tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-357327602024-03-13T19:09:54.784+00:00Pissing in the WindNo insight here; pointless thoughts aboundAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.comBlogger176125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-41024149192933684272014-08-11T23:28:00.000+01:002014-08-11T23:28:11.132+01:00No Revival<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So after years of nothing appearing on these pages because I had nothing productive to contribute, I have a vague idea about a creative project. Something to keep my mind active, something to channel my energies into, engage me and get me to hopefully enjoy a resource I have on tap but so often overlook.</div>
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The idea is simple: listen to my entire music library one album/collection at a time. <i>Really listen</i>. Then write up thoughts, reviews, emotional fallout, kittens... whatever happened in that time but in a coherent and intelligent way. Simple.</div>
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It works on two levels.</div>
<ol style="text-align: justify;">
<li>to force me to listen to the music I own, much of which has sat unplayed</li>
<li>To get me to positively engage with an activity, rather than passively waste my evenings being bored, lonely, tired, or listless.</li>
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It's not a small project. My library contains 1555 albums/collections according to Windows Media Player; 16,000+ tracks and 47 days worth of runtime. It's quite a varied library; there are some strong themes, but it spans many genres. Somewhere in there I would hopefully generate the odd interesting review. Were I to make it through, even with a moratorium on buying anything new it would take me a year or three to complete. That assumes that I was able to a) get going and b) keep going to the end since it's over 3 at 1 collection a day. Granted, some are small enough that multiple could be shot through in an afternoon, but that's still a daunting thought.</div>
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So what order to do it in?<br />
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I don't want to go by artist because that means too many long runs of the same musician all together... and getting bored or tuning out is the opposite of the point. I suspect therefore that I would go alphabetically by album. That <i>also</i> ends up in long runs of the same thing (or at least one such... and 356 folk songs in a row might break my brain as well as kill interest in the idea) but allowing myself the liberty of switching out if I hit such a run mitigates that. New purchases may need to fit in somewhere too. Rigid planning is not the route to the finish line here.</div>
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The question is, in this digital, post-product age, why albums? Easy: they serve to break up tracks, easily categorise what has been done and what is to come. They also work as conceptual groups, to draw links between. And frankly they're also how I tend to buy; I'm rooted in the physical still and I like my library of discs - they allow me to play things in the car (except where those discs are dying, like my CDR of <b>Orange Dirt County </b>by <i>Pip Dylan</i>). But mostly its the categorisation thing - keeping track of progress.<br />
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I'm still uncommitted to the idea - I've not begun a review, a listen or spoken to anyone about my plans for my spare time, but the thought is growing on me and I have set up a blog for the purpose. I suspect I'll start - not least because by using WMP's alphabetical album listing I have a favourite up first (easily guessed if you know me; or stated in the blurb for the new site) - but then run out of steam in the first 10 discs or so... unable to find the right mental space to commit, like with so many other things. We'll see, eh?<br />
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But it won't revive this pile of junk. If it goes ahead, it'll have its own blog and separate space at <a href="http://wiltml.blogspot.co.uk/">http://wiltml.blogspot.co.uk/</a> just to clutter up another little corner of t'internet with my garbage.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-76004032490576252882011-02-10T23:35:00.003+00:002011-02-10T23:46:15.818+00:00Posts I Should Make...Why Plot is a Dirty Word<br /><br />The Trouble with Wanting to Win<br /><br />Fucking Media Crushes<br /><br />Snowed in by Admin<br /><br />I Need to Sleep to be Creative<br /><br />On Never Following Through<br /><br />Those Half-Developed Ideas that Should be Awesome... if Only They'd Get Done.<br /><br />I Need More Storage!<br /><br />The First Valentine's Day That's Good for Anything (and not for <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-60585847186056115552010-12-18T00:23:00.000+00:002010-12-18T00:24:19.881+00:00ClosureShit word. Good feeling.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-55436429980682536572010-12-13T18:23:00.002+00:002010-12-13T18:23:52.202+00:00I'm broke...But not destitute.<br /><br />I bought a house. Exchanged contracts today, complete a week on Wednesday.<br /><br />Job done.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-55312662263917980152010-12-12T12:22:00.003+00:002010-12-12T12:31:29.481+00:00Today is one of those days<div style="text-align: justify;">As soon as I woke up this morning I knew. I knew today was not going to be a good day.<br /><br />My mind got stuck in certain loops of thought, ones I would rather not visit right now - or indeed ever. This has been followed up by everything I try to do failing, and technology failing and my thought spiral getting worse not better.