No patience, or, this corpse is getting old.

Tonight I strolled down the street to see Adam Warrock, one of my favorite rappers. I went early enough to hear all of the three opening acts, 1.5 of which I enjoyed. What I didn't enjoy was the blathering of audience members that, in one way or another, could have been me ten to twelve years ago. I'm getting old, and bored of pretty much anything that isn't heavy metal-, literature-, or 16th century-related*. My pull list at the comic shop is halved every six months; I want to play D&D, but potential players are few and far between; being told that title X (be it a comic or game) is an awesome reiteration of something already well-established is not enough for me to spent time and money on it.

I guess I'm sick of so-called nerd culture, which in some ways resembles someone patting themselves on the back while furiously jerking off. My own interests could, and not inaccurately, be described as equally solipsistic and meaningless, and I'm cool with that. I just- I don't know. The constant appeal to the media one ingests, and the reaction thereto, seems hollow. "I like X, therefore Y", wherein X is a particular media product, and Y signifies practically nothing.

Whatever. I'm super-tired and not really fit to be picking apart media habits. Corpse out.

微臣
史大偉

*Which isn't accurate at all.

李寄斬蛇 / Li Ji Beheads the Serpent

 After seemingly endless chapters of 孟子/Mencius admonishing various rulers, I was pleased to discover that the most recent lesson in my classical Chinese textbook was an actual story. Here's the tale of Li Ji and my translation thereof. It's full of shitty traditional Chinese attitudes toward women, but if it's any consolation, there's a giant demon-snake, too.

I've made a few notes below to explain or comment upon some of the more blatantly obscure references, most (if not all) of which I didn't understand. Explanations are courtesy of Paul Rouzer, whose textbook I've been using and cannot recommend enough.

Enjoy!

微臣
史大偉



****

李寄斬蛇

東越閔中有庸嶺，高數十里。其西北隰中有大蛇，長七八丈，大十餘圍。土俗常懼，東冶都尉及屬城長吏，多有死者。祭以牛羊，故不得福。或與人夢，或下諭巫祝，欲得啗童女年十二三者。都尉令長，並共患之；然氣厲不息。共請求人家生婢子，兼有罪家女養之。至八月朝祭，送蛇穴口；蛇出，吞嚙之。累年如此，已用九女。爾時預復募索，未得其女。將樂縣李誕，家有六女，無男，其小女名寄，應募欲行，父母不聽。寄曰：「父母無相，惟生六女，無有一男，雖有如無。女無緹縈濟父母之功，既不能供養，徙費衣食，生無所益，不如早死。賣寄之身，可得少錢，以供父母，豈不善耶？」父母慈憐，終不聽去。寄自潛行，不可禁止。寄乃告請好劍及咋蛇犬。至八月朝，便詣廟中坐。懷劍，將犬。先將數石米餈，用蜜麨灌之，以置穴口。蛇便出，頭大如囷，目如二尺鏡。聞餈香氣，先啗食之。寄便放犬，犬就嚙咋，寄從後斫得數創。瘡痛急，蛇因踴出，至庭而死。寄入視穴，得九女髑髏，舉出，咤言曰：「汝曹怯弱，為蛇所食，甚可哀愍！」於是寄女緩步而歸。越王聞之，聘寄女為后，拜其父為將樂令，母及姊皆有賞賜。自是東冶無復妖邪之物。其歌謠至今存焉。

In the Min region of eastern Yue* are the Yong mountains, which are three miles high. In a crevice to the northwest which lives a giant serpent some seventy to eight feet in length and a hundred feet in circumference. Locals had always feared it, and it had killed the military commander of Dongye, as well as several high-ranking officials. Cattle and sheep were sacrificed to the serpent in the hope of receiving good fortune, but never to any avail. Sometimes the serpent would give men dreams; sometimes it would come down and inform wizards and priests that it wanted to eat virgin girls of twelve or thirteen. Magistrates and military officers all suffered from the serpent's poisonous aura.** The authorities sought out maidservants born into households*** and the daughters of criminals, and on the first day of the eighth month escorted them to the mouth of the serpent's cave. The giant snake emerged, chewed the girls up, and swallowed them.

Years passed in this manner, until nine virgins had been sacrificed. At this point in time the authorities searched for more virgins, but none were found until they came to Jiangle county. There, in the household of Li Dan, were six girls, but no boys. The youngest girl, named Ji, said that she would go and be sacrificed, but her father would not hear of it.

"Father and mother," Ji said, "you are without fortune. You have had six daughters and not a single boy; it is as if you haven't had children at all. I am not a daughter like Tiying, whose achievements rescued her parents. Since I cannot support you, and only waste clothing and food, there is no benefit to be had from my life- it would be better to die young. If by selling myself I make a few coppers to support my parents, how would that not be virtuous?"

But her parents, who loved Ji, still would not allow her to go. Ji could not be stopped, and secretly left on her own. She asked the authorities for a fine sword and a snake-biting dog. On the first day of the eighth month she visited the temple, where she sat with her sword against her chest and her dog by her side. She took several pecks of rice balls mixed with honey and roasted barley flour and placed them at the mouth of the serpent's cave. Catching the scent of the rice balls, the serpent- its head as large as a grain bin**** and its eyes like mirrors a foot across- promptly came out and ate them. Ji unleashed her dog, and it tore into the serpent as Ji dealt it several sword-blows. Severely wounded and in pain, the serpent leapt away and fled back into its cave*****, where it died.

Ji entered the cave and found the skulls of the nine virgins, which she picked up and took outside. "Because you were scared, weak things, you were eaten by the serpent. I pity you!" she scolded. Then Ji walked home at a leisurely pace.

When the king of Yue heard this, he wed Ji and made her his principal consort, appointed her father an official of Jiangle county, and handsomely rewarded her mother and sisters. Since then there have been no monsters in Dongye, and to this day the ballad of Li Ji is still sung.

 ***

(A note on the title: my original source just refers to it as 李寄, but online I found 李寄斬蛇, which explains what Li Ji did- even if the extended title is still misleading, since there's no beheading going on.)

*Present-day Fujian, which is still poetically known as Min.

**Rouzer says that the serpent has been killing people indirectly by exuding some kind of noxious fog, but as I was typing up my translation the line I use above came to me, and I liked it.

***I take this to mean "girls born into household slavery."

****Given how big this snake is, this grain bin sounds more like a damned silo- which is more in line with the modern use of 囷, but I went with Rouzer's interpretation.

*****The character used, 庭, means "main hall" or "courtyard", neither of which makes sense to me w/r/t caves, but I took it to mean that the serpent, which was outside when it was gorging on rice balls and getting its ass beat, returned from whence it came.

RIP Craig Ruggles

My friend Craig Ruggles died Sunday.

Nothing can prepare you for the death of a friend. You might, like me, think yourself a Leto II pre-sandworm/pre-precocious asshole, but it takes very few genetic errors to prove you wrong, and there's no accounting for others' genetics, which is what felled Craig.

I met Craig during the 2011 UH study abroad trip.

I thought I could write something about his sudden passing, but I can't right now. I'm sorry; I'm useless as ever, but I'll try again later.

Camilo Pessanha's "Tatuagens complicadas do meu peito:"

As I mentioned in my last post, I've been learning a little Portuguese, mainly so I can read things related to Macau. While doing just that- though I confess I can't remember if I first read it in English or Portuguese, though I think it was the latter- I learned about Camilo Pessanha, who spent most of his life in Macau. A poet, lawyer, teacher, and opium addict, Pessanha influenced Fernando Pessoa, had a great beard, and translated some things from Chinese into Portuguese. He died in 1926.

I haven't found any of Pessanha's poetry available in English anywhere, which is a shame, but it works out well for me as it forces me to read it in Portuguese. I've tried my hand at translating one of the sonnets from Clepsidra, the only volume of his poetry published in Pessanha's lifetime. I doubt I'm doing him justice, but so it goes. The English translation follows the Portuguese original (the spelling of which differs from the scanned version of the original book-- Portuguese orthography has changed over the years). Enjoy.

***

Tatuagens complicadas do meu peito:
-- Troféus, emblemas, dois leões alados...
Mais, entre corações engrinaldados,
Um enorme, soberbo, amor-perfeito...

