#hope nobody minds but i want to experiment more with horror elements in art...

[themattress]

My Top 30 Favorite Video Games

Inspired by @ultraericthered’s Top 30 Favorite Anime post. 

Although I’m doing mine in countdown form, ‘cause it’s more fun that way!

30. Super Mario Bros. - Arguably the first “blockbuster” game to be released, not only does Super Mario Bros. still hold up over 35 years later but it’s a gift that keeps on giving with how many different incarnations, remixes, fan games using its assets, etc. that we have now.

29. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney - OBJECTION! While I cherish the entire original Phoenix Wright trilogy of the Ace Attorney franchise, I’ll always be the most partial to the original outing. The sheer audacity and hilarity of the concept, which is grounded by endearing characters and compelling mysteries, shines brilliantly in this little, easily accessible game. 

28. Trigger Happy Havoc: Danganronpa - While similar in many ways to Ace Attorney, Danganronpa boasts a variety of more actual gameplay than mere point-and-click text scrolling. But what really makes this stand out, beyond gameplay or even the strength of its concept, story and characters, is the atmosphere it creates. For good and for ill, traversing the pristine, neon-lit hallways of the abandoned Hopes Peak Academy looking for clues as I’m forced to play by Monokuma’s twisted rules is an experience that will stay with me forever.

27. Star Fox 64 - Beyond all the entertainment this game provides through memes, it’s really just a fun, reasonably simple but just moderately complicated enough game that’s accessible to any player even if they usually don’t go for aerial shooters. It’s also one of the earliest console games that I ever played, so of course it’s going to hold a special place in my heart.

26. Batman: Arkham City - It’s an impressive feat when an open world game can still feel so claustrophobic in all the right ways, and that’s what Arkham City accomplishes. This game is essentially The Dark Knight to Arkham Asylum’s Batman Begins, escalating the action, suspense and sheer Batman-ness, providing unlimited opportunities to enjoy yourself playing as Gotham’s defender and facing down the greatest Rogues Gallery in comic book history.

25. Red Dead Redemption - Look, I know that Red Dead Redemption 2 is technically the superior game. But its complicated story, sprawling cast of characters, and vast canvas of a world can be pretty daunting, whereas I feel like the original Red Dead Redemption struck a much better balance. Allowing open world freedom within the confines of the straight-forward story of John Marston’s redemption really makes you feel like you’re in an old Western film, and the way that choices you make as a player impact the way that film ultimately turns out is one of the strongest arguments for video games being worthy of consideration as true art.

24. The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim - So, ten years ago an open world adventure video game series releases its fifth entry...and to this day, we’ve had no sixth, in favor of expansions and updated re-releases of said fifth entry. But that’s not a sign of laziness; it’s a sign the developers know they hit such a peak in quality that they have no need to rush anything further out the gate, as Skyrim is a gift that keeps on giving. Addictive in how unlimited in possibilities it is, with each playthrough never being the same as the one before, Skyrim is a gaming masterpiece that I don’t think I’m going to get bored with playing anytime soon.

23. Super Paper Mario - This may be an unpopular opinion, but I vastly prefer this game’s action-platform-RPG hybrid gameplay style to the prior installments’ traditional turn-based RPG style, which feels more at home in stuff like Super Mario RPG and the Mario & Luigi series. But gameplay aside, I think this has the strongest story of any Mario game, trading in the usual “save the kingdom/princess” fare for saving all of reality, with legitimate emotion and drama and even character development. It’s one of the Wii’s shining gems, to be sure.

22. Epic Mickey - This game’s graphics are by and large unremarkable, its gameplay is fraught with issues (that camera is unforgivable), and it’s nowhere close to the best on its system or genre. But Epic Mickey is a case study in where the effort put into crafting the game’s world and story, not to mention the obvious love and respect for the material being worked with, pays off. Any Disney fan will love this game for its story, which puts Mickey front and center as an actual character rather than a mascot and dives deep into his history as he meets his “half-brother” Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, and its mystical, unique atmosphere - what the graphics can’t deliver, the fucking music more than makes up for. All of the game’s flaws mean nothing compared to the sheer heart on display, and I treasure it greatly as a result.

21. Batman: Arkham Asylum - I already mentioned that Arkham City is the superior game, but as was the case with Red Dead Redemption and its sequel, personal preference strikes again. The simpler story and narrower confines of Arkham Asylum just appeal to me slightly more, and I feel like the borderline horror atmosphere this game has could never fully be replicated by all of its sequels and spin-offs. Also, you can play as the Joker in this. WIN.

20. Metal Gear Solid - And on the subject of Arkham Asylum, it owes much to this game, which created the template of a lone badass hero having to use stealth and weaponry to liberate a government-owned island from the lunatic terrorists that have taken over. Hideo Kojima famously never wanted this game to have any sequels, and I can definitely see his point, as it’s a complete and wholly satisfying experience in of itself and I don’t feel like it’s ever been topped. At the very least, it’s certainly the most enjoyable of the series to me.

19. The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask - Also, speaking of “borderline horror atmosphere”, we have the freakiest game that the Legend of Zelda series ever put out. What was supposed to just be a gaiden to Ocarina of Time mutated into this beautiful monstrosity that’s become just as iconic. Nobody who plays this game is ever going to forget that fucking moon and all the constant jumping back and forth in time across three days as you try to prevent the apocalypse of Termina. It’s the kind of gaming trauma that’s well worth experiencing.

18. Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories - Like Majora’s Mask, this game is a case study where you can take a bunch of recycled assets and gameplay, and then make something unique from it if you have a well-crafted story with a dark and disturbing atmosphere. It’s hard to experience or appreciate the transition between Kingdom Hearts and Kingdom Hearts II without playing this midquel, which takes the narrative and characters to deeper levels without being pretentious about it and sets the stage for the proper console sequel perfectly. And if you can’t get into it being on Gameboy Advance, then just play the PS2 remake (which is arguably the superior version anyway) and you’re good! Just...don’t mind the cards, OK?

17. Sonic CD - And now we have another game about jumping back and forth through time to prevent an apocalypse! See the common threads at play here by this point? Sonic the Hedgehog is at his best in 2D gameplay, and I personally enjoy this the best out of all the 2D games in the series. As obscure as the Sega CD was as a system, it was powerful enough to take the blue blur’s speed to its maximum level, set alongside beautiful graphics and a kick-ass soundtrack (well, two different kick-ass soundtracks; and I actually prefer the US one). 

16. Pokemon Black & White - While there were advancements made to story and graphics and gameplay features in the third and fourth generations of the Pokemon series, nothing felt as truly ground-breaking as the second generation games until the fifth gen with its Black & White games. This was arguably the game series’ peak in quality on all fronts, but its specifically the story that lands it on this list, as its well-written and paced, subverts many formulaic elements from the previous games, is set in one of the most unique regions in the Pokemon world, and has a timeless message that has only grown more relevant with age. 

15. Super Smash Bros. Ultimate - The whole series could really go here, but fortunately the most recent entry is the perfect embodiment of said series, with every playable character there’s ever been and then some. The sheer variety is unmatched by any other fighting game out there, and its story mode, “World of Light”, is quite possibly the greatest video game crossover in history given how many characters are featured as both fighters and spirits.

14. Super Mario 64 - I’m pretty sure this game used to be higher in my favor, but replaying it on the Nintendo Switch recently has made me aware of how, as the first game on the Nintendo 64 and the first 3D platformer, it’s poorly aged in several areas. However, I must stress that it is still a very good game. The fun of going to the various worlds within paintings in Peach’s Castle hasn’t changed, nor has how smoothly and seamlessly Mario managed to make the jump from 2D to 3D. Just like Super Mario Bros., the number of games that owe something to this one is too great to count, and that’s an achievement that remains timeless.

13. Dark Chronicle - Also known as Dark Cloud 2. I hadn’t heard a damn thing about this game before renting it on a whim many years ago, and I was caught off guard by just how good it was. It’s got a simple but effective story and likable characters, a timeless atmosphere, beautifully cel-shaded graphics, dungeon-crawling gameplay, action-RPG combat gameplay, literal world-building gameplay, and even a fishing minigame! This game can actually stand besides the Zelda series without shame; it’s truly an underrated gem.