<br /><br />Today is not supposed to be like this. I had a pre-exchange meeting with my financial advisor yesterday, to dot the i and cross the t of my mortgage offer. All of which means that tomorrow, when I go to see my solicitor, I should be able to sign contracts and arrange transfer of funds to get to the point of exchange. The putative completion date is 22 December - I should feel excited, looking forward but from the very first moment of wakefulness that has been ruined.<br /><br />Fuck.<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-29703699012805755522010-12-02T17:05:00.005+00:002010-12-04T14:47:26.528+00:00I feel as though life has kicked me in the nuts...Repeatedly. And then punched me in the gut for good measure.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I might be getting better - no, really - but hope is a bitch, or in the words of Nick Hornby, sung by Ben Folds:<br /></div><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">You know what hope is?<br />Hope is a bastard;<br />Hope is a liar, a cheat, and a tease.<br />Hope comes near you; kick its backside.<br />Got no place in days like these.</span>" - <span style="font-weight: bold;">Picture Window</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Hope is fled now, but it leaves a vacuum that only time can fill. And a sense of loss, that something broke that may be irretrievable.<br /><br />I'm on the verge of buying a house. It's a nice place, not too far from work, not much needing doing and nearer friends. It'll be my own space, I can spread out, dedicate rooms to functions of living and generally improve my home life. It's exciting, almost exhilarating - I'm truly looking forward to it. With any luck, by this time next week I will have exchanged contracts and everything, all set for a completion date before Christmas.<br /><br />Yet the excitement, whilst there, is distant. Instead I have the same old worries rattling around my brain - the ones I have never managed to banish, despite trying to accept them, despite trying to deny them, despite willing them away.<br /><br />OK, its only natural to be disappointed at rejection. I know that I am better for it, for having taken the chance, than had I cowered from it and watched it go sailing by. It's less natural that one such incident should plunge me headlong back into the self doubt that has me convinced that this lovely new house (or any other) will never be filled by anyone but me. I'd like to say it's less convincing this time, but for all that I keep a kernel of hope inside me that prevents the blackest of nights, I also possess the pessimism of of a true cynic, so it is just as bad as ever.<br /><br />More temporary though, I hope. Counselling is on the horizon; an opportunity perhaps to address this self doubt, self deprecation and self delusion. A chance, maybe, to build some confidence, to find things that work for me, to learn how to express myself in person like I am able to in text. A moment, perchance, to be able to say things myself rather than relying on other people's music and lyrics as above.<br /><br />But right now? It seems awfully fitting that the snippet posted above comes from an album entitled "Lonely Avenue" - as I'm living there, new house or no. I'm at my lowest ebb for a long time. I keep landing on my feet, but the ground beneath them is about to give way and the worst thing is I did most of the undermining myself.<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-85315396339518423452010-11-30T17:35:00.003+00:002010-11-30T17:43:48.333+00:00My fears were unfoundedDespite significant wobbles, England pulled together and ended up snatching a domineering draw from the jaws of defeat.<br /><br />But what is clear is that my studious <span style="font-style:italic;">not listening</span> on Saturday evening (well, early Sunday morning) must have contributed to the good second innings showing. I simply must not listen to another ball, and the series is in the bag...<br /><br />Superstition is a strange thing!<br>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-48098393801274716782010-11-25T00:04:00.002+00:002010-11-25T00:05:00.624+00:00Oh dear, here we go again...The first over of the 2010/11 Ashes and we're already 0-1.<br /><br />I think I'll go to bed and save myself the hassle.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-11662854878401888812010-11-17T09:11:00.008+00:002010-11-21T09:07:08.085+00:00Adrift on a raft in the river of life<div align="justify">Whilst life passes by on the banks.<br /></div><br/><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">So something has happened that prompted me to write again, however briefly. Yesterday I broke a long duck - and it broke me back, albeit in a nice and polite way and overall much more.... pleasantly than expected. However it was expected.<br /></div><br/><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">I'm no good with life, I'm no good with people, and occasions that make me interested in other people are few and far between. Yesterday I grasped for a branch to maybe pull myself a little closer to the shore where everyone else seems to hang out and have fun, knowing full well it would likely pull out of my hands as the current swept me by. This may not sound significant but even two months ago I would have foregone that slight chance at rescue, accepting my fate and preserving the skin on my hands.