E o meu brasão... Tem de oiro, num quartel
Vermelho, um lis; tem no outro uma donzela,
Em campo azul, de prata o corpo, aquela
Que é no meu braço como que um broquel.

Timbre: rompante, a megalomania...
Divisa: um ai, — que insiste noite e dia
Lembrando ruínas, sepulturas rasas...

Entre castelos serpes batalhantes,
E águias de negro, desfraldando as asas,
Que realça de oiro um colar de besantes!


***

Complicated tattoos on my chest:
—Trophies, emblems, two winged lions...
And, between garlanded hearts,
A huge, magnificent wild pansy.

And my coat of arms... of gold, on a
red quarter, a lily; on the other a maiden,
on a blue field, her body of silver, there
on my arm like a buckler.

My crest: megalomania rampant...
My motto: a sigh — that insists night and day upon
Recalling ruins, shallow graves...

Among castles, battling wyverns,
And black eagles spreading their wings,
 a golden necklace of bezants!

Overdue.

Keeping a diary, as well as having a dedicated notebook for poetry and scraps of fiction, appears to have rendered this blog almost unnecessary. If, of course, one leaves out the need- or perhaps the desire- to share something of one's thoughts and the goings-on of one's life with others, in which case ye olde blog isn't obsolete after all.

It's been a pretty good summer thus far. I still haven't fully quit smoking, but I've cut back drastically. I'm drinking less, too, and getting regular exercise. All that adult shit is secondary to the fact that I'm writing regularly, if not prolifically. The 16th century novel, which has been broken into its two component stories for the time being, totals over 300 pages right now, though I'm unsure if either tale has reached its midpoint yet.

I'm still pluggin' away at Chinese, classical and modern, though mainly the former. I have a number of translations I keep meaning to post here, but I'm pretty lazy about polishing them to a presentable shine. I'll get to it soon, I promise. I've also been studying Italian, which is going well. Reading Corto Maltese stories gets progressively easier, and I'm reading Dino Buzzati's novel Il deserto dei Tartari too, albeit slowly and intermittently. On top of that, I've been faking my way through some historical stuff written in Portuguese, which maybe I'll make a more sincere effort to learn in the future, seeing as how most good information about Macau is in Portuguese, and I envision Macau being a major setting in another novel when the time comes.

Tracey and I are going to Newfoundland in a few days, which is pretty rad. I'll get to meet my friend Shari, who I've known online for years, in the flesh. Perhaps I'll post here while I'm there, but don't hold your breath, because I probably won't even bring my laptop.

Other tidbits: I got a Moka pot, which makes killer coffee if you don't fuck up and put it on the stove without water in it, as I managed to do within the first fortnight. Been listening to lots of Om, Acid Mothers Temple, Adam Warrock, and Perturbator, as well as the usual steady diet of metal. Speaking of metal, I finally saw Bolt Thrower live, at Chaos in Tejas, with my brother and Matt Smith. Catching up on Wong Kar-Wai movies. Hanging out with Trump and Wizzelhoof. Drinking cold barley tea. Reading a lot.

There you have it, folks, the quiet life of yours truly. Pay a visit sometime; it's always an imaginary 16th century here these days.

To-do list, and why its contents remain undone

Y'all might know how much I love certain things: Twin Peaks, D&D, heavy metal, Herman Melville, cats, Buffy, Philip K. Dick, Community, Ezra Pound, the late '90s, classical Chinese, wood panelling, comics, cigarettes, Zen Buddhism, the X-Files, und so weiter. So, you say (if "you" exist in an alternate universe where anything I say is somehow worth more than the late-night energy it took to write it), why don't you write something about it?

Good question. Long story short: I have nothing new or interesting to add to any of the thousands, or more likely millions, of words spoken and written about those topics. I can ramble on about how much they all mean to me, but that's pretty much it.

I'm cool with that. As time passes, the less I feel compelled to foist my opinions on the world, despite the sense that the world is often in need of some taste. I'll just be here, doing whatever it is I do, and should I be needed, y'all know where to find me.

袁宏道－偶作赠方子／Yuan Hongdao- "Written by chance and presented to Master Fang"

As I blathered about a couple posts ago, classical Chinese has been an ongoing interest of mine for the past year or so. In that time I've translated a few things as part of the learning process (which will never, ever end). Yesterday I spent my afternoon with a couple textbooks, a Chinese dictionary, and Zongqi Cai's How to Read Chinese Poetry, wherein I found the following poem by Yuan Hongdao. It took a little while for me to realize that this is the same Yuan Hongdao featured so prominently in Pilgrim of the Clouds, a book of Ming Dynasty poetry and prose translated by Jonathan Chaves that I picked up some time ago and have enjoyed ever since. (It turns out that each of the poets and writers included is one of the Yuan brothers, which, given their reputation, isn't as strange as it sounds.)

I don't believe this poem is included in that volume, so, for my own benefit and that of anyone who happens to be a fan of Chinese poetry, I give you the original, my humble translation thereof, and some notes that might help clarify the references. Please don't forget that I'm just an appreciative amateur, not an expert; that said, any improper transcription of characters and/or inaccurate translation falls squarely on my shoulders.


---

偶作赠方子
袁宏道

一瓶一笠一條蓑
善操吳音與楚歌
鴛鴦頭白為情多
腰間珮玦千年物
醉後顛書十丈波
近日裁詩心轉細
每將長句學東坡

a jug, a hat, and a
     grass rain cape
I've got a good grasp on the sounds of Wu
     and songs of Chu

the wild crane's spirit is pure
     because his bones are old
the mandarin duck's head white
     for its love is plentiful

the jade pendants and rings around my waist
     will last a thousand years
when I'm drunk my brush strokes become
     hundred-foot waves

these days my mind turns to details
     when writing poetry
but as for long lines
     I learn from Dongpo

---

As I understand, and personally interpret, such things:

-The jug, hat, and rain cape are symbols of the itinerant/hermit's life- i.e., simplicity and escape from society's bonds. (This kind of association is super-common in Chinese poetry, even if the poet isn't living that kind of life, which he usually isn't.)

-The songs of Wu and Chu are folk songs of a kind. Since the poet knows them well, it implies further separation from "polite" society.

-Cranes symbolize something I don't remember, and mandarin ducks are a symbol of conjugal love.

-I read the "jade pendants and rings" bit (by the way, those "rings" are not rings per se, but a kind of torc) as the poet being a man of learning and taste who has given up that life in favor of doing as he pleases, but retains the emblems of his past.

-Dongpo is Su Shi 苏轼, AKA Su Dongpo 苏東坡, a towering figure of Song Dynasty poetry and letters. Once I read some of his work I can form an opinion, but if Yuan Hongdao digs him, odds are I will too.

---


I intend to keep finding poems or prose I like, translating it, and posting it here. I love this stuff, and I hope to pass it along in the hopes that others will feel the same deep connection.

敬祝
史大偉

Ten years!

Man, it's been ten years since my first post here. I don't have much to say about that, other than I'm glad I'm still around to see such a minor milestone. This blog has never been much more than a depository for whatever occurs to me when I sit down and log in to my account-  maybe there was a time that I thought about what I'd write, but not anymore. Sometimes I write something, save it, and come back to it later before deciding to post it or not, but that's about all.

If you've kept up with The Corpse Speaks for a while, thanks for reading. I'll try to make the next decade's worth of posts a little more interesting, but if you've stuck it out this far, well, you might as well admit that your standards are pretty low. There's no shame in that. We all have bad taste in something.

Thanks again, folks! Take it easy and listen to Black Sabbath.

Your pal,
D.A.S.

Some thoughts on 文言文/Classical Chinese

Since I wrapped up my Chinese Studies degree last May, I've been pretty terrible about keeping up with, well, Chinese studies. Modern Chinese, at least. I've been pouring a considerable amount my effort into learning classical/literary Chinese, in which what almost everything before 1911 was written. Like any language, 古文 gǔ wén, also known as 文言文 wén​yán​wén, changed over time, with pre-Han dynasty literature being more grammatically rigorous than, say, that of the Ming dynasty; if anyone ever says the language was static- a claim which is more or less understandable, since it was increasingly divorced from spoken Chinese over the centuries- they're misinformed, ignorant, or have an agenda. Not that it's very likely any of my readers will run into someone with an agenda with regard to classical Chinese, but hey, who knows?

