, nonplussed.

"He's down there" I said, waving irritably at the stairs going down, and she went off to try to find him.

then I woke up.

I'm not sure why I thought this was worthy of a dream diary, as it makes no sense at all, it's more that I thought some elements of it, rather than the whole, were sort of interesting.

I got the XP and driver install done. No more Vista.

1) finish getting laptop downgraded to XP (actually hopefully that'll be done today)

2) check out getting cracked laptop screen repaired (ie. if it's possible to do for around 500 dollars or less)

3) Get things straightened out regarding York re-enrolment.

In the meantime I'm running a de-frag on the family PC, and working on a few other things as well.

Still reading Pattern Recognition too.

oh right, and check how much bass guitar lessons cost, seeing as I've never played any stringed instruments even before.

as you might assume from the title, I just woke up from a pretty odd dream, which I'm going to try to remember and write down before it fades completely.

The premise of the dream was that I promised to help my Zia Cristina with a part of a story she'd been writing.

So (in the story within the dream) there's this old manor/castle. Very old. It's only human inhabitant, these days, is an old woman (who in the dream acted a bit like my nonna).

The other inhabitants being her cat, and a phantom. The phantom has been around for he doesn't know how long, because he lost his mind, his memories, and his consciousness at some point far in the past, perhaps when he died, for some reason he doesn't know.

It's a bit like the Nameless One from Planescape Torment (even more likely a comparison since I just beat that game the other day), only even more confused and foggy.

Anyways, one night, far in the past, the phantom discovered that for some reason, a lit candle had absentmindedly been left lying around in the part of the castle it usually stayed in, wandering invisibly and mindlessly around. A flicker of consciousness stirred, and, not really knowing why, it tipped over the candle, and then stood watching as the carpet caught fire, then a tapestry, and then eventually that entire wing and parts of the rest of the manor went up in flames before anything could be done by the family there at the time (this was far in the past). A number of the family died in the fire, and the only ones left were a mother and her young girl who thought, as she stood outside watching her home burn that she saw a pale figure amidst the flames. This would later become somewhat of an obsession.

The young girl aged, but she was not able to let the idea of the phantom go, though she only ever saw him once more. Because, in the fire, a memory stirred in the phantom, and he became more real, as consciousness and memory of some past event flowed back into him.

Anyways, the old woman brought her old cat, one of a line that had been with the family for ages (on the premise, true in this dream, that cats have nine lives,. and so have better ancestral memory than people do) to a sort of magician, who tried to peer into the past using it. But in the past he saw something terrible, which became aware of him, and before the magician's consciousness could escape, it was upon him, and in the present the magician was cut off from his consciousness.

But at the same time, the cat gained a greater consciousness, not sure why, so that it was able to think, and communicate, to a certain degree. Not to the old woman, not usually anyway, because these things operate on a similar basis to how they do in the Chronicles of Narnia I guess ie. in the first book Uncle Andrew didn't believe animals could talk, and so, to him, they couldn't.

But the cat could certainly talk to the phantom, and it did, with a voice and manner resembling Morte the skull from Planescape Torment. The cat didn't understand the past completely either, but in their talk, the phantom came to the conclusion that he and the manor were linked in deep ways, and that the only way to regain himself was to restore the manor to the way it had been in his day, as much as he could remember.

Unfortunately beyond that point I either woke up or have forgotten. Still, an interesting dream in my opinion anyway.

I'm thinking of returning to this, again.

Probably pruning the backlog of alot of the immaturity/stupid, and turning over a new leaf. I feel like I'm almost, at least some of the time, at a new place in my life. A lot less self-hating/pitying, more self-esteem, and just generally a deeper understanding of what really matters

anyways, I started writing more here about "why" I felt this way, and then deleted it. Not, I hope anyway, because I'm frightened "oh god what will people think" or "fuck it no one will care anyway" (the main reason I stopped writing here in the first place), which is in a sense I guess, the thing I've been trying to overcome all this time. Maturity? Is it pretentious to think so? :] But because it's just not necessary, if that makes sense. It's a balancing act, not unlike being a writer I guess. Criteria 1) write for yourself, Criteria 2) if you don't write with an audience in mind it's masturbation. Or option three, be so paralyzed with fear and self-doubt that you accomplish nothing, mm?