<br /></div><br/><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">However the whole situation put me in mind of Bryan Lee O'Malley's excellent <strong>Lost at Sea</strong> - a comic about an 18 year old girl that sums up this 30 year old man far, far better than it should. I have a sudden burning desire to read it again, but my copy is back in the UK and I won't be able to lay hands on it for another 5 days. The title alone rather sums up life in my head - I can't see land or anyone else, let alone make contact, and previous attempts have been so disastrous I have more or less forgotten how to try. <strong>You </strong>should read it too, it really is excellent. Everyone has been there at one time or another. Cogent criticism escapes me now, but as someone who has, by a certain way of thinking, been 18 for 12 years that is only to be expected.<br /></div><br/><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">So titling at yesterday's windmill was a success of sorts, despite the inevitable failure. Rebuilding takes time - time I may not have, but time I have to try to find - the isolation alone is killing me, an acute pain with chronic duration and one I have never managed to overcome, despite building some pretty formindable walls.<br /></div><br/><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Rambling now, not making sense - much like the thoughts in my mind and the inevitable self-destruction that comes with my innate over-analysis. I'm trying to do, not think; to not regret and to be better for it. I'm failing at first, but practice makes perfect, right?<br /></div><br/><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Right?<br /></div><br/>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-44919979349136899892010-05-08T09:31:00.002+01:002010-05-08T09:32:58.762+01:00Also I overuse ellipsesThat is all.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-77902694170582864402010-05-07T14:06:00.002+01:002010-05-07T18:42:03.706+01:00I am a ball of conflicting emotions...My life is so dull that nothing ever happens, yet this leaves me all turned about: rarely do truly bad things happen, but equally neither does anything genuinely <span style="font-style: italic;">good</span> (everything, it seems, has complications).<br /><br />I want to run and correct my mistakes, yet also to cringe and hide from them until they are finally forgotten. I want to be elsewhere and yet never go there again. I want to pack up and move on but want, too, to cling on to the last vestiges of memory.<br /><br />I hate my weekends yet want them to last forever. I lack for things to do but need the dead time to recover. Most of all, I want to be able to <span style="font-style: italic;">sleep</span> - on the basis that if I were more rested then things would look brighter. Two incredibly disturbed nights sleep on and I'm a wreck - angry, sad, tearful, apathetic and hopeless.<br /><br />I'm back in the rut, and sinking into the soft mud of the tread so any view over the side is fading fast.<br /><br />And a shitty election result doesn't help.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-56088519125860617972010-04-25T22:42:00.003+01:002010-04-25T22:58:41.537+01:00What the hell is wrong with me?I have never believed in love at first sight, yet somehow I appear to have left my heart a continent away with a girl I hardly know, and who is far too young for me, a month ago and it still burns to my core.<br /><br />I fluffed my lines at the time, and I accepted that - my bad, typical and expected, annoying but live-able with. I did not expect the desire to persist over 2 weeks after I left, knowing that I will not hear from her or see her... for a long while at least, if ever.<br /><br />The wrong idea can go a long way, and this flame deosn't feel ready to die, however convenient that would be. I'm hostage to my own fallability here, my own weaknesses. On the one hand I want to let it go, pragmatically sensible and prudent, especially given the hopelessness of the situation. On the other I dearly want to cling to the one thing of late that has made me feel alive until the impossibility is confimred (as opposed to sitting at 99.99% recurring).<br /><br />I need help.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-61298664253440607542010-01-01T11:38:00.003+00:002010-01-01T11:43:45.978+00:00My favourite albums of 2009<div style="text-align: justify;">So apparently I bought 50.7 hours of music released in 2009; 49.9 discounting re-issues, and 43.3 discounting compilations and best-ofs (but not disounting Aidan Moffat and the Best Ofs).<br /><br />My top 10 albums in some kind of order were:<br /><br />10. <strong>Jon Boden - Songs from the Floodplain</strong><br /><br />Second solo album from Bellowhead frontman Jon Boden - I've seen it described somewhere as folk tinged apocalyptica and its a description that fits as it is both bleak and full of influences from his folk roots. Boden is one of the most charismatic performers I've ever seen live and this does bleed through into his recordings too.<br /><br />9. <strong>James Yorkston and the Big Eyes Family Players - Folk Songs</strong><br /><br />One of the albums I was really looking forward to last year - so much so I bought the special edition on pre-order, twice by mistake! (I gave one to my dad who is also a fan, but I am listed twice in the list of pre-orders included in the packaging). Didn't quite live up to my lofty expectations, but Yorkston is a genius performer and it's still a fine collection of tunes.<br /><br />8. <strong>Regina Spektor - Far</strong><br /><br />The first Spektor album I bought (since picked up a few more) - there are some very strong songs on this release. I assume given she was amongst LastFM's top 40 most played artists of the year everyone else knows more about her than I do!<br /><br />7. <strong>Neko Case - Middle Cyclone</strong><br /><br />Apart from the ridiculous space-filling insect noise repeat at the end of the disc this just blew me away on first listen. May have lost a little lustre on repeated re-visits but Case's voice and the haunting melodies she pairs it with remain a symbiotic partnership that rewards attention.