Mind you, I'm no expert, and I never will be. As fulfilling as it is to grind my way through a passage of Sima Qian's 史記 and learn 繁體字 (traditional characters) in the process, classical Chinese is not an easy language. It's more than just a language; it's a mode of thought attuned to a world that hasn't cohabitated with ours in over a century, and I'm so far removed from its source that all I can do is hope to approximate it when I make juvenile translations of the characters I copy out. It's hard work, made even harder by the nigh-unshakeable feeling that I'm achieving nothing by focusing on a dead language.

You know what, though? Classical Chinese might be dead- and yeah, it could be stale even during its heyday; read about eight-legged essays sometime- but the myriad things expressed in the 2,000-plus years it was used aren't dead. Chinese poetry, philosophy, and fiction survive for a reason, even if modern folks like you and I can't immediately appreciate or in many cases even be aware of the parallelisms, historical context, cultural references, tone patterns, et cetera, that make it such a rich language. Via classical Chinese, a culture honed its expression of the range of human emotion and experience to just about as fine a point as any writer could hope for, and that expression can be seen, albeit imperfectly, even in translation.

I remember the first volume of Chinese poetry I ever bought- a used Penguin edition of Wang Wei's poetry- and how hard the language hit me. Since then, it's only gotten more impressive, and I'm not talking only about poetry, or what I've learned since I began studying Chinese. Being able to tackle an entire world (and imperial China constitutes a world as much as Europe until the 19th century did, if not more so) on its own linguistic terms- skewed by time/distance/culture as my understanding of those terms may be- is a privilege, and even if you never pick up a word of Chinese, you can enjoy that privilege in a different form, as I did with Wang Wei. You don't have to know Chinese to see how spot on Chinese culture is about a lot of things. I merely took a few extra steps so I could try to engage it directly. I'm not very good at it, but I suspect most people aren't- viz. the small number of really acclaimed translators from classical Chinese to English.


I study classical Chinese because it is interesting; because it contains a long tradition of thought still woefully under-represented in English (no offense to all the excellent translators over the decades); because I want to send a signal, no matter how weak, to the modern world- in both its Chinese and Western forms- that their ancestors shouldn't be ignored; because I love language(s); because I sometimes like a challenge; because I am sometimes a Taoist, sometimes a Buddhist, and always deeply indebted to both schools of thought; because I appreciate the idea, if not the practice, of the 科舉 imperial examination system; because I love Li Bai and Wang Wei and Du Fu and Han Shan and all the other great poets; because I want to read the Latin of East Asia; because I can't give in to- nor do I believe- the forces that say Mandarin alone is "real" Chinese; because you can't understand shit about now if you don't know about then.

I don't need to justify or rationalize my choice of pastimes. That's not what this is about. I like classical Chinese, and while that's enough for me, there are a thousand other, better, reasons to study it. Maybe you'll find one of your own some day, but like I said, there's no shortage of amazing stuff available to you in English. We all start somewhere.

微臣
史大偉
蛇年二月十一日

"Diversion, Temporary"

"Diversion, Temporary"

A snag in the lazy stream of the afternoon:
thorn of Portuguese Hormuz in the Ottoman side,
root-lifted slabs of any sidewalk in Houston,
dropped keys, or scripture misread-

Easily overcome and circumvented,
rendered interlude rather than coda.

Work continues apace, just as the sun shines,
archons reign, and joints pop gleefully
when brain is joined by body in movement.

As o' late...

It's all black cats, blind phone phreaks, and sandworms these days.

Which is to say that we're fostering a couple inky felines from Friends for Life, I'm reading Phil Lapsley's Exploding the Phone: The Untold Story of the Teenagers and Outlaws Who Hacked Ma Bell, and rereading Dune. The former book is one I've been waiting to see in print for a long while; the latter, a longtime favorite that's even more awesome this time around, which I think is the third.

Our foster cats, Trump and Littlefoot, are quite the pair. Trump likes to stay out of sight, and when he's out, he slinks like hell. Littlefoot's quite affectionate when he feels like it, which is about two or three times a day so far. They've only spent one night, so I bet they'll settle in soon. Tracey's keeping a blog about Flump and Wizzelhoof, as I call 'em (or Crump and Wiggleroot, or whatever- gotta throw out names and see what sticks, since their original monikers don't strike my fancy).

"Adieu, Knucklehead"

"Adieu, Knucklehead"


A life as rich as
and the color of
early autumn ale
underbellied with white foam
ended three nights ago,
suddenly, senselessly.

Everything she gave the world
seems gone.
Not just gone:
taken away,
leaving an empty house
and a flock of unhassled birds.

But everything she gave the world
remains. Yes, she was taken away:
no more
clawed awakenings
occupied pillows
whiskers in the window.

These human hearts can blind us
to the fact that she,
we,
all of this,
never really go, never really came;
yet those same hearts ever speak true.


in memoriam Orange Kitty, 2005-2013
(written 1.10.2013-1.11.2013)

"The sage waits without waiting."

Hey there, 2013!

I'm having trouble with my Chinese keyboard, so you're stuck with English, dear readers. I just wanted to say hello, and let you all know that since I'm only a couple months away from the 10th anniversary of this blog, I'm going to try and write more here. It's not a new year's resolution, but merely an affirmation of one of the many things I need, and want, to do.

Love all of y'all, and look forward to more of my exciting ramblings in the next three hundred sixty-odd days! (If you get tired of my silence, drop me a line, and I'll get on it. Promise.)

In the meantime, read some Ezra Pound, Li Po, and Sima Qian!

Back from Hong Kong.

Tracey and I just got back from nine rad days in Hong Kong. Man, what a city. I hope to post some of my journal entries/thoughts in the coming days, either here or on my website (dasmith.freeshell.org), maybe both. Said journal is the handwritten one I've been keeping for a couple months, so it may take some time to transcribe the relevant material. There's other stuff I want to include, too.

As time passes I find myself increasingly aware of the workings of my mind. It's an interesting phenomenon, and I can't tell what the source of it is. I'd wager that it's a combination of things, meditation foremost among them. Maybe one day this growing self-understanding will yield some good writing.

In other news, I was stoked to come home to the long-awaited LP version of MC Lars' Greatest Hits. Can't wait to hear how it sounds; post-punk laptop rap pressed on vinyl and paid for via a Kickstarter campaign is pretty damned 21st century.

Sorry for the general silence. I'll try to fix that. Just as always.

"couple skulls, jug"

Naw, naw, tweren't that sort, tweren't a toothloosener at all.

So what was it?

Twere a shrug, still is. Known what it tweren't more than what twas, that makes sense.

Aye, surely does.

Apophatic, 'tis. Liken it to that line of thinking about the divine.

The ideal word, certes. What else was it not, sides a toothloosener?

Tweren't a seambender. They's known, aye?

More'n care to admit, alas.

Tweren't an illplaced spade, neither.

Never had that particular trouble.

'Tis awful. Awful.

Surely. Hateful in its clumsiness.

Certes. Lessee. Tweren't a seepage. Tweren't wormcrawl. Tweren't replotting.

Venture something?

Can't. Said tweren't, not twas.

Misheard. Statement, not inquiry.

Pray venture forth, then.

Epiphany.

Tweren't.

Theophany.

Certes tweren't. Ventured a far piece, now.

Aye. Twas too close to absurdity's bosom. Pardon.

Given, long as the bottle comes hither.

Gladly. 'Tis an hour ripe for mulling, after all.

Thankee. A lifetime?

Less there's a reckoning before.

Hold, hold, there--

Prydes of the X-Men Fans

Dear Kitty Pryde and Kitty Pryde,

Some dude here. You were awesome in the '80s and into the '90s, especially during your Excalibur years. (Still my favorite monthly book ever.) Some foolishness went down since then, but you're still rad. I didn't care much for the X-men movies, but I hear you were important in the last one. Whatever. You're still the incredibly smart chick who can phase through anything and gets to hang out with Nightcrawler and company while providing a much-needed perspective on just about anything, be it basic human relationships to Big Shit, Mutant Variety(tm).