12. The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess - Oh, speaking of Zelda, this game goes full Lord of the Rings-style epic fantasy with it and it is glorious. Between the near perfect gameplay, beautiful 3D graphics, and one of the best stories in the series (with one of the best characters: Midna), Twilight Princess’ most prevalent complaint from critics all the way up to its own developers is that it wasn’t even MORE expansive and awesome given how long it was hyped, and if that’s the biggest issue with the game then I’d say it’s in pretty good shape.

11. Super Mario Galaxy - Super Mario 64 may be held back a little by how its aged, but no such thing is holding back Super Mario Galaxy. Super Mario Odyssey might be as good or possibly even better, but I just don’t hold the same feelings of amazement and respect toward it that I do for this game. From the blitzkrieg-style attack on the Mushroom Kingdom by Bowser to the discovery of Rosalina’s space station, this game had me hooked from the first few minutes, especially with it blaring that awesome orchestral score the whole way through. To this day, I maintain that this is Mario’s greatest 3D adventure. It’s simply magnificent.

10. Final Fantasy X - Ha! See what I did there? This game has caught flak for some of the awkwardness that comes from being the first fully 3D entry in the series, but I think that’s tantamount to nitpicking when compared to all it does right. To me, this was the last really good installment of the main Final Fantasy series, with a story and world so brilliantly developed that the game earned the immediate breakthrough success and acclaim that it found in its native Japan. 20 years later and, as the HD remaster has shown, it still holds up as one of the most engaging JRPG experiences I’ve ever had the pleasure of having.

9. Banjo-Kazooie - At the time, this was basically Rare’s copycat version of Super Mario 64, although considered about as good. Now, however, there’s a difference: the aging issues I mentioned for Super Mario 64 don’t apply for Banjo-Kazooie. Whether replaying it on the Nintendo 64 or on whichever Xbox you’ve got, this game is still just as fun, imaginative and hilarious now as it was back then. It’s quite possibly the greatest 3D platformer ever made.

8. Pokemon Crystal - The definitive edition of the Gold & Silver games of Pokemon’s second generation, taking what was already a phenomenal advancement and improvement to the first generation and making it even better with additional features such as the ability to play as a girl for the first time and a more clearly defined storyline centered around the legendary Pokemon featured on the game’s box art. Pokemon had been written off as just a passing fad up until this point. This was when its staying power as a video game juggernaut was proven.

7. The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild - Talk about a win right out of the gate for the Nintendo Switch! This game returns the Legend of Zelda series to its roots while also applying all that has been made possible in video games since the original game’s release, and the result is an enthralling, addictive, open world masterpiece that has set a new standard of quality for both the Zelda series and for many modern video games in general.

6. Kingdom Hearts II - The Final Mix edition to be precise, although in this day and age that’s basically the only edition people are playing anyway. This game is the apotheosis of Kingdom Hearts as both a video game series and as a concept; filled to the brim with Disney magic and Square Enix RPG expertise and paired with some of the most refined action-based gameplay there is. And when it comes to bringing the original Kingdom Hearts trilogy’s story to a close, does this game ever stick the landing. The series could have ended right here and I would have been completely satisfied (and its reputation would be a lot better off, too!)

5. Pokemon Yellow - While I maintain that this game, the definitive edition of the original first generation Pokemon games, still holds up as fun to play even now, I’ll admit that it’s pure bias that it ranks so high. It was the first proper video game I ever played, there was no way I was leaving it off the top 5! Its blissful nostalgic atmosphere is always such a delight to return to.

4. Banjo-Tooie - Remember when I said Banjo-Kazooie was “quite possibly the greatest 3D platformer ever made”? The “quite possibly” is because its in stiff competition with its own sequel! And personally, I’m in Banjo-Tooie’s corner; something about how inter-connected its worlds are and the addition of so many things to do all while maintaining your full moveset from the original game is just beautiful to me. Both it and its predecessor are like obstacle courses that I never tire of running through, which is the hallmark of brilliant game design.

3. Kingdom Hearts - Another case where the sequel may be the superior game, but my own personal preference leans toward the original. And in this case, it’s a highly personal preference: this game and my memories of playing it for the first time are so very dear to me. The characters and worlds of Disney put into an epic crossover RPG was like a dream come true for me and no matter how far the series it spawned has deteriorated, nothing can detract from the magic of this game. It’s got a certain, indescribable feel and atmosphere that’s never truly been replicated, and that feel and atmosphere still holds up whenever I revisit it. The gameplay may not be the best, particularly when compared to Kingdom Hearts II’s, but the charm of the story and the characters and the world and the very concept more than makes up for that. As far as I’m concerned, it’s one of Disney and Square’s greatest masterpieces.

2. Final Fantasy VII - I was aware of the hype this game got and was totally ready to call it overrated, but damn it, it got me! I don’t know what it is about this game with its blocky early 3D graphics, poor sound quality to its excellent soundtrack, and frequently mistranslated script that proved to be so gripping and enjoyable to play through, but man did it ever Limit Break its way into my heart. This is considered a JRPG classic for a damn good reason.

1. The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time - Do I really need to explain this one? It’s famous for being frequently cited as one of the greatest video games ever made, and like Final Fantasy VII, its hype is well-deserved and totally justified. Whether you’re playing it on the Nintendo 64, the Gamecube, the Wii, the 3DS, and hopefully the Nintendo Switch in the future, there is a magic quality to this game that permeates through every step you take in its fully 3D world. It’s a triumph that has stood the test of time, cementing the Zelda series as truly legendary.

#Video Games #Opinion #Analysis

[letterboxd]

Writer’s Block.

Shirley director Josephine Decker talks to Ella Kemp about novelist Shirley Jackson’s aspirational qualities, Elisabeth Moss’s voice, and the Pixar film that changed everything for her.

Actor, director, writer and editor Josephine Decker has done for American cinema what Alice did for Wonderland. She burst onto the landscape and turned everything inside out, tunneling further into new worlds and disrupting the rules of everyone living there.

With four features to her name so far, Decker has fast become a leading voice in independent American cinema. There was the psychological thriller Butter on the Latch (2013), the erotic fever dream Thou Wast Mild And Lovely (2014), and the hurricane of a coming-of-ager, Madeline’s Madeline (2018). Now with Shirley, Decker turns to the biopic—but this is no paint-by-numbers adaptation of someone’s Wikipedia page. The script, written by Sarah Gubbins (I Love Dick) is adapted from the novel by Susan Scarf Merrell. Some of Shirley is true, some not.

Shirley casts Elisabeth Moss as the eponymous horror author, Shirley Jackson, whose famously disturbing 1948 short story The Lottery caused a sensation when it was first published in the New Yorker. Michael Stuhlbarg appears alongside Moss as Jackson’s professor husband Stanley Edgar Hyman, with Odessa Young and Logan Lerman as Rose and Fred Nemser, academic newlyweds who come to stay in Shirley and Stanley’s gothic home for a spell, while Shirley is wrestling with how to write her (very real) second novel, Hangsaman.

These actors matter, as the first couple—the Hollywood household names—welcome the second pair—fresh-faced rising stars—into their dangerous orbit of wordy brilliance and ruthless scrutiny. The results, knotty, seductive and disorienting, are electric.

Produced by Christine Vachon and Martin Scorsese, Shirley carries hints of Decker’s background in performance art, particularly in Moss’s highly physical performance. Film nuts are still getting to grips with Decker’s singular style, but once you’re in, there’s no way of climbing back out. “Decker finds a way to embody the strange, insoluble, unnerving energy of Jackson’s prose in a film that fittingly always seems to be building to a catastrophic rupture,” writes Jake Cole.

“I am ready to declare her one of the best modern filmmakers,” writes Letterboxd member Brian Formo, while Vshefali praises how “Josephine Decker is able to paint a picture of the inside of a woman’s brain so beautifully”. It’s true: Decker is concerned with what makes us tick, but also how the mechanics of that ticking work when nobody’s looking, when everything else has moved on and all that you’re left with are your own loud thoughts.