That's as good an explanation as any. One last thing, because this is a journal after all, and I can say whatever the fuck I like

Striving, yearning for more, is/was the right thing. But a traveller who ever presses onward, shunning places of rest, must eventually grow weary and despairing when things go wrong, whereas another traveller on the same way who allowed himself to rest, however, briefly and fitfully, might well manage to succeed where the other failed...

Everybody will become a Stalfos. Everybody, Stalfos. Hee hee hee

Cathedral - Hopkins (the Witchfinder General)

Just, as the title indicates, a bunch of stuff I wanted to blog.

( stuff )

working full-length night shifts is no fun.

My spare time has been taken up with trying to set up windows 3.1 to run king's quest 6 (an awesome old school game) on a virtual operating system. Complications galore.

So I found a new job. $10.00 an hour but it's a shit job and I'm going to hate it. So what else is new.


Anyways, I have a new song that I am in love with:




Agalloch - Kneel to the Cross (Sol Invictus cover)

Summer is a'coming, arise, arise.

Give us our bread,
And bury our dead,
And kneel to the cross on the wall.
Whether burnt at the stake,
Or drunk at the wake,
Just kneel to the cross on the wall.
We've original sin,
But we might just get in,
If we beg to the cross on the wall.
It's rattle your neighbour,
And rattle your sabre,
But kneel to that cross on the wall.

See the roof fall.
Hear the bells crash.
As flesh and bone,
Turns to ash.
Tried to conquer the sun,
With the Christian frost.
The corpses' stench,
Beneath the cross.

And give them gold,
And they'll save your soul,
And kneel to the cross on the wall.
And hail to the boss,
Of the great unwashed,
And kneel to the cross on the wall.
They wail and weep,
The march of the sheep,
As they go to the cross on the wall.
And it's ever so wrong,
To dare to be strong,
So kneel to the cross on the wall.

See the roof fall.
Hear the bells crash.
As flesh and bone,
Turns to ash.
Tried to conquer the sun,
With the Christian frost.
The corpses' stench,
Underneath the cross.

And it's ever so wrong,
To dare, to be strong.
And it's ever so wrong,
To dare, to be strong.

But summer is a'coming and, arise, arise.

Imagine a labyrinth created with smoke and mirrors, concealing the walls of the small bare grey room it's housed in. But even if the illusions should change, the labyrinth is circular, leading nowhere, because it is contained within the grey bare room.

Like Plato's Allegory of the Cave, only there is no way out of the cave. And sometimes you get away, see through a crack in the illusions, and, staring blankly at the grey unmarked walls, retreat into the maze once more, now with the knowledge that it doesn't lead anywhere, but knowing, at the same time, that the alternative is death.

The video's title is black metal prank call. It's obviously not real, but I found it hilarious.

So it turns out my hands have an allergic reaction to latex/vinyl gloves. They are fucking nasty just now. Going to see a doctor later about it.

Here are two reviews:

1) The new Children of Bodom cd, Blooddrunk.

I bought the special edition in the hopes that it would have something cool on it. I guess if you have the capability to properly play a 5.1 mix then it is worth it, otherwise just get the normal one.

On to the contents of the cd.

There's not really any one song on here that's absolutely phenomenal, no Needled 24/7 or Hatebreeder. On the other hand I don't think there are any bad or even mediocre songs on here either.

Alexi Laiho claims that this album is more progressive than their other albums. I think I see what they mean by using that word, although it is, in my opinion misused as a way to refer to any Children of Bodom release. The use of the keyboards is different on here than it has been on any of their other albums. In their early days, the Children of Bodom saturated their albums with keyboards (referring to the two classic albums Hatebreeder and Follow the Reaper), and then they stripped them away to a great degree in their new albums (Hatecrew Deathroll and Are You Dead Yet?). With this album it feels like they hit a balance between the two. In particular there are passages that aren't solos where the keyboard gets the lead (although, to make it clear, not to such a degree as in, say, Bed of Razors, where the keyboard completely takes over the song), this being especially noticeable on the intro to One Day You Will Cry, most of Blooddrunk, or parts of Tie My Rope, for example. Additionally, rather than sounding pretty much the same throughout the whole song, the keyboardist seems to be experimenting with new sounds and textures on this album.