As for you, cute redhead rapper who at least has enough going for her to take her stage name from Colossus' ongoing crush: you are pretty neat too. I look forward to seeing where you go with the things you rap about and your resulting career. I honestly hope you don't end up some internet footnote, dude.

P.S. I like the aesthetics of your "OK Cupid" video and the sound of your version of "Call Me Maybe." As someone who thinks effort is often overrated, it's nice to see someone not trying too goddamn hard.

Man, I wish I had a stack of comics to read right now.

A night off.

Visiting the folks. Planned on writing once they called it a night, but nah, I'm just gonna enjoy some YT Cracker through these sound-swallowing headphones, smoke some of the Gauloises Brunes madre brought back from Paris, and kick back.


All. Right.

An Unpolished Gem of Fascination, or, Why This Astral Rune Bastards Record is Great

I recently got my copy of, among other things, Astral Rune Bastards' Transmissions of Runic Truth from the Event Horizons. When I first planned to put in an order with King Penda Productions, the label this was released on, I was going to buy just a couple hard-to-find Bretwaldas of Heathen Doom releases, but the inclusion of ARB in King Penda's catalog (because, I think, everything they release is related to the Bretwaldas guys) was intriguing enough for me to see what I could find on YouTube. Lo and behold, a quarter-hour later my purchase had expanded.

Simply put, Astral Rune Bastards is my kind of thing. King Penda Productions' site describes it as "Nine tracks of electronic music based on the folk-horror stories of Northern Europe, and the writings of aliens-in-antiquity theorists such as Erich Von Daniken, Brysley Le Poer Trench and Maurice Chatelain." I know the infamous von Däniken only by name and have no idea who the other two are, but if they're lumped in with him, they're probably also awesome crackpots (again, not a complaint, at least not in this context- see below) and members of the Splendid Name Club. What matters here isn't these folks' theories per se, but that their writing, in conjunction with the artist's other interests, has inspired a cool record that, to me, manages to say- without words, as this is an entirely intstrumental album- more than was probably intended.

Transmissions, as I will refer to it from here on, appeals to a lot of my interests, which are scattershot on the best of days, but that's not the reason I enjoy it so much. The alien astronaut theories of von Däniken and Anglo-Saxon heathen folklore are fun to think and read about, sure, but it's the intersection of such seemingly unrelated interests, the music itself, and the resulting imagery it conjures, that really speaks to me. When I listen to it I envision a young dude in possession of a stash of decent weed, some secondhand synthesizers, lots of dog-eared science fiction/conspiracy theory/history/etc. paperbacks, a love for The X-Files, and maybe a crappy dialup connection. He spends a lot of time at home room reading, listening to/making music, and getting high; he also lives in a sufficiently rural environment to have to chance to take long walks through empty fields dotted with ancient ruins, and to lie around watching the night sky in all its glory, wondering not just what's up there, but why.

This young man's life experience and voracious reading and listening habits culminate in Transmissions of Runic Truth from the Event Horizons. The album's title implies historical and cosmic revelation and mystery, and the song titles reinforce this. Revelation is a tricky thing, though, and often intensely personal. I don't know if Sceot Arcwielder, the man behind Astral Rune Bastards, really has discovered the kind of truths songs title like "Saucers Study the Northern Forest Tribes" or "Astral Visitations to Ninth-Century Dorset" imply, but to me as a listener it doesn't matter. (Well, maybe a little, but that's getting away from my point.) What matters to me is that all the things the artist finds fascinating have been assembled into an evocative whole.

The fact that this is a pretty limited release (maybe not so much in terms of the number of CDs pressed, but certainly in terms of exposure) adds a lot to my appreciation of Transmissions. There isn't a big audience for an album of this sort, because not a lot of people would be into outdated-sounding synths that sometimes veer into cheesy territory but usually do a memorable job of creating atmosphere. Despite being released in 2009, Transmissions feels dated in the same way its inspirations feel dated, which is perfect. Von Däniken sold a shitload of books forty years ago, but who pays much attention to him now? Keyboards have evolved tremendously, so why listen to something that sounds like it was made on pawnshop gear? Because when you're fascinated with something, be it an idea or a sound, that's all you need. If other people think your work sounds rough and weird and irrelevant, it's their loss.

It's when I consider the album as a whole- the music, the artwork, the inspirations, the things it conjures in my imagination, the obscurity, and the DIY creative process- that things really click for me. I could be completely wrong about Sceot Arcwielder's motives, interests, and process, but again, it wouldn't matter, because he's made an album that makes my mind move in interesting ways. I like the musical stories being told on Transmissions, and I like the headspace it puts me in, which is much bigger and more complex than I would've expected.

Here's to weirdness, obscurity, and the art that springs from it. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to do a little pondering about UFOs and ancient cultures of my own. You can check out Astral Rune Bastards here.

明朝的小说/romanza della rinascita

Howdy, folks.

I don't think I've discussed the novel I'm writing, but I do know I've mentioned it, as well as some of the things that got me interested in the subject matter. I didn't touch the book for a long while, but since I graduated (oh yeah, I failed to mention that, too- yours truly now has a B.A. in Chinese Studies) and have become a full-time househusband/slacker/liver-of-the-dream, work has proceeded apace on the novel. I haven't written this much, in the sense of plugging away daily and not giving up, in years. As always, I have no idea if I'll get sick of it and shelve it again, but right now if a day passes without adding a page or two, I feel like a failure, and I spend a lot of time thinking about the book, so I'll take that as a good sign. Sure sounds better than grad school.

Anyhoo. The novel starts in 1528, and deals with two main characters: a Venetian and a Chinese from Fujian. There are some basic similarities between them, 'cause in some ways they both embody aspects of your humble Corpse. 1528 is an interesting year because nothing world-shaking happened in either China (ruled by the Jiajing emperor) or Venice (Doge Andrea Gritti represent!), which makes it tough to tie either character to grand historical events. When I say "tough," that's a good thing; I'm not aiming to mimic Eco's Baudolino, for example, and pretend that Anacleto Stornello or Xiaoyao/Yan Liang'en- my main men- are anything but two dudes who did some interesting things in the context of their times and cultures. Times and cultures, mind you, seen through historical and personal filters, with some flat-out misunderstanding, authorial fiat and "why the hell not?" thrown in.

Anacleto and Xiaoyao aren't the only protagonists. Anacleto's almost anachronistically rebellious, independent sister showed up to the party early on and she's not going anywhere, as far as I can tell. Xiaoyao is currently on his own, but he'll have some traveling companions sooner than later, though something tells me they won't be as trustworthy as Anacleto's sister. I've got a ton of ground to cover- literally and figuratively; the Ottoman Empire, the Portuguese Estado da India, the liminal world of wokou piracy, maybe even the Mughal Empire- so it's hard to tell who will show up, and in what capacity.

Long story short, I'm stoked about this book. I love how much I've learned, and how much more there is to learn, just in order to write it. I love how my own understanding of history, identity, and politics keeps changing as I process the broad strokes and the details of the Renaissance/early modernity/etc. I love seeing my own writing take on characteristics (some good, some bad) that weren't there during the writing of previous novels. Shit, I even love the aforementioned days without writing, because they are reminders that, at long last, the fire has been rekindled and won't be put out easily.

I hope to post later tonight about other things, but if I don't, this isn't a bad contribution for the day. Later, folks!

DAS

sliver poem 6.4.12

Wash the sleep from your eyes
and call it a night.
Sun crowns:
Ulthar retreats, synapses collapse,
everyone's shades and your friends
turn in.

There's still tonight.

untitled poem, 5.14.12

The delicate blue gloom
of a wet evening's birth:
sun fleeing, now flown,
cats among the puddles,
the old, welcome mystery
revived.

T.O.Y. (Team of the Year)

Another bangin' success at trivia night. Dos Links, one Robertson, one special guest Beasley (Commonwealth of Virginia represent!), and yours truly: the Agents of Orange Kitty. Three nights of trivia, three wins. My friends and wife rule. Getting to hang out with my dearest MWC friend tonight made it all our victory all the sweeter.