<br /><br />6. <strong>The Leisure Society - The Sleeper</strong><br /><br />A really charming little release that I owe LastFM for. Tracks like A Short Weekend Begins with Longing and The Last of the Melting Snow have a genuine warmth and appeal to the softer, less cynical side of me.<br /><br />5. <strong>Jon Hopkins - Insides</strong><br /><br />Hopkins is dificult to describe. I loved Opalescent, was less taken with Contact Note, love some of his production work. Insides is a strong work, less accessible than Opalescent but worth the effort in the end. Wire alone could almost have got this album into this list - probably my favourite track of 2009.<br /><br />4. <strong>Emmy the Great - First Love (bonus tracks)</strong><br /><br />Missed all but 5 minutes of her at Indietracks in the summer - big mistake that I would rectify if it were possible. Deliciously painful in places but a high quality piece of work nonetheless, even if I do have to be in a limited range of moods for listening to be viable.<br /><br />3. <strong>Julie Fowlis - Uam</strong><br /><br />Voice of an angel, traditional music at its finest. I can't say too much more about Fowlis without understating.<br /><br />2. <strong>De Rosa - Prevention</strong><br /><br />Thought for a long while that this would be my album of the year, but I have found as the months have ticked past that I do not return to it as much as I did. Still a staggeringly good album from a band that split up a month or so later. Fragile yet robust, far more polished than their debut (Mend) but without losing their edge.<br /><br />1. <strong>The Phantom Band - Checkmate Savage</strong><br /><br />The album I have most often re-visited last year - took over from Prevention in November/December as the #1 because I feel it has more longevity. A mixture of dark, brooding sounds and happy-clappy choruses that make me want to bounce around like an idiot - it shouldn't work, but it just does. Magnificently. Scottish indie at its finest.<br /><br />===<br /><br />What's odd about this list, from my perspective, is that two albums from favourite artists of mine that I would have had as dead certs for inclusion do not make it (King Creosote's Flick the Vs and Malcolm Middleton's Waxing Gibbous). Those two, and the list above (the top 3 and Yorkston) indicate a strong trend towards Scottish artists in the past 12 months.<br /><br />I was tempted to include a Jazz release from left-field (Andy Sheppard's Movements in Colour) but felt it would be for the sake of diversity rather than quality - though I like it a lot, it's not received the same attention of the above in terms of plays or thought. Other honourable mentions go to Andrew Bird (for Useless Creatures more than Noble Beast) and Mercury-nominated Sweet Billy Pilgrim (for Twice Born Men).</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-19721392841992766802009-10-15T22:35:00.002+01:002009-10-15T22:37:43.634+01:00I keep feeling...As though I really ought to write something.<br /><br />Problem is I have no idea what - or even what format. My brain is atrophying without use and could benefit greatly from some linguistic working out, and my creative side is craving release but...<br /><br />Application has long been the problem.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-56744614721400141862009-09-22T18:46:00.002+01:002009-09-22T18:48:43.223+01:00The stupid things we find challenging that others find easyAre a constant source of annoyance, self-beration and anxiety. Things we <span style="font-weight: bold;">know</span> are simple but struggle with every time they raise their head.<br /><br />Fucking telephones.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-45916740489187595002009-07-27T15:59:00.004+01:002009-07-27T16:58:38.539+01:00Cute girl was cute, is gone<div style="text-align: justify;">Just got back from a weekend at a music festival, the first one of them I've been to in 11 years. Much good about the experience, some bad too - mostly related to my state of being, my mind, and prinicpally the weather.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These things happen - glorious warm sun one day, pissing rain and biting wind the next. Just as the bands on show varied from fun to fabulous, to "fuck-I-want-to-deafen-myself-just-to-not-hear-you". All to be expected.<br /><br />I should also have expected to feel lots of "alone in the crowd" moments; I don't know why I don't engage. It may have something to do with how I appreciate music - a very individual and powerful sensation - but I suspect it is more wide ranging than that as I've had such moments in crowds for other things too. And it isn't indicative, necessarily, of being there on my own; nor is it a slight on people I might actually be with.<br /><br />I can't explain it, though I reckon its all tied in with my not being outgoing and finding reaching out to people - or accepting them in, though that is easier - difficult. As such I end up spending a lot of time beating myself up internally and this weekend was no different, especially when the folks I was with are able to just approach anyone and everyone, even to mug band members for hairy coo photies.<br /><br />And so people pass me by. Cute girl was cute, is gone.<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-2239514248237583322009-07-11T22:26:00.005+01:002009-07-11T22:29:47.691+01:00Even in despair, the funny side is clearAs I sank to my knees, giving up on yet another wasted weekend in what amounts to a wasted life, a crappy day drawing to a close... the track ticked over. Bad Day - oh how appropriate.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-44572420751707558602009-05-13T22:40:00.000+01:002009-05-13T22:41:30.537+01:00Last song before bed...