If you’re based in the US, you can watch Shirley via our virtual screening room—we’re donating 100 percent of our proceeds to Firelight Media.

Elisabeth Moss as Shirley Jackson in ‘Shirley’.

In the adaptation from the novel, what key elements did you and Sarah Gubbins want to remain true in terms of Shirley Jackson’s story? Josephine Decker: We were just really interested in making sure these characters felt like full, rounded individuals. For Shirley and Rose, it was about how they met and entwined. We wanted to really feel their separateness and their togetherness. We spent the most time on how to allow you to really feel each of them deeply, because it’s a hard thing to have a dual-protagonist movie.

What was it about Shirley Jackson that attracted you to her? I came on after it was already scripted. The character is just so witty, and kind of cruel, and complicated and messy. I had loved Sarah’s work on I Love Dick, I thought that Kathryn Hahn’s performance was one of the great female performances of the last twenty years. She just writes such great characters, so it was exciting to be able to dive into the Shirley that she had created. Also, the real Shirley Jackson is such a complicated and fascinating person—I was and am obsessed with her writing. She does in writing a thing that I’m trying to do in cinema, so it was exciting to get to know her work that well.

What things in her work would you like to emulate? You fall from a real place into an imaginary place without really realising it. She’s very good at sliding you into the character’s mind. It’s a witchy thing that makes her writing feel really exciting, that I haven’t seen that much on screen. I feel like in American cinema there’s this clear line between reality and what’s in your mind, but I think with Shirley that line is very unclear. That’s something I love, that I really pursue in my work and get excited by.

I definitely felt that with Madeline’s Madeline as well, it all feels very slippery. Totally.

Shirley is the first feature you’ve directed from another person’s script. How was that experience? It took me a minute to get inside of the world. I’m generally pretty process-oriented, but this film was different. There’s usually a thing that happens as you’re writing, I find I’m writing as an excuse to get the words that are in my head out. So to come from words and try to see the images was a very different experience, but also really exciting. With Sarah’s writing, it was interesting how the space was so important, this house was such a major character in the film. Because it’s such a dialogue-driven script, I worked a lot with the actors in rehearsals. I guess maybe some directors would tell you what to do, and you would start, and you would do that, but I didn’t even realise that would have been an option, so I was like, “Well, we have to make the blocking together” because I was also really adamant that I didn’t want the dialogue to be static.

It was important to me to sculpt some of the dialogue scenes into movement scenes. It was fun to find the dance of the film and allow the actors to choose their own way through the dialogue. They’re all such geniuses. When we would do rehearsals with Lizzie and Michael, it was so fast, they’re so good at working things out themselves. It was just exciting to let them find their own space and then obviously weigh in when I felt like an outside eye was helpful. I feel like a lot of what I’m realising as a director is if you choose the right collaborators, it’s just about getting out of the way!

How would you describe the relationship between Shirley and Rose? It feels thorny—it reminded me of Phantom Thread in terms of the toxicity. Generally, Shirley’s own work is about these two female characters who are really different—one is a dark, misanthropic genius, but angry, and the other one is a very light-hearted open spirit who is generous and good at baking and making men happy. I think in her biography there was this idea that these two kinds of women were different aspects of Shirley’s own mind, that she was like both of them. So it was about how different Shirley and Rose are at the beginning, and then that their coming together is such a collision, but then they discover they have a lot to learn from each other and they’re more similar than they realized.

It was about making sure we could understand their motivations. Especially Rose—she could have been a lighter, less-complex character, but I think I felt really committed, and Odessa did an incredible job, to make her a really full human with her own aspirations. And in the novel too, she has her own world going on. So it’s about making sure her goals are still clear, and then that by the end of the film maybe she has new goals, or maybe she realizes that everything she’d been tidying up her life to get in order—get a husband, have a baby—are maybe a little bit at odds with the deeper thing she’s searching for. But they are really slippery characters.

Josephine Decker on the set used for the Jackson-Hyman house in ‘Shirley’.

You mentioned the importance of the house. I spoke to Kitty Green recently about The Assistant and you share the same composer, Tamar-kali, and sound designer, Leslie Shatz, on your films. Both scores are amazing; on Shirley I’m thinking of the cellos and the violins but then also the creaky floorboards in the sound design. How do you think music and sound help build this world? They’re huge tools. I always think sound design can really bring a new element, especially to a film like this where there’s a slide into a surreal realm, into the mind sometimes. So finding a sound that hints that the things you’re witnessing are a little unreal is exciting. Leslie did a lot of playing. He jokes that when we first met I told him to go to town, and then he just went to town and was like, “I hope I went to the right town!” We had a lot of fun. We tried to really use sounds that weren’t too electronic, stuff that felt like it could have been made with the sound effects that would have been available then. Sound is a huge storyteller, I think it’s more impactful than film. I also think Lizzie’s voice is a train that pushes you through the film, in that you understand where she is with the writing by how confident or how confused that voice is.

What was the first film that made you want to be a filmmaker? Monsters Inc., that one’s easy. I had a real revelation in college while watching it. I’d seen it before, it was my second time, but I just laughed like a little baby. I just have so much fun in these Pixar movies, my best friend in college was watching with me and I was giggling and sitting four feet from the television, and she was just like, “You really like this and I think you should do this and this would be a combination of everything you’ve been doing.” It was helpful to have a friend there to tell me that. I haven’t started making movies like that yet, but maybe someday. My next movie [The Sky Is Everywhere] is a YA film, so if I just keep going younger and younger…

Related content

A list of Shirley Jackson-related titles on Letterboxd.

Eve’s lists of films Written by Women and Directed by Women.

‘Shirley’ is available on Hulu and other streaming services now. With thanks to NEON.

#shirley jackson #josephine decker #madeline's madeline #female filmmaker #female director #directed by women #52 films #52 films by women #girls on tops tees #ella kemp #writers on film #novelist #new yorker #letterboxd

[quowreadspact]

Histories (Arc 3)

Twelve years doing this, and she still felt out of sorts.  It was worse, if anything.  Which was the point, she supposed.

The landscape had been sculpted.  More a painting come to life than a real place.  Every tree and stone had been strategically placed, with the whole in mind.  The placement of every branch… it was art.  Sandra could stand virtually anywhere and see how the elements complemented each other, find hidden images and decorations in the layout of things.  She had taken art classes as her electives, she knew what to look for.

But it was hollow.  The beauty was forced.

Sandra sat patiently as her goblet was overfilled.  Wine spilled out, flowing along the outside of the goblet, down the stem and onto the gold-inlaid table, where it found grooves and drew a brief image before filtering out through holes in the surface.  The candlelight, even, seemed to play off the image.  A nude woman with her back arched.  Suggestive, heavy with implication and accusation.  No doubt entirely intentional, directed purely at her.

The Faerie at the table shifted position, their expressions placid and slightly interested.  She couldn’t help but feel as though they were silently mocking her for the spill.  Which they were.

But it was a fairly important rule, that one didn’t eat or drink here.  Even if it meant being mocked, pressured from every direction.

The entire place was a kind of pressure.  She knew the techniques at play.  Get someone hungry, get them tired, get them stimulated.  Create a need and then fulfill it, to build a kind of dependence.  Cults did it.  The Faerie did it better.

There was no reprieve, in the short term or the long term.  Everywhere she looked, everything she smelled or touched was art.  Everything she heard was music to distract the attention, or were exceedingly dangerous words that demanded it.  The simple scene of a patio with wine, crackers and cheese served in the center, a short ruined wall and numerous statues was a complicated piece of machinery, where every single thing around her was working against her or working for the ambassador.

One mistake was all it took.  Being here was a horror and an honor, because of it.  She was trusted to handle matters.

She is older, but I do not know how much older. Still probably at least 15 years in the past though. The fact that she comments on how this was an honor probably means she is still pretty young. She is relying on what she has learned and not experience as well. 

She pushed the goblet to one side, and Hildr grasped it and tossed it back with one singular motion.  The goblet crunched between teeth.

One of the Faerie in attendance managed to look horrified.