Life is cool. Life is all right. Allll. Right.

Lights out, dudes. Hail Acid Witch.

Lazy exultations.

I've been writing pretty consistently, and I'm a page or two from finishing the first draft of the first of the hardboiled stories I mentioned in my last post. If I hadn't sidetracked myself tonight with exultation- over drink, over a relaxed Saturday night with the cat and my wife, over the impending visit of a very dear friend- I might be done by now.

But exultation, the kind that drives one to lift a glass when there's nobody to share a toast with, the exultation that drives off so much ingrained pessimism, the exultation that never comes often enough, even though so many of our societal influences, from parents to movies to those songs we love to much, tell us it should- that exultation showed itself this evening like a night-blossoming flower, and I have opted to revel in it rather than do much of anything else.

I exult in knit ties. I exult in fireplaces. I exult in Saturday drives with Tracey. I exult in idleness, in well-brewed beer, in comfortable sweaters, in orange kitties, in glimpses of old dwellings and cool drinks of water.

A hardboiled year.

All right, me and the Royal Portable Deluxe have decided that we're going to collaborate on something. As some of you may know, I made my first money from writing when I published a hardboiled detective story in Blue Murder Magazine back in 1999. I don't even remember the title of the story, but I've always liked hardboiled detective fiction- not just reading it, but writing it. I haven't written much of it since college, but now and then I'll read something that makes me think "you've still got some stories in you, self."

I don't know if that's completely true, but I'm on my way to finding out. My goal is to write twelve pulp-style stories this year: presumably one per month, though if I crank 'em out faster, it's all gravy. Now that I've got a typewriter, I can sit down to write without the distractions that come with an internet-connected laptop, and I already notice the difference in terms of productivity (God, I hate that word, but it's apt here). There's something very satisfying about piling up pages next to the typewriter as I finish them, and the visible errors and odd indentations and the like make the typed page a much more attractive artifact than one printed from a computer. Of course, everything I type is just a first draft and will be transferred to a digital format once said drafts are finished- this isn't an exercise in antiquated technology just for the sake of it.

I hope to make each story unique with regards to plot and characters, but I'm not committing myself to anything just yet. I have several ideas, some of them thematically related to different times of the year, but I'm only working on one at a time. That's part of the deal: I won't move onto another story until the previous one is done. I need to work on completing things.

I'll provide more details, and maybe the stories themselves, as they arise. Happy 2012, folks. Take it easy.

"And the emptiness grew..."

One day, an increasingly large number of years from now, I'll write something really meaningful about heavy metal, despite the fact that metal needs no spokesperson- especially not me.

Hail the riff.

now playing: Jex Thoth, Jex Thoth

Dear Hollywood: Fuck you and your censorship-loving cronies.

I've censored the following, in protest of a bill that gives any corporation and the US government the power to censor the internet--a bill that could pass THIS WEEK. To see the uncensored text, and to stop internet censorship, visit: http://americancensorship.org/posts/13273/uncensor

████ ███████ isn't ████████ ███████; it's the ████ ████ it's ████████ ████ ██████. Do █████████, ████ if it's ████ ███████ an █████ to ████ ███████████████. ████ ████ █████.

Teachings in silence.

At the blurred, exhausted edge of a winter night
there is possibly nothing better
than a tall glass of cold water
and Ulver
(particularly the Teachings in Silence compilation).
Silence teaches you how to sing
indeed.

"Teenagers and Cigarettes"/"16yo lungs" (first, maybe last, draft)

"teenagers and cigarettes"/"16yo lungs"

The surest sign of youth is that
patch of dirt or grass around
the side of the house,
or that sun-bled coke can,
sometimes a windowsill-
all
scratched black
and clotted with filters,
sometimes lipsticked
(and when they are, and that color isn't yours,
oh how the heart moves),
never symmetrical in their destruction.

The escape and worry,
isolation
and happiness,
the held hands
that led to
or emerged from
each long drag instance,
won't wait for archaeology
or enraged parents
or the disappointment of an older self

to signify
like the tiny orange supernova
of the word writ in fire
between synaptic headphones.

(12.8-9.11)

Achievement Unlocked: Garbage, I

The monoliths
rise before our eyes,
vertical steppes of basalt and sunburnt grass-
so out of place in this country,
this barren country,
stumps and thirst and empty wombs,
timber stripped and turned mockingly skyward.
How,
how on earth,
did they find time to build tombs while...
oh.

Oh.

Chinese eunuchs and PKD's Exegesis

Hey, look, it's been a while. What a surprise.

I blame school, mostly. The semester's simultaneously flown and crawled by, punctuated by one Chinese assignment after another, logic tests, and so on. I've got a week of classes left after Thanksgiving, and then finals. Or a final, really, since my last grades for three-fourths of my classes will come in the form of papers and such.

School stuff aside, I've been doing what I always do, and that's read. This habit almost unquestionably gets in the way of school sometimes, but I don't care, because it's reading, dude, and therefore impossible to classify as detrimental behavior. I've read a handful of books over the past couple months, and am in the midst of several more. Two of these, the recently-published Exegesis of Philip K. Dick, and The Eunuchs in the Ming Dynasty by Shih-Shan Henry Tsai, deserve special note. No, I'm not going to try and relate the two.

The Ming eunuch book, along with another volume (The Confusions of Pleasure: Commerce and Culture in Ming China by Timothy Brook, which I finished in October) have been invaluable resources about aspects of Chinese history that usually receive a few passing comments or are dealt with in broad strokes. Since I decided to take a stab at writing an historical novel that partly involves Ming China, I've read a number of books and essays dealing with various features of said dynasty, and the Tsai and Brook books have so far been my favorites- not only because they're packed with information that almost always leads to further research (God, so much to learn!), but because they've helped solidify some of my ideas for the novel. Not to mention they're both well-written and well-researched books.

The eunuch thing has been particularly fascinating. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around almost every aspect of castration-as-career-advancement, mainly because I can barely put up with what modern work demands of me. Complete emasculation under horribly unsafe conditions so I can work in the imperial household (if I'm lucky)? No thanks. Still, Tsai's book casts new light on the positive role eunuchs played in various spheres of Ming life, contrasting what he describes as a systematic bias against them by the betesticled scholar-gentry. He doesn't deny that there were notorious eunuchs, but clearly feels that those who did admirable work have been overshadowed in the history books. I would complain that the book could use some more personalized, humanizing accounts of eunuch life, but I think the absence of such material, both from this book and the historical record, proves Tsai's point. When I was in China I saw a biography of the last Qing eunuch, Sun Yaoting, who died in 1996, and while he was born a couple centuries after the end of the Ming dynasty, I bet his story would be worth hearing.

On to a different form of madness. No, madness isn't the right word, whether dealing with an era when "voluntary self-castration became epidemic," to quote Tsai, or the 8,000 mostly handwritten pages of Philip K. Dick's Exegesis, a personal (i.e., not really meant for publication) investigation into the causes and effects of what PKD called 2-3-74. This series of events is well-known to fans of PKD's work (hey, that's me!), and there's plenty about it online, so I'll spare you and I both a description. It would be easy to write off Dick's experiences as some kind of insanity or mental breakdown, but in my opinion such an approach wouldn't be accurate.

Well, not entirely accurate. The Exegesis as it exists in printed form is roughly a tenth of the material Dick wrote before his death in 1982, and I'm less than a tenth of the way through this version, which puts me at less than 1% of the original work. (Which will probably never be published in its entirety- the introduction to the excerpted version makes this clear, and the text itself makes it clear why.) Even at this point I find myself in that most interesting of positions: unconvinced by Dick's explanations of what happened to him, yet deeply intrigued by the variety of possibilities he entertains and his workings-out of them.

The degree of self-examination- which is what the Exegesis is at its core, albeit a type of self-examination that understands the self as part of something much greater; the whole microcosm/macrocosm thing, generally speaking- is staggering, downright Proustian at times, if Proust had had metaphysical and cosmological concerns as his focus. This kind of feverish attempt to explain one's experiences via constantly-shifting models- including Dick's own books, ancient Christianity, and extraterrestrial intelligence(s)- is one of the things that leads many to believe Dick lost it in the early '70s, which maybe he did to some degree. I see it- at least right now- as a sort of awakening, although since I really enjoy PKD's later work my opinion may be biased, and the books that emerged from the 2-3-74 thing aren't a complete break from earlier work anyway. A thematic detour, perhaps, but not a 180. I can't argue that the behavior that produced the Exegesis isn't obsessive, but again, I wouldn't necessarily use that term in a negative sense.