<span style="font-family: arial;">Time to Get Up</span>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-15989411410611769152009-03-25T23:33:00.003+00:002009-03-29T22:59:56.588+01:00Branded<div style="text-align: justify;">What an eventful week. First that sense of power, of being; of Life. That was what walking the pattern gave me in the immediacy, but now it leaves me doubting - hurt and bemused, broken and remade and even now, having supposedly proven myself "real" by completing that walk, it leaves me feeling a fake. Angry, alone and in over my head - and indeed everyone else is too if things really are as they appear.<br /><br />To cut a long story short dear reader, in case the whole tale does not interest you, I suspect that I am... someone else, yet not entirely; it is complicated, as is everything else around here, it seems. From what I can glean from Fiona, amongst others, it appears that what gave me power, what made me "real" was not parentage as it was for all other Amberites I have met<br /><br />But to not rush off too far ahead - that is just the latest and greatest of the weird and disturbing events to befall me. The first happened whilst wandering directionless through shadow (I had never shifted before) on the way back from Caercorran. I had somehow come to be in Avernus - I later learned that shadow has history; oh how fate mocks the unknowing - when I was assaulted by cat-like creatures with 4 arms an very, very, nasty blades. I had made the mistake of travelling unarmed (one I shall certainly not repeat), such was the haste of my decision to walk the pattern and the blur of events since then and though I fought hard, I was soon in a less than survivable condition - impaled on a barbed and serrated blade with a dead creature on my back and a dying one in my arms. It was thus Rowland and Malice came across me. I fainted soon after, and when I next remember having consciousness I was in a strange box-like room where everything was white and funny boxes made bleeping noises and connected to me by wires. Then Keats resolved into view - that bastard brother of mine has only tried to outdo me again.<br /><br />It seemed he had taken offense to my message and sought out another who held a grudge - the demon Wyrdsworth felt jilted, apparently, with my having been to Amber. And so he had dealt my soul into Keats' filthy hands, and had lifted him up far beyond anything that he offered me. It makes me choke and spit to think of it, but somehow the snivelling, conniving bastard sibling of mine finally had what he had always wanted, I was at his mercy, trapped in his mind and ripe for... well, empty threats so far. He wouldn't, or couldn't, act there and then. Instead he delivered a cryptic warning - to me, my companions, and to Amber itself. All of this in some... nightmarish vision of a place. I only escaped through Rowland's intervention, and sooner or later this constant failure and reliance on him must end. It is unseemly and disgraceful.<br /><br />From there we walked shadow; I had recovered well but not fully from the impaling and they wanted me to rest. We ended up in a shadow of Rowland's choosing, which had but one interesting feature: a painting of the woman in white who appeared on the Trump that seemed to link us three. It was of her, on a throne, and... it was missing something. When I put my eye to it, and let my pen wander instinctively, it appeared as though it had once also shown a boy playing with a crown, so I drew him in. Rowland then tried to Trump using the painting, and knocked himself unconscious in the act; I had drawn Rowland as a child, the woman in white thus revealed as his mother. Cassandra.<br /><br />There was more to that, but it was uninteresting. We struggled for a plan, but Malice wanted to go back to Avernus to look for her father. As with everything else this week, it turned out badly. Werewolves, long drops and being forced into further deals with the devil. Further exposition on that may be unwise.<br /><br />But that is of nothing to compare with the revelation that followed. Rowland and I rescued Bleys - an elder, missing for years - from a sacrificial altar the wolves had set up; Malice had been captured too, but seemed to have thrown in with the blasted creatures and their head... Brand, her father. Rowland was livid - they argued - then as things were looking very hairy the whole camp disappeared.<br /><br />With nowhere else to turn, we managed to find horses and ride for Amber - and let me tell you I do not wish to Hellride again anytime soon - to find King Random had "gone on holiday" and that Fiona was in charge for now. Apparently Random had gotten worried once it emerged Rowland was Eric's son, but this was as nothing compared to the threat that Brand apparently posed. I did not know my history then, but now...<br /><br />Well, he was supposed to be gone, apparently, though not <span style="font-style: italic;">everyone</span> was surprised by his return. I learned from Fiona that the memories I recalled whilst walking the pattern were not my own - they were Brand's. I had not done it before, and perhaps should never have done so at all, though given what I was told before I did, were that true would I still be here?<br /><br />It then emerged that when Brand was toppled into the abyss someone - Fiona, would be my guess - stole aspects of his being and hid it somewhere, for what has returned is not whole. This, plus the memories point to me as a vessel, a less than charming thought which supposedly puts my survival in Fiona's best interests... and is there anywhere less safe to be, if the mutterings of the other elders are to be believed?<br /><br />As to what I do now... I have not the faintest clue.