Another cleared its throat, saying, “Then, if we shall sum up the first part of our bargain, Aifric, Lachtna, and Gearalt will accompany you and guarantee safe passage to you and your Hildr, guiding you out of the Faerie and into your city and your world.  There, you’ll be able to pair them up with the young ladies you described, and they’ll enjoy an adventure in mortal form.”

“So we hope,” she said.  The wind was making its way through the grove of trees, and the rustling formed almost-words, as if a slight change in direction might make sense of it all.

Had one of the Faerie given a subtle signal to the trained wind spirits to cue the distraction?  Was it meant to distract her from something?

“We’ll need confirmation,” the Faerie ambassador spoke.  “Do you agree?”

Did she?

“Let us talk about that in a moment,” she said, deflecting the promise.  “There is another subject I must raise, and it’s hard to do so in a polite way.”

“Rest assured,” the Faerie to her left told her, “Mavourneen and I are some of the least polite Faerie you’ll ever meet.”

She was all too aware.  Riordan and Mavourneen were mercenaries in the court, known for their uncharacteristically brutal natures.  If the Faerie were all playing a complicated, multilayered and interconnected game of chess, then Riordan and Mavourneen made themselves out to be knights that any side could use to make plays.  Which wasn’t to say they weren’t making plays of their own, when nobody was looking.

Oh Hildr is a joy. I want a familiar like that honestly. Multipe young ladies to pair with.. Hmmm. 

Dangerous Faeries. I do not see how Blake could possibly handle making one his familiar. 

They’d befriended her, offering her their services, which she had taken, because the wildernesses that stood between any Faerie-inhabited space tended to be dangerous, and she wanted Hildr in tip-top shape in case something happened.  She had already uncovered one planned betrayal, and she was already betting that this wasn’t only a cover-up for a deeper, more subtle betrayal that she wouldn’t uncover, but that the whole interplay with Riordan and Mavourneen and the ambassador was part of a greater scheme.  Each of the three could have practiced this play in various forms until it became second nature, and she was the latest fly to step into the web.

“My husband.  Four of his satyrs seem to have gone missing.”

“You’d like our help in locating them?”

“I’ve located them already.  I’ve been led to believe they’re in your employ, ambassador.”

“Are they?  My staff will have to answer for this.”

“I’ve heard tales that you were the one that expressed interest in it.  To have a different kind of danger lurking in the labyrinthine corridors around your tower, and a decoration at your evening parties.”

“Mad,” he said.

She sat back.  Hildr leaned forward, planting one meaty hand on either side of the surface, leaning over Sandra.

Sandra reached out to toy with one of the dangling braids and metal shackles.  “Mad indeed.”

“You asked me if you could come here, expressing good faith.  If you do violence-“

“I asked you to visit Toronto in good faith.  My husband and I didn’t expect to find ourselves missing four satyrs.”

Damn are satyrs just like slaves now, to be stolen? But yeah this is an insult that Sandra needs to address. She played them there at the end with the wordplay. Are we about to see a fight, or are they still going to talk this out? My instinct says they are still going to talk this out. 

She could see the weave of connections at play, she could pluck, pull and break connections if the situation demanded it, but some connections were false ones.  Others were bait, strands that were sticky enough she wouldn’t be able to free herself if she tampered with them.

This is really cool, just saying. 

“You act above your station,” he said.

She couldn’t help but feel she was following a script.  No doubt the Faerie ambassador had stolen people before, had played out dozens of permutations of the same scene, learning to account for all the possible variables.

She gestured, and saw the Faerie’s eyes go wide.

Hildr lifted the metal patio table, tearing it from the ground, where it had been worked into brick and tile, alternating patches of grass and flower, in a very strategic and stylized ‘ruin’ layout.

The female troll pushed the table’s edge against the ambassador’s throat, toppling him backward in his chair.  The table was held down, pinning him.  It was large enough and heavy enough that if the troll saw fit to let go, it would pass through the Faerie’s neck and likely sink a short distance into the ground.

‘Her’ mercenaries were standing, now, a distance away, hands on their weapons.  One with a sword, one with a handgun.  They seemed a little out of sorts.

“They were not yours to take,” she said.

“He had no claim to them,” the ambassador said, voice strangled.

“His god did.  Dionysus gave a contingent of his servants to my husband for looking after.  If those satyr are not returned, the god will be very upset.”

Going physical I see, but not fighting yet. Also I love how it keeps being emphasized that it is a female troll. Hmmmm. 

Not really her mercenaries then? Worried about a betrayal here? Also Diosysus is his god Confirmed. A easy prediction I suppose, but it still counts. 

“We can bargain.  I’ll pay you generously for the creatures.  My generosity is worth more than a dead god’s wrath.”

“Not dead.  Some still worship him.  My husband included.  Dionysus remains a god who can make his displeasure known.  You crossed us.  Me, my husband, my husband’s god.”

And here was the conundrum.  The tangled weave.  Killing the ambassador was easy, relatively speaking.  But even a low-ranked Faerie like this ambassador was embroiled in a thousand different schemes.  The Faerie were very invested in their houses of cards, and they felt a genuine kind of upset when they couldn’t see things through to the epic moments that had been decades in the planning.

That upset had a way of finding the individual who upset the house of cards.  Worse, it fed into what the Faerie really wanted.  A break from the pattern.

When that happened, they tended to get creative.

“Arms and legs only,” she said.  “He lives.”

“Wait!” the ambassador cried out.  “I can-“

Oh wow. To call him dead too? This faerie is pretty arrogant. I feel like it can’t be this easy. Something has to go wrong.

The Faerie are so interesting also. 

#text #histories #histories arc 3

[stories-of-undetermined-quality]

"Terrors of the Night"

I have no memories of a paradise. This world I dread, this world I fear, this realm of unspeakable horror. It baffles me that others call this paradise.

I lie awake in bed, trying to drown out the sound of my alarm clock’s urgent beeping. Ever since I was ten years old, my nights have been far more mentally taxing than my waking moments. I was told by my parents, after I experienced my first nightmare, that these dreams could be controlled. Blink, and you have an axe. Breathe, and you become a dragon. Speak, and the world obeys. I was told that it was the most glorious thing to experience, to wave a hand and reshape an entire landscape.

I was given three rules: 1. Do not expect to be able to use your powers from the world of dreams in the waking world. 2. Do not sleep for more than 8 hours at a time. 3. Do not, under any circumstance, put your own life on the line within the world of dreams.

When I asked later in life the meaning of the rules and the repercussions for breaking them, I was met with odd stares and uneasy misdirections. Nobody cared enough to question the rules. They enjoyed dreaming too much.

To shape an entire world for one’s own purpose, be it pure or putred, was the topic of conversation daily. Some friends of mine fulfilled their own lustful desires. Others made this realm into a punching bag to vent their waking woes. Others still practice creativity and hone their imagination to better perfect the art that they’ve taken as their trade.

I never understood this. I never had the control to become a dreamscaper like some claim themselves to be. Yes, I had control, but it took effort and concentration, and my subconscious mind kept me busy with other things. I could conjure weapons, or will into existence a vessel of transportation. Hell, I could manifest minor control over various elements of nature, but I had very limited control over the world of dreams beyond that. Mostly because a world was conjured for me of the darkest and most twisted imagination that I felt less sane every day and often used self-induced insomnia as a means to give myself solace from the horrors that haunted me at night.

I learned quite quickly how little sleep I needed to live, and how to function with chronic sleep deprivation. Many that I talked to didn’t understand. They were confused as to why I avoided such a paradise, and didn’t believe me when I tried to explain what I suffered every night. I eventually just dodged the subject altogether if it ever came up. That is, for a while at least. My breaking point happened on the night before my eighteenth birthday.

I allowed myself some sleep that night in an effort to actually be able to function the next day, but I learned quickly how big of a mistake that was.

I stood on a wooden raft in the middle of the dark ocean that sealocked the only continent I’ve known to exist within this realm. My instinct was to keep still. To make as little noise as possible. Should any sound other than the rising and falling of the waves and creaking of the bindings that held the raft together be heard, then my world would become hell. I knew this ocean all too well. I knew what was contained within. There was the occasional normal fauna. A school of fish, the common shark, and even a blue whale are reasonable finds within these waters. None of these were a fortunate find, however. Something that lurks within this realm seems to like to fool me into letting my guard down before twisting my surroundings into horror-filled perversions of the human imagination.