Another striking feature of the Exegesis is Dick's impressive knowledge. Some of his ruminations are grounded in faulty understanding, sure, but the ease with which he discusses philosophy, religion, and science gives me hope. In our day and age (read: the Internet era) one doesn't come across polymathic minds as often as one would like, so seeing Dick expound on all kinds of things, seemingly off the cuff, is a distinct pleasure. His wide range of interests is apparent in many of his novels, but it really shows when he isn't bound by narrative or plot. This in turn relates to why people are interested in writers' unpublished work: they like to see what writers write for themselves.

Christ, all this pontificating makes it sound like I've read more than I have- how could I glean this much from less than eighty pages? There's a couple ways to address this. One: by virtue of all the other PKD books and related material I've read over the years, I effectively have read more of, and about, the Exegesis. Two: despite being a fraction of the way through, my prior knowledge, and the structure of the book itself, leads me to believe that what I've read thus far is representative of the rest of the book. Not in terms of content, necessarily, but I think the central conceit- understanding his own experiences and, by extension, reality itself- will remain. If it doesn't, great; I'm down for all kinds of diversions from the path, the detours from detours, and seeing as how this isn't the kind of book one reads quickly, I'll have plenty of time to ponder each of Dick's new theories about why things are the way they are.

As I mentioned earlier, Dick's theories don't convince me, even though I enjoy mulling them over. I don't get the impression that he's trying to convince me, though- why would he, since the Exegesis wasn't meant for a particularly wide audience? Personal project or not, I'm glad it has reached a wider audience, which will find all kinds of intellectual gems (or proof of madness, depending on how one reads it) and interpret the work in all kinds of ways. If anything, the Exegesis will be good for that- not bad for a personal project!

It appears logorrhea's gotten the best of me. It's time to work on something else, so I'll say goodbye for now, and I'll try to write more often. Later, folks.

2011年10月18日

almost midnight:
first chill
and a bit too much beer.
through yawn after yawn,
all it takes
is this moment.

(Still) Still Reigning

October 7th marked the 25th anniversary of the release of Slayer's seminal album Reign in Blood. I, and thousands of other metalheads, regard this record as not only a historical milestone in heavy metal history, but a completely fucking awesome record that, had it existed when NASA was shooting cultural artifacts into deep space, could've been the sole musical cargo.

I think Seasons in the Abyss was the first Slayer record I heard, and I still have incredibly strong youthful memories of "War Ensemble," "Dead Skin Mask," and "Seasons in the Abyss." Reign in Blood, however, is a monolithic memory. Kyle, our neighbor in middle school- and to this day, good buddy- had the tape, which he lent to me and my brother, seemingly forever. Back then (this is 1993, I'd say) our parents left for work before we caught the bus to school, which meant that we had somewhere between thirty minutes and an hour most mornings to crank up the stereo, make lame calls to Z-Rock (106.9 KKZR), and do other juvenile shit, like try to make napalm from gasoline and styrofoam peanuts. The album I remember listening to most was Reign in Blood, blasted at a volume no stereo I've had since could achieve, because nobody seems to make three-foot-tall speakers anymore (and, of course, memory inscribes the past with legendary features that the present could never hope to equal).

Still, Reign in Blood isn't merely a nostalgia piece. I've been listening to it on a pretty regular basis for almost 20 years, and it's still killer. I don't remember where I read it, but someone, possibly numerous someones, described it as "twenty-five minutes between 'Angel of Death' and 'Raining Blood'." I think that does the album a disservice, as almost all of the other songs are awesome, particularly "Altar of Sacrifice," and "Jesus Saves." The former is still one of the most evil-sounding songs I think I've ever heard; the way it moves from a sense of victimized panic to Satanic-priest-triumphalism remains unnerving, to the point where I can understand why parents would freak out if they caught their kids listening to it. "Jesus Saves" has a great buildup and a riff that any metal band would kill to have written.

You know what? Enough of this. If you're a metal fan, you already know what I'm talking about. If you're not, go buy a copy. Reign in Blood doesn't feel 25 years old; it feels timeless. And that cover art is untouchable.

Thanks, Slayer.

Thoughts.

I was talking to my pops the other day, discussing random fields of interest and he said I should write an essay, or something along those lines, about something. It was interesting timing, given how fascinated I am with Chinese xiaopin wen (小品文), Kenko's Tsurezuregusa, and similar efforts from Westerners, and that most of the books I bought in China were volumes of essays. It's not quite what my dad had in mind, but seeing as how the matter has continually struck a chord with me for some time, I'm giving it even more thought than usual.

Part of me wants to compile some essays- and I use the term loosely, as my Chinese and Japanese inspirations would- and maybe make an effort to have them published. But why? That's the question that haunts me. Off the cuff observations are incredibly well suited to the online format, so I'm leaning toward posting any such essays here or to my freeshell.org website (or both). We'll see; the first step is actually writing something, and given my course load this semester, I'm too busy memorizing Chinese characters and doing logic proofs- not to mention reading a lot of other stuff- to write even a short essay. And writing modern, Western takes on xiaopin isn't even a high priority, compared to other things!

I'm not complaining, mind you. I'm actually pleased that I have so much on my plate, even though most of it will never get eaten, so to speak. There are a lot of things I've got going on that should manifest in one form or another in the near future, which is pretty exciting. It's so fuckin' easy to lose track of possibilities if you're not careful.

Later, folks. Have a good night, and I'll do the same!

Yours,
DAS

Back.

Well, I'm back. Lots to report, but all the China stuff is over at my website, so read it there. Right now I'm doing a little writing, not thinking about school- which is going to be a drag this semester- and listening to Candlemass, so I'll get back to you later, dear reader. See you soon.

auto-theft re: my own work (LAST POST PRE-CHINA)

I just vomited up a bunch of text on Facebook. I'm reprinting it here because I'm lazy. All sentiments are still valid (since they were expressed moments ago).

--BEGIN FB TRANSMISSION--


This is big shit. I've been obsessing over China- its culture, language, history, etc.- for years, and tomorrow I get on a series of planes to visit the Middle Kingdom, and realize firsthand how utterly ignorant I am of the reality of the culture that's contributed so much to the world for a few thousand years.

Since I won't be using Facebook or my blog while I'm in Shanghai, Suzhou, Beijing, or any of the places Tracey and I might visit once she gets there (Tianjin, Xi'an, Qingdao represent!), y'all probably wont get regular updates. You have my email address (and if you don't, make haste in asking for it) if you wanna converse with me while I'm busy studying the fuck out of putonghua, eating interesting food, and conversing with old folks and anyone that crosses my path.



Many of you have an idea of how excited I am about this trip. China has been my goal for at least a decade. I'm a history nerd, but I know enough about modern China than to expect to to masturbate myself into a frenzy over historical Chinese sights and sounds. I'm thrilled to have the chance to stroll around Beijing and buy Chinese heavy metal CDs. Eat Chinese takes on world cuisine. Smoke cigarettes with anyone who has time for a long-haired Western barbarian. See sights. Plug my earbuds into the ears of the willing and curious. Write notes. Read books. Live fucking life.



I owe my beloved Tracey, the University of Houston, Zhang/Mai/Wen (in no particular order) laoshi, and my own willpower for making this happen. Whatever I make of it in the long run doesn't matter. This is about now, right fuckin' now, the Tao that is nameless. Thank all of you.



And thank everyone else that hasn't been mentioned, because I love y'all too. You're a bunch of sexy, handsome, nerdy, literate, meaningful dudes and chicks.