<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-42489288794661111382009-02-02T11:25:00.002+00:002009-02-02T12:37:10.120+00:00Walking the Pattern<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I am writing this having just left Caercorran. I wait with interest to hear how my <i>other</i> family react to the little gift I left them. The bastards will know I am coming back for them, and that I know how.</span><br /><br />These days I know a lot more than that it seems... Know, or remember. It is hard to separate new knowledge from old memory, and the whole thing is a bit of a blur. I had walked it before, bent shadow before... killed before. Power once lost is coming to the fore again but I hazard it will be a long while yet before it returns in full. For now, through remembrance and pushing myself I am merely finding my feet anew.<br /><br />It has been a strange few days - from unwitting minor noble in some backwater province that was not even real, to close to godhood and the memories of a prior existence. From overwhelmed and undecisive fool at the banquet to an awareness and impulse born of Fiona's "gift". Her attentions unnerved me before, but now they intrigue; I can only assume she knew - nay, knows - something I yet do not. To hand me a trump of the Pattern... well, Roland's reaction to it told it all: who would make such a card?! This was not chance, it was planned - but to what detail? That the first two cards I picked were identical, her brother I believe, and the third - the charm - being the pattern itself. Hah, and dead central too - of course it was no chance.<br /><br />I can only imagine what she was thinking when I took the bait, but the betting is that things have worked out as she desired - I would not give myself the credit to match an elder, and particularly not one I had been expressly warned about. Still, the impulsiveness felt good - the first trump contact I initiate, and it is to the Pattern room itself! Oh, the look on Roland's face must have been priceless when I made that connection. The sense of power, of belonging, when I realised that I was afoot the Pattern itself after the transport - and that (and I'm sure Malice will be disappointed) I was not "goo" - that feeling was to be treasured. The rest of the journey, on the other hand... it is a mixture of pain, pain and more pain. Some of it delicious, but more of it excruciating. Funny how it was only <i>after</i> the self-mutilation and impalement that the memory of how to walk the Pattern returned! Hah, and to think I nearly did not make it - Roland, bless him, must have helped, else why would he have been at the centre with me? Otherwise why put yourself through that for a second time... unless you had forgotten!<br /><br />The horrors and specifics I will leave out here, but I trust that this time I shall carry them always in mind, for to put myself through that a third time would be foolish indeed! I found the immediate aftermath a bit of a nightmare, albeit an empowering one - I recall simply bloodlust, the need to hunt, and feeling envigorated and energised but only for as long as it took to find raw meat. Not such an alien feeling, that - the imagery of claws, fangs and the taste of blood have been common these few days, but that the first thing I saw was not elk, nor deer, nor game but wolf... well poor chance. The urge needed sating however, and so it had to die. That it's terrible head now adorns my "father's" throne, well... I wager the note I left my "brother" promising his come-uppance will hold as great an effect. And neither of them will be pleased...<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-76818145909663294152008-11-25T21:28:00.005+00:002008-11-25T22:58:13.805+00:00Amber: First Impressions (diary)<div style="text-align: justify;">So, this is Amber. Amazingly I am impressed by the place, if not yet by the people - or how I got here: I still don't understand that. In all honesty today was baffling, infuriating, exhausting and belittling. And yet it was also inspiring, visceral and energizing, all in one turn of the solar cycle.<br /><br />How can this be? Well, my midnight jaunt set the tone - body vanished and nothing with which to pin down that bastard brother of mine. Not that it mattered anyway as despite the fact I was certain I felt him nearby, he was nowhere to be found at the estate, and the servants were adamant that he left on a ride earlier that morning. Curse the oversleeping that my fruitless return to the village where we left <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Triaste</span> brought on!<br /><br />From that frustrating start, the day got worse before it got better. I resigned myself to a cold revenge upon my return and went to meet Roland and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Berthold</span> in order to set off for Amber, only to find the former in conversation with a bizarrely attired boy. At least - I had thought it was a boy; it turned out to be another "cousin", a fellow "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Amberite</span>" and a rather poorly attired woman. She introduced herself as Malice and the name fits - I was less than impressed with her attire and her personality and attitude produced the same effect. No doubt it is mutual, but I'll lose no sleep over that.<br /><br />I may lose sleep over the weirdness of the journey though - Roland later explained it as moving through "shadow" worlds, changing a bit at a time, not that that made it any easier to stomach. The sky turned purple, I felt sick and dis-empowered, a child bound to the hand of Roland as "father" and completely out of my depth. I tried to return home with no luck - my new powers seem to have deserted me already. Such was the torment that I was almost glad when we found the body. I just wanted the journey to end.