Other than that, there's not really much to say. The vocal style is that of the newer albums, mixing normal voice in with the screaming, rather than being just the pure scream seen on the earlier albums. The production is, of course, top-notch, probably their best, as befitting one of the biggest bands in modern metal (behind Slipknot and In Flames). It's not particularly long, and, thanks mostly to the way the keyboards are used, is diverse enough (for a Children of Bodom cd) that you won't get tired of it, at least not soon. I've had it since near release, and have listened to it alot, at least, and I'm not tired of it yet.

2) Making Money by Terry Pratchett.

I'm not sure how he does it, but at over thirty books in the Discworld series (which Terry Pratchett has been writing, I believe, for almost as long as I've been alive) they are still as funny and original (and thought-provoking, I would argue, I know I've been inspired by them before, as odd as it sounds) as ever. In fact, I think the new style of Discworld book is better suited to satirizing fantasy than the massively over-the-top insanity of the old books was. As far as plot, Terry Pratchett just isn't trying to cram way too much into his books anymore, I suppose. Whereas before, the story was just a passive vehicle for satirizing fantasy cliches (usually ending up with the story collapsing and needing to be put on life support,so to speak, tipping the balance about 3/4 through the book towards almost no humour and massively cliched story), there is now a balance between the two (satire and story) which works much better, at least in my opinion. The new Discworld books are very character driven, and the plots make much more sense. The epitome of this would be my favourite Discworld novel, Night Watch. If you've read the Discworld novels before, you already know the basic outline of what is happening in the story (because most of it is about an officer of the Watch named Commander Vimes who is sent back into the past. A past which has already been explained in the other books, to some degree). The actual events almost take a back seat to the actions and thoughts of Commander Vimes and the other characters around him, which is, in my opinion, how it should be. As a result, the characters themselves are much more interesting, being far more well-developed and likeable than say, Rincewind (the hero of the first Discworld books), who got kind of boring after a while. You felt like the story didn't really need him, I suppose.

I hope that makes sense.

Anyway, I particularly enjoyed this book. I'm not sure that Terry Pratchett will be using this particular character (the ex-con man Moist von Lipwig, saved by the lord of the city from hanging to serve a purpose) as a main character again, because his stories seem to be about being put into a hopeless and or dangerous position he knows nothing about doing (ie. in the first book he was made head of the ruined Post Office) and watching him succeed in his unique breakneck reckless way. In this one, he has been made Chairman of the city bank. The problem being, I'm not sure if that can be topped, and that seems to be what stories about this character require. Regardless, the two stories featuring him have been very enjoyable.

I have to say, my favourite thing about this story is how prominent a role Lord Vetinari, the assasin-trained tyrant Patrician of the city of Ankh-Morpork plays. He would make a terrible main character, because he never loses, and is simply smarter and more cunning and aware than everyone else around him (thus being without the flaws needed to make a main character interesting) but as a secondary character, he works incredibly well.

My only real gripe with this story is that the way the conflict is resolved is, to some degree, out of the control of the main character. I mean, he does play some role, but this is only because, for the most part, he got lucky. It's not as much of an Ed Greenwoodesque ending as in the early books (by this I mean, the main character has been battling against such insurmountable odds for so long that you can no longer maintain your suspension of disbelief), though. At least you feel that, yes, this character could really achieve something like that, I mean.

Anyways, good book. If you like satire and urban fantasy, I reccommend it.

I hope the early-onset Alzheimers doesn't get him too soon, I want to read more of his books :[

Free flowing water
The air is so warm
It breathes for you
It sees through you before the storm
And if the lake can't
Be the sister
To the moon
To the river
To the sun

The leaves are falling
Cutting the moonlight
They brake the waves
Gazing to the stars
And if the lake can't
Be the sister
To the moon
To the river
To the earth

I know I wouldn't be strong
Wouldn't be brother to the moon
I know I wouldn't be strong
Wouldn't be the sister to the woods

Here is another soul
Another path
Another God