Love always, and I hope that upon my return I'm a better dude,

D.A. Smith


P.S. As I'm writing this I'm bangin' "Male Feminist" by MC Lars, because this song rules and more importantly women make this world fuckin' rad. Madre, Tracey Robertson, (and in no particular order) Amanda Beasley, Vanessa Riley, Megan Neal, Annie Bulloch, Renee Salmonsen, Renee Miller, Janessa Link, Holly Smith, Jennifer Groves, Linda Evans, Alexa Nash, Nicole Derby, Shabis Kinsella, Liz Smith,Shari Fitzgerald, Aunt Linda, Aunt Annell (RIP), Tati Elena, Tati Lu, Nora Joyce, Emma Goldman, Parker Posey, Justine Frischmann, Dorothy Shakespear, Pearl Buck, Dana Scully, Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg, Nursehella, your mom, and a zillion more, fictional or otherwise: THUMBS UP, LADIES. KEEP KICKIN' ASS.

--

Done. All hail YTCracker and his albums. See y'all on the other side of the Great Firewall.

to-do list: near future edition

Things to do within the next year, or maybe starting next summer, depending on what they are:

-get more familiar with UNIX and associated programs (vim for starters)
-set up my own Gopherspace
-get my books and music arranged alongside Tracey's; now that we're married, there's not much excuse not to merge our collections
-skate more
-translate at least three of Lin Yutang's (or someone's) essays from Chinese
-visit my brother in California
-finish volumes 2 (in progress) and 3 of In Search of Lost Time
-finish 2666, not kill self
-hit 150 pages on the current novel, or another one, as long as I'm writing something
-maybe get into some kinda grad program for Chinese, if not, no worries
-convince myself certain types of comma usage are acceptable
-lots of other things I can't think of right now

How can you help? I don't know. Remind me I wrote this in, say, January 2012, and maybe that'll start a frenzy of activity. Or I'll do nothing and blame it on what should be my final semester at UH in the Chinese Studies program.

I'll be back before I head to China. Later, folks.

now playing: Destroyer 666, Unchain the Wolves

A thousand thoughts, a thousand edits

Lately I've written several things that I either didn't post here, or took down shortly after posting them. My reasons are numerous: something wasn't finished, or it sucked, or it was inconsequential, even by the standards of this blog. Take, for example, my brief paean to Brooke Brodack, which itself relied on my habit of collecting search terms that returned no results on Google. My wife caught it before I removed it, which is fine; I wasn't ashamed of the sentiments expressed therein- after all, don't you find it odd that after all these years nobody's typed the same thing into Google?-but the muddled nature of the post irked me when I re-read it. Hence its voyage into the void.

A bizarre, and quite possibly awful, nanofiction piece I've worked on lately, "Bad Dudes," also got axed, because I posted it when it wasn't complete. It'll return for your reading displeasure very soon. I also stayed up way, way too late one night composing an essay on dressing well (Oh, the irony!), but it remains unfinished and unspecific, and may never see the light of day.

I mention these things because, very soon, I'm going to China for several weeks. The Great Firewall of China will block my access to Blogger, so I'll be incommunicado via this channel. I should be able to post to my website from the Middle Kingdom, so look there if you want to follow my activities in real(ish)-time. Whether I'll write much is an entirely different matter, and I'll probably reprint my travelogue here when I return to Houston; ergo, I can't guarantee that you'll find much worth reading- assuming there's anything in the first place.

And now some assorted facts, statements, etc. in no particular order:

-I have a gorgeous gingham tie I'm dying to wear. There are also a number of gorgeous ties I want to purchase, and wear. The disconnect between my usual mode of dress and the things I just expressed is not lost on me.

-I'm two or three days into an experiment wherein I've swapped using a webmail client (standard Gmail) for Thunderbird. So far I'm quite pleased with the separation of web and mail.

-Grails' Deep Politics album was stunning upon first listen, and only gets better with time. That D-side engraving is icing on the cake for those of us who purchase vinyl.

-I'm reading far too many books at once*. Off the top of my head, I'm in the midst of vol. 2 of In Search of Lost Time; a re-read of Pynchon's Mason & Dixon; the seemingly never-edited but defiantly enjoyable Denied to the Enemy by Dennis Detwiller (Axis Mundi Sum never had an editor, sure, but it wasn't riddled with spelling/homonym errors and awful comma splices); a volume of collected Solomon Kane tales by Robert E. Howard; The Unborn, a series of the Zen teacher Bankei's lectures and dialogues; The Confusions of Pleasure by Timothy Brook, a history of commerce and culture in Ming dynasty China that I can't recommend enough; and probably a couple more. I keep track of every book I read during the year, and having so many in rotation not only makes the list look pitifully short, it seems I never finish anything.

-Tracey and I's wedding celebration in Wimberley was awesome. I extend my thanks to everyone who came, because without y'all it wouldn't have been what it was.

-The Time of No Time Evermore by The Devil's Blood is a really, really good record.

-Julie Delpy, of (in my book) Killing Zoe fame, stars as the infamous Erszebet Bathory in a movie called The Countess. I haven't watched it yet, but man, how can you go wrong with that combination?

-Commas appear to be encroaching into my writing with a frequency that would be alarming if I wasn't confident that I use them properly. Using them well is a different story, of course.

That's all for now, dear readers. Thanks for your time, and I hope to post more before I head east by going west.

Your friend,
D.A. Smith



*Nothing new, yet always worthy of complaint.

A little late!

Did I tell you dudes that I have a web page? As in, one that ain't a blog? Well, I do, and it looks like it was made in 1997. On purpose.

Click here to waste time.

There's not much there, and it looks that way 1) because it's written in pure HTML, my grasp of which hasn't changed much since the late '90s, 2) I don't have much to offer textually speaking, much less graphically, and 3) I'm lazy, so why bother doing more?

(Cue tangent w/r/t web design, visual overload, etc. etc., then realize it's not worth it, and never write said tangent.)

The website, which was generously provided by the SDF Public Access Unix System, will be a repository for stuff that I don't feel fits this blog. As of now, nothing qualifies as such- well, nothing I've written- but I like leaving the option open. Maybe my D&D notes will end up there, should I ever type 'em up.

I'm off to read some Joe Bob Briggs movie reviews, so see y'all later!

Status report.

The busy year marches on.

Finished the semester. Got married (rad). Preparing to have wisdom teeth pulled. Finally visited Waterloo Records in Austin. Getting ready for the big wedding party in a couple weeks. Got a summer suit. All set for my China trip (or so I like to pretend). Occasionally working on the new novel. Having a hard time finding time to do a lot of the stuff I want, but trying not to get frustrated 'cause I've seen it coming for months.

Often tired. So it goes.

"solitaire bangers"

damn
i hear blogger's having problems
so why bother writing?
"oh man
ain't that a bigger question
bigger than the internet?"
well shit
you have a very good point

maybe back in the dialup era
wardialin' and angelfirin'
there was a chance of
some other dudes
or some other chicks
clicking on the mailto:

now it's all skull interior decoration
and there ain't no mailto:
a former essence preached to
probably nobody
nah
nah nah
yeah nobody gives a fuck
take off the headphones
it's all you
echo chamber

fuck all the pricks
and the web and
fuck all the snoozers takin' your bed
when you should be gettin' sleep
posting to gopher
sdf-in' for an audience of one
rhyme and cadence not a strong suit
or a suit of any kind

time to test the rumor
hate to consign shit to the void
but it's all goin' there
in the long run
my galaga scores more important
than anything else this dude
ever done
poetry's for suckers
and demigods
and motherfuckers

press
reset







"hey man, lurk moar"

Scott's Stash: Somewhere Far Beyond

This one is easy:

Blind Guardian- Somewhere Far Beyond (1992)

Not as bombastic as later Blind Guardian albums- i.e., not as much synth and orchestral stuff- and much faster than the last record of theirs I heard (A Twist in the Myth from 2006), this is an excellent example of why the phrase "power metal" is so often proceeded by "German."

When I think of Blind Guardian my mind jumps to my brother's bedroom c. 1998-99, when he played some of Nightfall in Middle-Earth for me. A whole metal album based on The Silmarillion was pretty fucking cool in my book, so BG has stayed in my mind over the years. I'm no connoisseur of power metal, but Blind Guardian's good at what they do and have earned their reputation.

This is a good soundtrack for doing homework, too. The vibe is so positive and soaring and, despite the technical skill and musicianship, uncomplicated, that I got a lot more done than I would have if I'd been listening to, say, any of the albums I've bought lately. (Jex Thoth, I'm looking at you.) It's a good feeling.