<br /><br />I had an inkling that it would only be a stopping point and as such it both irked and relieved in equal measure - an ending, but one with the promise of more hell to follow.<br /><br />But not until after the battle - it turned out by ill chance that the dead man was a soldier of Amber, or as Roland put it "a servant of the family", and the ringing of battle was audible on the wind. Malice, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Berthold</span> and Roland rode like buggery to the fight - citing duty. I was lost, alone in a strange place with my companions ridden off to die for all I knew. Unwilling to commit as they had, I circled, scouted - and I'm still itching as a result of those spines, they combine poorly with saddle-sores! - and gained vantage. Then another strange moment: my eyes locked even at range with a figure marshaling the defense and I saw him as if right close. It turned out later - once the fight was won - that he was "King Random" of Amber, personally overseeing the return of troops and wounded from some supposedly concluded war. He did not impress, not with personality, nor with tactics, or his personal involvement in what would seem to be a routine task. Admittedly it appeared from the carnage - in which I played full part in the end, smashing a weak point in the assaulting line and then leading a force to route the enemy archers (who posed the only real threat to the defense... apart from those hideous bat-like creatures) , but it leaves me not knowing what to make of this much vaulted Amber.<br /><br />I swear that back home, however "unreal" it may be (and I am far from certain that I yet believe that line), no-one as puny or uninspiring as Random would last as ruler. Still he thanked us, greeting and accepting me as "cousin" though we had never met... perhaps what passed in that second of locked eyes was more than a trick of the light - it makes me shudder to think of it, yet the possibilities...<br /><br />Sometime after the attackers - largely strange forms, black and... odd - were routed, Malice "disappeared" through an ice-shedding rainbow, only to reappear when we arrived in Amber itself (to a hero's welcome, to compound the strangeness of it all). She unnerves me, and not in a good way; she will need to be watched, if indeed it is possible to watch those who come and go like that. Roland and I arrived back by a more conventional route - on horseback - but it was apparently more "shadow shifting" that eventually brought us to Amber itself (by way of a buried stone giant which, I'm sure, must have been some kind of hallucination).<br /><br />And in that arrival, the day's sheer joy - this city is a picture that makes the artist in me sing and buzz with enthusiasm. Architecture that looks familiar, yet varied too, and scenery that takes the breath away. If nothing else the opportunity to see the vista - with the giant mountain (Roland named it, but it escapes me in my tiredness) towering above, the castle dominating the town, and the deep greens of the surrounding forest contrasting with the vivid blue of the ocean. Breathtaking, glorious and simply beautiful.<br /><br />I had little left to give after that - the approach to Castle Amber was twisting through parades on the street, as if <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Random's</span> words of heroes had got back to the people and they had come out to welcome us home. Thankfully I was too tired to pay much attention, and shortly after we got into the castle - to be met as mentioned by Malice, attired in a way more befitting her gender at least - I collapsed in exhaustion and was shown to these chambers. That was last night, and now... a new day awaits in a strange yet beautiful city where everyone seems to think that I have "come home".<br /><br />[Small portraits of Malice (unflattering), Roland, Random (bordering <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">on caricature</span>) and the vista of Amber accompany this entry]<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-84588272656020932952008-11-16T16:59:00.000+00:002008-11-16T17:00:24.485+00:00Of Demons and Doublecrosses<div style="text-align: justify;">It looks like my time here in <span style="" class="EC_blsp-spelling-error" id="EC_SPELLING_ERROR_0">Caercorran</span> draws to a close. Not closed by death but by... escape. In this I have choice, though the machinations of others would seek to deny me as much as possible of this quality.<br /><br />It is scarcely believable, but Roland - this enigmatic, charismatic stranger - and his travelling companion <span style="" class="EC_blsp-spelling-error" id="EC_SPELLING_ERROR_1">Berthold</span> claim me to be some kind of... well, different. I am hard pressed to argue with a couple who appeared from nowhere and, in truth, rescued me from the 20 foot tall monstrosity and then claimed to have fought many of its ilk before now! Yet neither can I accept it at face value, and this is one reason I feel I absolutely compelled to accompany them and thus determine the truth or otherwise of Roland's rather bewildering claim.<br /><br />And to think - the day started with so much banal promise. The hunt was to go ahead precisely as planned, and that old buffoon <span style="" class="EC_blsp-spelling-error" id="EC_SPELLING_ERROR_2">Triaste</span> even agreed to accompany us to witness my feats. Perhaps I was already thinking of sharing Yvonne's chambers when I called that lovelorn fool Wilhelm to throw first and mark the hunt. The idiot charged too soon, missed his throw and killed a piglet - no wonder all hell broke loose! I was hoping for a clean kill (the lad, not the boar) and an angry pack of pigs for the other hunters to round up satisfactorily. Instead, chaos; even so, it was manageable until that booming from the forest. I shudder to think about it now, and yet I'm drawn to - for apparently there will be more, and worse the vanquished can return! The goat-man thing, if I had held truck with tales and legend then I would have scattered with the rest of the sheep, but I did not and saw the opportunity even the alpha boar did not provide!