Today, the fish showed up. They circled the raft in a vortex that seemed baffling for a natural phenomenon, but this was my nightmare, and that left me uneasy. I recognized what was going on when the raft started to rotate due to the current being created by the school of thousands of fish. Focusing a great deal of my energy, I concentrated on the air around me. I sensed the static electricity around me rising, and with a flick of the wrist, a bolt of lightning struck from the grey cloudless sky and ripped through the school of fish, killing or dispersing them. The whirlpool created by the fish then sucked my raft away and I plunged into the deep. Focusing more of my energy, I enhanced my vision and modified my breathing so that I could see and breathe underwater. The swirling current made it impossible to orient myself, but I was able to spot the fin of a shark nearby. Not having many other options, I willed the shark to swim by me, and I grabbed the creature’s dorsal fin as he swam out of the whirlpool. As I did so, something sharp grazed my right arm, opening a wound and spilling a bit of my blood into the waters. This made holding on to the shark much harder as it entered a feeding frenzy. It shook violently, trying to tear at my flesh. As I began to lose the grip, I saw a whale in the distance in front of what most would mistake as a cave.

Panic gripping me, I willed as much control over the situation as I could. The blood cleared from the water and the shark stopped thrashing about, and I willed it to swim as fast as possible towards the shore. The creature’s mouth took up even more of my field of vision as the whale was swallowed whole. I closed my eyes tight, trying to will myself awake.

I sat upright, awake in bed. My heart was racing, and I was sweating profusely. Breathing heavily, I looked around my room. Everything seemed to be in place. Did it work? Was I actually awake? I shakily got out of bed and walked to the door. Beyond it was the hallway I expected. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I had more power than I thought.

I went back to bed, laying awake, staring at the ceiling. This was too much, I thought. I shouldn’t have to live in fear of falling asleep, knowing I’ll be locked in a world of horrors until my tormentor, whomever he is, decides to release me.

I decide that I need more information. Surely someone out there knows what’s going on. I reach over to my night stand to grab my phone to start doing some research.

My phone isn’t there.

The night stand melts away, as does the rest of my furniture, and the walls shift to a dark room lit by a single fixture. I sit in the middle of the room, under a spotlight, and I hear a low growl from the darkness. I begin to shake a little. As the growling seems to recede into the darkness, I brace myself for the scare. The torture. The attack. Something.

I jerked my eyes awake. Light is filtering through my bedroom window. It feels like I’m awake, but that last scare left me uncertain. I hear my mother calling from the kitchen, telling me to wake up.

I shakily get out of bed. I look out my window and see what should be there: my backyard. It felt real, and I was more certain that I had actually woken up, but there was still some doubt. I stumbled with weak knees into the kitchen. My mother saw me and looked concerned.

“Did you have another nightmare? You look pale.” she asked. I only nodded. I could barely even hear her over the sound of my own breathing and the pounding in my chest. After thinking, I realized that I probably wasn’t going to know for certain if I was awake any time soon. I had no tells. No signs to tell me this isn’t the doing of the demon that haunts me while I sleep. I finally croaked out a sentence.

“I don’t suppose you could prove that I’m awake?” I sighed.

“What do you mean, Jack?” she replied with a tinge of concern mixed with a hint disbelief.

“Nothing, nevermind.” I decided to say. My mother gave me an odd look and hesitantly returned to making breakfast. I felt exhausted, and it felt like it took all I had to remain on my feet. I wanted to sleep. So badly. But I didn’t want to close my eyes from the fear that opening them would mean more fear-fueled horror shows. With a sigh and a slight whimper, I got ready to face the day. Awake or not, I might as well hope for the best.

Since it was Saturday, assuming I was awake, I only had a couple of errands to run before I could do whatever I wanted. Again, assuming.

Looking back on that day, the errands I ran were a bit of a blur, but I do remember very specific occurrences.

The most vivid memory I have of that day was at the grocery store. As I was checking out at the cashier, I looked up to see a twisted ghoul take the place of the clerk. I blinked once, and it was gone, but it left an impression. At that point, I began to question my own sanity.

The entire day, in fact, seemed to be a foggy existence. I couldn’t think straight, and I felt like I was on autopilot. It wasn’t until I got home that my head started to clear.

“Welcome home, honey!” my mother called from the den. I heard five other voices chatting idly. One of them was my best friend, Sam. She was the only one who would listen to me without thinking, at least out loud, that I was insane. Maybe I was insane. Maybe she was insane for listening. I didn’t care.

There was a party celebrating my birthday. I had trouble appreciating it due to my mind being plagued with rampant worries and fears. I was dreading going to sleep tonight. I was dreading not getting any sleep at all. I was dreading the dark in general. My friends would ask me what was wrong, and I would dodge the question. They would persist, I would insist that I was fine. It was a system built on lies. They pretended to care, I pretended to be fine. It worked.

We had cake. I opened presents. I remember genuine appreciation for having people in my life that cared about me, or at least pretended to. The night wore on, and I’d like to say that I enjoyed myself. I don’t remember a smile, but I remember being distracted enough that I didn’t dwell on my demons.

But still, night came.

I stood in a dark, silent room. My heart was racing, and I was sweating bullets. I don’t remember how I got here. My breaths were shallow and shaky, and my body refused to stop shivering though I wasn’t even cold. The demonic wails of my deepest fears howled beyond the door, leeching on my sanity as I tried desperately to calm myself.

Crossing my arms closely against my chest, I looked to the wall opposite the door. Featureless with no windows, the wall was like everything else in this world: blank and malleable. I close my eyes for a moment, and reopen them to a glass wall overlooking a city highrise. I stood in what looked to be the thirtieth floor of one of the taller buildings in the city, and with a marvelous view of this realm. To my left was the coast: leading to a dark sea that was teeming with leviathans that could swallow entire continents. To my right were the wastes: where misshapen titans stomped around, moaning with every breath and driving the listener mad. The howls came from beyond the wall as well as from behind the door now, and I saw the streets were like pulsing tides of horrors I had no name for, and the height I was at made me feel weak.

I’ve heard rumors about death in this world. They say that it kills a part of you in the conscious world. Or that you cease to be able to experience this world. Most couldn’t understand the terrors I faced every night here and were concerned as to why I would think of offing myself within. But they didn’t know. How could they? They were blind to my suffering.

With a deep breath, I placed a shaking hand against the glass, and it dislodged from the wall and fell away, crashing seconds later to the streets with a sickening sound that I wished to never hear again. The sounds grew in volume, and the smell returned. The smell alone almost pushed me from the edge, but I was determined to end it. Without a second thought, I leaned into the fall with closed eyes, letting the breeze on my face and whistling of the wind be my last experience here. I felt a sharp pain, then nothing, and then I gasped, awake in my own bed. I looked at my alarm clock: it read 2:30 AM. I sighed.

Maybe I can actually rest for once.

I had a dreamless sleep that night. I remember drifting off and then suddenly being woken up by the light drifting into my bedroom through the window. I remember a smile creeping across my face as I woke up.

I had an average day that day. I went to work, and nothing eventful happened. I rejoiced in the blandness of that day.

I saw Sam on that day. She noticed that I was unusually happy, and asked what had happened. I explained that I ended my dreams forever. I expected her to be happy for me.

She wasn’t.

“What do you mean you killed yourself in your dreams?! Didn’t your parents tell you never to do that?” she asked. I was confused.

“What was I supposed to do? You of all people would have understood what I’ve been going through.”

“There’s a reason they tell you not to, Jack.” Sam said. I remember asking her to elaborate, but she wouldn’t. That was the last time we talked, but at the time I didn’t realize. I was too high on my own relief and happiness. When I went to bed that night, I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face.

I wasn’t even bothered by the figure standing over me when I closed my eyes.

#horror #suicide #story #fiction #prose #dark #dreams #lucid dreaming #death

[tinymixtapes]

Feature: SONICA 2018

Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, is a strange place. --- Monday: Cankarjev Dom Empty halls always give off that unintentionally eerie feeling that nobody should belong there. That their purpose is outside the purview of the humans that built them. The more cavernous they are, the more you get this feeling. Cankarjev Dom, or Cankar Centre/Hall, is an example of this. It is fascinating that this, the largest exhibition hall in Slovenia, would be the opening venue of SONICA Festival. The festival didn’t even use the main spaces of the hall, but rather a smaller stage — Kosovelova dvorana, or Kosovel Hall — located in the lower basement of the building. It only amplified that smallness. Friday: ROG Factory After concluding the night’s activities at Cankarjev Dom, I went to an abandoned factory just a little east along the Ljubljanica River for a club night. Upon entry, it felt like I entered a Berlin joint, complete with a blasted-out concrete space for where people could stand, a makeshift bar, and lots of smoking. Alleged Witches, a local house DJ, opened with a two-and-a-half hour set that was of acceptable techno with sparks of ambient. Actress followed with techno, too, though with sprinkles of his established sound. After watching for a legally-mandated 15 minutes, I left, returned here, and wrote these words. Lee Gamble is playing in a bit, but that’s at 3 AM. That’s something I would’ve done 5 years ago, maybe even 3 years ago, but that ain’t me now. Wednesday: +MSUM Tomoko Sauvage (Photo: Lana Špiler) Entering the Museum of Contemporary Art, also known as +MSUM, was a bit disjointed, if only because the doors look like wing tips. Still, walking in, I noticed the crowd gathering around this one gallery space. It’s always good to have that. Just that bit of overfill to show that people are genuinely interested in what you have to offer. Tomoko Sauvage was the key act of the night. The Japanese artist primarily performed using a piezo-based mic setup, two bowls filled with water, among other stuff. I’ve always had a certain fondness for piezo-based surface recordings, especially because we can’t often hear these vibrations, even if we can feel them. Sauvage resorted to sound manipulation that worked effectively for the materials she was using, creating a unique environment from within the space that makes it more appealing to the listener. You sort of drift into and out of the space without ever moving. That takes a certain level of sophistry in your craft, and I look forward to more of Sauvage’s work. --- Even the name is strange. Lyub-li-ahn-a. Those j’s are weird. Majbe thej form a conspiracj (yes, you pronounce it like y). I guess that’s why the locals just use the pronunciation “Loub-li-ahn-a.” Alas. It is by no means exotic. Many elements of the city I felt a compelling connection to past American and European cities I’ve managed to stumble my way into the last 10 years: Köln, Berlin, Santa Fe, Detroit… Chicago. Its smallness stirs memories of Providence, an emblem of my childhood I have not set foot in for longer. --- Saturday: Klub CD Sometimes, an earnest moment changes everything. I don’t know where I was, or, rather, where my head was, while at Klub CD, the rooftop restaurant and hall of Cankarjev Dom. Performing in front of me was William Basinski. He’s an odd sort: Despite being this avant-garde figure, he had the look, disposition, and dress of a rock star. He joked about wanting to catch the prior night’s club activity. But perhaps that was the point: His piece, A Shadow in Time, was designed as, in his words, “a funeral mass” and “calling home” to David Bowie, the epitome of cool. Perhaps fitting given it was he who refused the rites of burial and all that remains of him scattered in particles to the winds around Bali. Thursday: Kino Šiška Lifecutter (Photo: Lana Špiler) The oldest cinema in Ljubljana, the space has been converted into a concert hall on the lower levels. The structure reminds me of multiple cavernous concert halls I’ve descended into throughout my life, though it feels more in shape like an actual music venue than the various rectangular configurations of previous experience. The act first noted on the bill is a Slovene artist by the name of Lifecutter, who immediately gave off an imposing, spooky vibe appropriate for fall with his dithering samples and incongruent rhythms. That set the mood for the first 15 minutes of the set, building up a dark tension in the room. Had he cut off his set at 20, 25 minutes, it would’ve been a solid performance. But it lasted 45 minutes. The latter half of the set was filled with familiar techno and house patterns, grooves that ultimately did little to inspire the imagination. It roused the crowd into dancing, certainly, but I kept wanting him to go back to what he was doing at the beginning of his set. He did ultimately return there in the closing minutes, but by then, the impact was measurable. Monday: Cankarjev Dom The opening act of SONICA 2018 was Tristan Perich, of renowned One-Bit Symphony fame. Utilizing a single synth, he did a buildup of multiple looping patterns that in theory should allow the listener to drift in and out. But it felt similar after a while, as if he were running through the motions of what a synth set should sound like. There was hope that it would build up to something, but it didn’t go where I would’ve expected. Thursday: Moderna Gallerija Below are notes taken verbatim from an occurrence on Thursday at Moderna Gallerija, the Museum of Modern Art, near Tivoli Park. No context given. Use your imagination. * #3: Hunch! * #2: Hey, someone I can relate to * #4: Speaks better than #1 * #5: Has a pulse to the ground * #1: Unsure about what they’re saying * #6: Ljubljana needs less techno * #8: Jazz is bad jazz is bad * #7: A key to… all over the place? * #9: Those are certainly four words Friday: Cankarjev Dom The headline act was a new piece called Sacred Horror in Design by Iranian musician Sote with German visual artist Tarik Barri and a couple of Iranian partners. The structure of this long, winding set piece at first harkens to the emotional minimalism of Jerusalem in My Heart. But it’s not that simple, really. There is a pain, a sadness that circulates and shifts throughout the piece, whether in the background imagery or when the traditional Iranian instrumentation is distorted through various effects. It’s something that you can feel there. Even the moments where fear is meant to be invoked, it comes through as anguish. The tapestry brought about by Barri’s visuals served as an assertive complement to Sote’s composition. Whether through simple tears or bleeds that cut through the imagery or invocations of Persian-Islamic culture, the melancholy that is powering this piece shows. Saturday: Mestni park Tivoli Marco Barotti’s Swans (Photo: Lana Špiler) While wandering through Tivoli Park looking for ducks, I accidentally stumbled upon Marco Barotti’s sound installation, Swans, overlooking the pond. I stood there for a few moments, trying to make sense of the tiny spectacle, but it felt strangely monotonous. I moved on to find a small number of ducks in the pond and an old man struggling to feed them (only to be thwarted by pigeons). Wednesday: +MSUM Following Sauvage was a DJ set by James Ginzburg. For the most part, the crowd just ignored him and either stood around, ate at the little cantina next to the gallery, or smoked outside. Perhaps it was for the best: the set felt like second-hand James Ferraro or OPN with a side of Deafheaven. --- Instead, its strangeness comes from a calmness about it that accepts its minor absurdities. The prevalence of graffiti everywhere with little more than a shrug. A goofy meme referencing a short film when a new train opens to Italy. An anecdote of a taxi driver nonchalantly taking a tourist around the city as riots were occurring. Photo: Ze Pequeno This isn’t bad, mind you. It grants the opportunity to question things. --- Friday: Pritlicje In which a thing may have happened (among others). Thursday: Kino Šiška Giant Swan (Photo: Lana Špiler) To close the night, Giant Swan took to the stage… and then one of them immediately jumped off it. Taking an aggressive stance with the crowd, a drum & bass set soon followed. The setup they had was definitely one you would find among anyone who came from Brighton or Bristol. The energy they injected into their set certainly merited a comparison to Fuck Buttons, and unlike my previous experience with a live set of the latter, the crowd actually got into it. Much credit to that, a rarity in such settings. I just wish I could feel the same about the music. While I was hoping for the bombastic energy and tension-building that I’ve seen many a good Brighton and Bristol act pull off, what I got was the other type of music I hear from those cites: Meandering repetitions that never quite get out of their groove. I failed to understand their appeal, but at least the crowd was happy about it. Make of that what you will. Saturday: Klub CD The work was eerily reminiscent of the works of both The Caretaker or (especially) Tape Loop Orchestra. The first act, which Basinski claimed was comparable to a New Orleans-style funeral march, brought about a different angle. It wasn’t really a body going home. It was the body, the self going home, turning inward in ways that one couldn’t anticipate. Perhaps that is what looking at things in retrospect does to you. Understanding the purpose, the meaning of things that have come before. Many laid down to understand what was happening to them. Others, like myself, observed both outward and inward what was happening. A forgotten sadness encroaches. Photo: Ze Pequeno Monday: Cankarjev Dom The second act was Yair Elazar Glotman and Mats Erlandsson, who played a selection from last year’s joint effort, Negative Chambers. Joining them were local musicians Katarina Kozjek, Anastazija Krenn, and Žiga Murko. Now this was something. While Perich attempted to demonstrate something resembling intensity, Glotman and Erlandsson, et al. were intensity. The pull into the ethereal immediately brought to mind the works of Motion Sickness From Time Travel and the like, as well as the modest drawing that creates a sensation of envelopment yet isn’t overwhelming. You’re in a strange setting in these situations because of it. And yet… it felt right. It was something that could set the tone for the festival. Friday: Cankarjev Dom Container Doxa (Photo: Lana Špiler) “The situation remains excellent.” Container Doxa would conclude the night at Linhart Hall. Of the Slovene acts that played throughout the festival, they were the most interesting. They opened the piece with an empty stage, while the members stood in the crowd, imitating birdsong. One by one, the group assembled and delivered a performance as fragmented as their arrival. The bouncing of instrumentation played off of each other very effectively, while an arresting visual display stood at their backs, with Tine Grgurevic reading through a mechanical treatise that played off like a sinister lecture. As some would remark, there are limits to futurism. Container Doxa’s piece hinted at these limitations in terms of the piece. It showed how it’s so hard to walk the line between the pristine cosmopolitanism of futurology and dystopia… and how we lean hard toward the latter than the former these days. --- The 10th running of SONICA Festival in Ljubljana, operated by the Museum of Transitory Art, focuses on the matter of “sensitivity,” and whether it is necessary to oblige to it anymore. The context of our times certainly gives us reason to ask this question. Of course, many here would be uncomfortable to even consider it. SONICA graciously invited Tiny Mix Tapes to attend and to become part of their talks. In turn, I, on my own 10th anniversary of writing for TMT, have been sent to cover… and to talk. I will avoid the trappings of nostalgia tripping as much as I can, though I probably already screwed up in making note of prior cities. Oh well. Not the worst thing that can happen in a festival review. --- Tuesday: Ni v Sloveniji/non in Slovenia É engraçado. Falou esloveno mais bem de italiano. Porque é…? Meh. Culpo Portugal. Thursday: Kino Šiška Aïsha Devi (Photo: Lana Špiler) The headliner of the night was Aïsha Devi. It is worth noting her purpose here at this point: She is representative of the potential not of electronic music (that in and of itself is a different matter), but of SHAPE, the European Union’s attempt at creating a centralized platform for artist development throughout its member states (disclosure: TMT is a SHAPE media partner). While many of the acts this week are connected to SHAPE in some capacity, either as active members or alumni, Devi represents one of its bigger success stories, making a significant impact on the electronic music scene. So it makes some sense to have her around, especially with a new album to tout. Her set at Kino Šiška was a dichotomy of sorts. On the one hand, her music remained the same: A miasmic hodgepodge of dissonance with some foundations of brilliance that screamed missed opportunity. On the other hand, her performance actually worked to her favor, with her jumpy mannerisms and distorted movements working up the crowd. Friday: Cankarjev Dom The return to Cankarjev Dom would also come with an upgrade. In lieu of Monday’s visit to Kosovel Hall, SONICA booked Linhartova dvorana/Linhart Hall, a vast concert stage that was almost certainly double in capacity. It felt like a true concert hall in scope, compared to Kosovel’s lecture-like space. To open the night, Canadian artists Jason Sharpe and Adam Basanta took to the stage in an intense barrage of sound. The post-rock narrative worked to their advantage in this situation, built on call and response between Sharpe’s instrumentation and Basanta’s looping. It’s worth noting the prior descriptions of the concert hall fit well here. Acoustics in a venue tend not to matter as much in electricified music, since the sound is already partially shaped and adjustable. However, in acts such as Sharpe’s and Basanta’s, where a greater emphasis is placed on sound design and manipulation, the acoustics start to matter a lot more. Which is to say that Linhart Hall played as much a role in turning the duo’s sound into its own thing as the effects on display. Saturday: Klub CD As the music shifted to act #2, which was intended as a transmission to the spirit of Ziggy Stardust, of Starman, of the Thin White Duke, and of all his other iterations, the mood changed. There was little chatter in the crowd. People were just drifting. And in that moment, everything felt strangely earnest. There was an inexplicable sincerity projected by Basinski’s music, even as he remained decked out in glam rock attire. It made me think about not just what I was doing in Ljubljana, but also what I have been doing generally. Sometimes you get the clarity you look for in unexpected places. As the loops weaved through and about, I felt an urge to question my actions and roles as a Writer of MusicTM and supporter of the Chicago DIY scene, as well as a passive supporter of DIY scenes everywhere else. Have I done enough? Have I put in enough effort to truly help communities move forward? Has my own hesitance at being a social person, and the insufferability that has permeated much of the social internet, created an unnecessary crutch to prevent me from doing more and actually be a helpful person? These are weird questions to ask in the middle of an ambient performance. But perhaps this was the only time I could really think about anything beyond the scope of this report, really. And perhaps it was necessary. The priorities had changed. http://j.mp/2C3YUhs