<br /><br />My "bravery" was stupid, looking back, but truth be told by the time I realised I would have need to be brave it was too late to turn tail and run. Outpacing a giant that size would have been impossible, even had the horses stayed close enough. Then its words. "Betrayer" it called me though I am utterly lost as to why. Simply that the thing was after me, specifically, at all is terrifying. That it is so bandying around words, nay <span style="font-style: italic;">names</span>, like that... There will be more - they both said. There will be more, and I am "different", "of Amber" - whatever that means. The two, I fear, may be linked, and Roland's words suggest such.<br /><br />But that is for tomorrow - when I will ride with them to this Amber, wherever that is.<br /><br />For tonight, I have little time; I must quickly ascertain what happened to <span style="" class="EC_blsp-spelling-error" id="EC_SPELLING_ERROR_3">Triaste's</span> body and the guards we left with it. I do not want to let that damned brother of mine appear to have sent me packing with whatever smear his liaisons with father have cooked up. No, if I cannot force him to spill on his ruses, I will have to make him pay before I depart. Give him something to remember me by when the time comes for me to return. And knowing the bastard like I do... he is unlikely to yield me a thing. Unless the evidence of <span style="" class="EC_blsp-spelling-error" id="EC_SPELLING_ERROR_4">Triaste's</span> body and the testimony of the guards and healers can be drummed up, and with Roland's corroboration used to paint him for the weasel he is, my revenge on my scheming sibling will have to take different form. Disfigurement and disgrace - whether social or physical - await my poor brother in the morning I feel.<br /><br />But only if I lay this aside for now and get to it... I must act on certainties to ensure success, and cannot theorise the wiping of the smug look from his face.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-73527480062790395922008-11-16T15:00:00.002+00:002008-11-16T17:04:54.854+00:00An Amber Character Diary<div style="text-align: justify;">Our gaming group have just started an Amber game, and over the course of our sessions I have committed to writing a character diary; the entries will appear here over time as I write them.<br /><br />I am only passingly familiar with Amber as both fantasy fiction in the form of Zelazny's novels and in terms of the diceless roleplaying system written by the recently deceased Eric Wujcik. Fittingly, therefore, I have chosen to play a character equally unfamiliar with Amber who will discover things as we go in much the same way as his player.<br /><br />The ideas enthrall me, and so the setting and likely complications of plot, character and personality were easily sold. It sounds very much like "my kind of game" in terms of likely happenings, midsets and so forth, and I have confidence in both the GM and my fellow players to make sure that labyrynthine mazes of relationships and interactions colour and cloud every possible step. It helps, too, that there may well be a (yet to be decided) second game running parallel, sharing the workload and providing much needed respite on the part of both GMs.<br /><br />So all in all, a game full with the promise of interest, one in which Byron - apparently the self-centered young second son of a noble, but really progeny of Amber - will find his path for good or ill. No doubt it will lead away from his home in Shadow, where magic is commonplace and his more mundane talents were not at all appreciated...</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-35759695310423798842008-10-12T12:35:00.005+01:002008-10-12T13:26:40.127+01:00You can tell I'm bored...Not because I'm writing something here, though there might be some truth in that, nor because my overuse of the ellipsis has extended to infect the title of every post here. No, it is because I have taken to drive-by tagging on Last FM, purely for something to do. It is not as if (for the most part) the tags I use will ever make such sense to others, or indeed that I will give them a second thought once applied - it just fills a hole with "something to do."<br /><br />Dunno why, but it made me think of <a href="http://twigzero.blogspot.com/">Stick</a>'s labeling (though my activity is lesser and devoid of the level of wit shown there...)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35732760.post-41712471839922745832008-09-06T21:01:00.002+01:002008-09-06T21:10:16.786+01:00It's 21.00 on Saturday...<div style="text-align: justify;">I'm 28, and all I feel like doing is going to bed - and there's no-one else involved (as if!). What the hell is up with that?<br /><br />I've been feeling more and more useless in the evenings for a while, utterly wiped out and uninterested in anything that might be considered fun, instead longing for bed, even in the knowledge that sleep is unlikely. Then again, if I'm out and with others, I'm happy and active until all hours - my lonely existence within my place of residence is sucking every ounce of energy. Getting out more seems the obvious answer, but over the last month or so as this home-apathy effect has multiplied, that's exactly what I have been doing happened; it all makes no sense.<br /><br />Ah well, I suppose this weekend was always going to drag after the fun had over the last two...<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01959953232858572312noreply@blogger.com0