[thelifeofascholar-blog1]

In which the Scholar Detests a Beverage

(Artwork: Juxtaposition of Burgundy and Mahogany, or the Death of Reason. Acrylic on canvas. © The Scholar, Jan 2017)

It is the lamentable fate of all as educated as I am, however few may fit that description, to grow weary of worldly pastimes. My colleagues at the position I held prior to my current sabbatical met weekly for an hour of squash, and invited me to join them, but within the first outing I was left firmly in the doldrums. Upon my recommendation that we leave the game behind in favor of some less Neanderthal pursuit, they resisted like the hacks I knew them to be. Certainly, expending one’s precious caloric energy on endeavors not conducive to the betterment of the mental self is tantamount to idiocy, and the onus is upon me to shine as an example to the idiots that surround me, even those that appropriate the appellation of ‘academic’. Of course I cannot waste even a second upon trivialities like physical recreation or exercise, except for that minimum necessitated by man’s evolutionary incompatibility with the sedentary lifestyle.

I rather prefer to spend my leisure time, of which I have overly much, on the continual development of expertise. I have long since mastered my original field of study, that of comparative literature, and I have grown so weary with it that I dare not discuss it further for fear of fatally yawning. Since then I have attained varying competencies in harpsichord performance, post-impressionism, cartography, gastronomy, astronomy, metaphysics, geophysics, geodes, haberdashing, marshmallows, and checkers, to name just a few. But not all fields are worthy of my time, a fact that, sadly, I may only discover after having wasted precious hours thereon.

Take, for example, oenology, or the study of wine, as it is known to the etymologically challenged. Many would have you believe that the field is a time-honored pursuit steeped in tradition and culture, but these deceivers omit the central truth of the matter: the only culture to be found in winebibbery is the culture of toxigenic yeast in each barrel of decay, and the only tradition is hedonism. The venom of the vine usurps its post as a reverenced libation by literally controlling the minds of its imbibers. Having a mind as singular as my own, I cannot risk the integrity nor the vitality thereof by joining into the cursed bacchanalia, no matter how ubiquitous it may seem.

In case you doubt my authority on the matter, I do not speak purely from conjecture when I denounce the consumption of fermented grape essence. Indeed, in my younger, more impressionable formative years (which were, owing to slings of outrageous fortune suffered by my dear old mother, a time of parsimony and want), I regarded wine as the hallmark of high society. I never considered myself worthy of partaking until the day I attained my doctoral honors, and with the degree, the promise of an adjunct professorship. The graduation itself was a lonesome one; Mother hadn’t the funds to travel to Paris, and besides, I suspect Father was too busy banging wrenches into pipes or some other such nonsense. I had given no time to the forging of friendships during my studies, for what self-respecting literary comparativist associates with adherents to the postwar American school—but I must stop myself before boredom takes me.

Suffice to say, I was alone that evening, and I thought, “Methinks no occasion more worthy than this could be.” A street-side café stood just down the rue from the university; I had passed by the place for years, and now thought to symbolically punctuate my presence in Paris by stopping there on my last night for a fine glass of Merlot. I entered the café still in my doctoral regalia, robe, hood, mortarboard, and all. I ordered the wine in English, having never mastered the French tongue, not for lack of ability but for lack of interest in learning the language of the world’s rudest culture. After stumbling over my order more than any person should while employed to take orders, the barkeep poured the glass and placed it upon the counter before me.

The trauma that followed, dear reader, I can hardly express. While the prospect of crossing the barrier into high culture excited me in unspeakable ways, I had a jarring sense of alarm. I couldn’t initially identify the source of my subconscious concern, but I raised the glass with caution. As it came within inches of my lips, my apprehension coalesced and became all-out horror: it was the smell of the stuff. I had smelled it before, not in a café in Paris, nor at a high-class dinner, nor at a wedding or reception. It was the smell of that ghastly American pastime of football, the smell of my father and his cadre of ignorami on the annual night of that infamous superlative Bowl. The odors were not identical, but there was that same caustic suffocation, like a cloud of poison and acquiescence and dreams deprived. My vision blurred; my hands shook; my balance faltered; I heard a crash that I failed to realize at the time was myself tumbling to the floor. I awoke to the barkeep and another café patron standing over me. There was a bruise on my shoulder where it struck the ground, and a deep red stain on my doctoral hood where the glass struck me. I now carried that odor in my very clothes, which I could not shed due to a lack of appropriate foresight in dressing myself that morning. It was, perhaps, my moment of second greatest ignominy, and the pain was amplified by a rather circuitous argument with the barkeep over the price of the wine and the broken glass. The only good that came of the experience was the appreciation I developed that night for a good hot evening bath.

On the subsequent flight back to America, I sat in quiet and mournful rumination. High culture, it seemed, was not the golden palace in which I had hoped to reside; rather, it was (to my then naïve eyes) a façade, a whited sepulcher, an unsweetened rainbow. I alternated in my mind between rejecting it outright and fearing that perhaps (perish the thought!) I was not worthy of it. I reasoned, however, (and I reason exceptionally well) that a truly cultured individual is no less cultured whilst wearing a t-shirt, and a simpleton is no less simple whilst imbibing of the most expensive wine. It was clear to me: I could be better than the dilettantes. I could partake of the yet unsullied elements of high society, yet remain unseduced by its intoxicant of choice.

Nevertheless, the draw of the vile nectar is strong, even to one with my will. In the years following our first encounter, my guard against the stuff gradually began to fall. It was difficult to think ill of the beverage when even the colleagues I most admired served it at their social engagements. (I add, out of necessity, that I use the term “admire” rather loosely in this context; precious few have earned the honor of my true admiration, and none were colleagues. The best I had for the latter was a comparatively mild distaste.) In time, and across too many forced appearances at the receptions and soirees of those who would desire my friendship, I grew accustomed to the wafting musk of the alcohol, even observing that it contained a note of sophistication absent from my father’s barley rot. Little by little, my resolve weakened.

Thus when I happened upon an invitation to a wine-tasting a year ago, I chose to lay my curiosity to rest. I regretted not having more time to study the art of the sommelier before the event; my colleagues, in a characteristic lapse of social graces, had forgotten to invite me directly, and I only found out a day prior. As it happened, I only had time to develop a cursory understanding of the distinctions of regional provenance and grape variety, canonical meal pairings, serving temperatures, and historical origins of several common varieties. I nearly balked for fear of being labeled a Joe Sixpack; what if I couldn’t distinguish a Pinot Noir from a Sangiovese? Steeling myself against these fears, however, I reasoned that the doltish rabble I expected to see there would do no better.

My manservant, Chip, drove me to the event. He, being more experienced than myself in the consumption of alcohol (indeed, more experienced than any person not lacking in moral integrity could be), offered to accompany me. I turned him away, however, reminding him that the event was for the sipping of wine, not guzzling. He pressed, but I insisted, and away he reluctantly went, with instructions to retrieve me in one hour’s time.

The event was outdoors, and upon seeing how it was arrayed, I could tell that my fears were unfounded. My colleagues and the other unknown and unworthy of being known attendants were grossly underdressed for the occasion, wearing no more than slacks and button-down shirts with loafers. They might have been more at home in a common pornographic theater. I stood in stark and wonderful contrast in my tailed tuxedo under the afternoon sun, and all stared at me in veneration. The wine itself sat in glasses upon several tables in a gazebo, the glasses in an arrangement apparently calculated to drive the obsessive-compulsive to insanity. So emboldened was I by the miscalculated informality of the tasting, however, that I did not even point out the flawed glass arrangement to the help. Instead, I simply approached a glass of red, removed a white glove, and asked, “Mightn’t I?”

Nobody responded, I suppose because the servers were currently pouring glasses at the other end of the gazebo. I availed myself and drew up the glass. Hesitation momentarily paralyzed me, as my mind returned to Paris and that cursed glass of Merlot, but I overcame it by recalling the tasting process.

The first step was to note the color. Well, it was red. I was sure the nuances would come with practice. Next, I swirled the wine. I sought the legs, the streaks on the side of the glass of which I had read, but saw nothing. Perhaps I had missed them, or perhaps not. Again, I supposed expertise would come with practice. Following that was the step I most feared: sniffing the bouquet. It was this, though at that time inadvertently, that had floored me so many years ago. I raised the glass to my nose with the utmost caution and wafted with my other, still begloved hand. Again, the distinctive image of Father invaded my thoughts, with a bottle in hand, jovially lobbing his opinions at the remedial hulks throwing balls at each on a television screen. This time, however, I retained my consciousness. I attempted to sense anything else in the odor, and failing, saw my intact equilibrium as progress enough.

Finally, it was time to sip. After examining the red potable for a moment longer, I took a long breath and placed the glass to my lips. Horror of horrors! I can scarcely name a sensation more revolting than what I felt the moment that abhorrent fluid touched my tongue. Before my mind could process what I had just done, I felt a spasm begin in my netherest regions, traveling, rippling through my torso into my throat. The vomit came suddenly and quickly, overfilling my wine glass with half-digested truffles and oat cereal. Where there had been subdued chatter from the tasting participants and provisioners of the poison, there was now only the wind and the occasional birdsong. All looked upon me as before, but now I saw only shock and disgust in their eyes. Prematurely expelled foodstuffs ran down my sleeve, coating my shirt cuffs and the arm of my tuxedo jacket. I felt I had to say something, and I feebly attempted to appeal to my normally rapier wit. “What’s all the fuss with this wine about?”

And only then, with glass full of and arm covered with the contents of my stomach, as I processed the words I had just said, did I realize an even greater error. I had ended a sentence with a preposition! It was, perhaps, my moment of greatest ignominy.

I cannot to this day describe in detail the flavor of the filth that had provoked the violent reaction heretofore laid out. Clearly, the intoxication from even that first sip had impaired my faculties, preventing long term memory retention and turning me into a dithering blunderpot. I simply recall it as a moment of horror, of paralysis, of irretrievable discomfiture. After revealing my diet and committing that fatal grammatical error, I couldn’t face the mocking stares. As servers cleared away the other wine glasses caught in the bilious overspray, I took my leave from the dismal festivities and waited in mirthless contemplation for Chip’s return. As I had not the pecuniary luxury of affording a cellular device, I paged him every several minutes, but he forced me to stand for the full hour term I had originally requested.

When he finally arrived, I upbraided him severely for his delay and forbade him from speaking on the way home. I gazed out of the window in lamentation over the events of the day. The pretenders to enlightenment were still visible in the gazebo, having a debaucherous time. They held up their glasses to a toast while I pondered on how mankind could have arrived at such a sorry state, when what glitters may very well may be gilded excrement. I shed a tear for the state of affairs. I shed a tear for my own damaged psyche. I shed a tear for each culturally lost soul at the tasting as the gazebo vanished behind a wall of trees. “The poor fools,” I said. I then wiped away my tears and looked forward to the bath that awaited me at home.

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