One last stray observation before I wrap up. This particular disc is a reissue from 2000 and has three "CD bonus tracks." They're unnecessary and distracting on two levels: they throw off the album's general feel, and the addition of "CD" to "bonus tracks" in 2000 AD is baffling. C'est la vie, or however you'd say it in German or Elvish.

"West Lake"

One day I walk by the lake.
One day I sit by the lake.
One day I stand by the lake.
One day I lie by the lake.

-袁宏道/Yuan Hongdao, 1568-1610 (translated by Jonathan Chaves)

Categorization.

I've never tagged any of my writing here, mostly out of laziness but partially because of my disinterest in sorting my posts into categories that would feel either forced or merely convenient. I'd say that my muttering does often lend itself to tagging- poetry, personal stuff, music, etc.- but I don't see any reason to label individual entries in what is essentially an ongoing chronicle of, let's face it, whatever happens to capture my attention long enough to write about it online. I don't have any problems with categories (if I did, I wouldn't haunt the stacks at the library as often as I do), and I'm certainly not claiming that my, ahem, "work" defies categorization. I'm just not interested in doing it myself.

I probably should have joined LiveJournal a long time ago, I guess, but fuck it. The Corpse Speaks: music, writing, nostalgia, beer, books, life's small triumphs and looming defeats, and anything else are all fair game, unsorted save by date of publication. Just like a notebook, or that journal you wish you'd destroyed after senior year wound down and left you with a knot in your stomach, wondering what the hell would come next.


now playing: The Human Instinct, Stoned Guitar

Scott's Stash: Birth of the Dawn

What? Two posts in one day? Why is that, you ask? Because yours truly doesn't feel like tackling his Chinese homework yet, that's why. My procrastination gives you...

Orodruin- Birth of the Dawn (1999)

This pick looked dubious from the start. The liner notes have that ragged desktop printer thing going on, but since this is a remastered demo (not listed on the Encyclopedia Metallum, by the way, though the demo is), shitty packaging is acceptable. There are three songs here, or more accurately two songs, the first of which is a two-parter. The CD is completely unlabeled.

I have no idea how my brother acquired this, but I'm glad he did. This is fuckin' rad. "Birth of the Dawn/Sons of Nature" opens with some speedy traditional metal riffage that continues on for a while before the vocals show up- I thought it was going to be an instrumental. The overall sound of this first track brings to mind something that never happened: my brother's old band Last Eve playing Iron Maiden's "Losfer Words/Big 'Orra." Which probably means nothing to you, but that's not my problem.

"Creation Through Death" hits the brakes and lurches into doom mode. Whether this song's as good as the first is a matter of taste, but it's no slouch in the musicianship department. For a demo, this has remarkably clear production; I wonder what the unremastered original sounded like. My main complaint is that the vocals aren't as strong as the music demands. They're adequate, but not much more than that.

Birth of the Dawn is a nice little find for a Wednesday afternoon, and proof that the heavy metal demo is as cool as ever.

Scott's Stash: The Grand Leveller

This one comes from the batch of albums that Drew gave my brother:

Benediction- The Grand Leveller (1991)

Once more I find myself holding an album belonging to a band whose name I've known for ages but have never listened to. At some point I'm going to stop even bothering to mention this, as it'll probably be the norm for this series.

Actually Benediction's music isn't completely new to me, at least in part. Dave Ingram replaced Karl Willetts as the vocalist for Bolt Thrower from 1998 until 2004. I've always liked the one album Bolt Thrower released with Ingram on vocals, so when I went searching for an album to listen to while driving down the toll road and saw The Grand Leveller, I knew that even if the music sucked, the vocals wouldn't.

Of course, I didn't expect that the music would actually suck. Lo and behold, it turned out to be damned good. The production and overall tone of the instruments dates the album in the best way possible: it's the sound of British death metal a few years past its infancy but well before death metal's general decline into frustrating mediocrity in the late '90s. Not that nothing good came out of those years, but the early '90s produced some really good shit, and the response to some of it (i.e., black metal) was inspiring, too. The Grand Leveller is a good example of that time, if a lesser-known one.

Dave Ingram sounds good here, as does the rest of the band (not that I have a point of comparison). The songs are varied in tempo and mood, but not in a predictable, slow-doomy-number-now-something-faster-now-a-couple-midpaced-ones way. The riffs are killer, and the solos are too. As I mentioned earlier, I like the production; the heaviness of the music doesn't rely on it, and it accentuates what I think of as the outer edges of the sound. The lyrics aren't awful, but they're not particularly good, either. (I'm leaving the issue of the importance of lyrics alone.) There's a Celtic Frost cover here that's cool enough, but feels unnecessary, as covers often do.

Overall, Benediction surpassed my expectations. One thing I've noted as I've listened to this album a few times is that it works well as a complete unit, to the point where I don't have a favorite song. That could be a reflecting on how I listen to music, but I think it's more a sign of a well-crafted and well-played album. This isn't unique in death metal, but it's always a pleasure to put on a record and be able to listen to it all the way through, knowing that there's a sick riff or real headbanging part just around the corner. Good shit.


P.S. The photo of Dave Ingram in the liner notes is priceless.

星期四跟星期五一样吗？

Despite four weeks of gainful unemployment, Thursday nights still feel like the equivalent of Friday nights. It'll change with time, I'm sure, but old habits die hard. It's past midnight and I'm done beating my head against the wall working on the new potential novel, so I've been delving into the PDFs that came with my recent purchase of Lamentions of the Flame Princess: Weird Fantasy Role-Playing. It's all great stuff- so much so that I'm having a hard time reading one particular rulebook and keep switching between them. It doesn't help that I bought a couple-three modules as well, all of which seem rich with potential.

Life's all kinds of busy these days. There's school, moving in with the wife, planning for the wedding, planning for my summer study and honeymoon in China, figuring out what classes to take in the fall, adjusting to a new laptop (and a new OS, which is Windows- blargh), plans to edit/rewrite Critical Hits, research and writing for the new novel, trying to keep my AD&D game together, schemes for the LOTFP game I want to run in the fall... this is probably the busiest year I've had in a long time, and I'm sure there are events and activities I'm forgetting.*

It's late. I should go to bed, but I think I'll keep reading the LOTFP rules. I never followed James Raggi's old heavy metal zine of the same name that closely, but I'm pleased to see that the dedication he put into it has transferred to his role-playing efforts.

G'night!

*I just remembered the "Scott's Stash" series- I've got a couple albums lined up for it, but haven't posted my writeups yet. Soon enough, soon enough...

"Awe. Yeah." (+coda)

"Awe. Yeah."

Sometimes in the middle of the afternoon
you run across some amazing mo
ments
nothing that you expected or created or decided
upon
against all good timing and all good sense
you see something
hear something
feel something
that hits the switch in your tired brain bank
and pops that vault wide
open
doesn't matter if the words come out wrong
much less if the scansion's weak as Pong
gotta push rhymes sometimes
to get through the interstitial gristle
and address the joy that comes with moments like
this all alone with a beer and a mind that knows
despite knowing better on all fronts
fuck the words
moon pointing at the finger and shit
no crossed signals blink
of the eye
knuckles against palm
words in cat's ears
string it out bounce it off the walls
the walls
oh shit! oh shit!
the smile's pushed the rhyme scheme
out the room (out the room)
check the fridge for caffeine
the savior of later
ignore the hater that's you put 'em in lockdown
like history and Nader vote two thousand
oops got it backward
and things fall apart
things chinua achebe wants nothing to do with
this is the end when my eyes scan
up and down
and up and down
but it doesn't
mean that this motherfucking poem
isn't a heart: split 'em!
paean to what me and them and you
and the rest of the world can do
even for a long-assed head-bobbing
summation of the moment
when all the weirdness is pooling
and the pituitary's drooling
down the CNS
There's nothing better than right now.
Stand back
head back
bask in the tracks and strings and ho
liness of what makes you smile unabashed.

Awe.
Yeah.

---

This shitty poem is dedicated to, in no particular order:

my fiance, Saint Arnold beer, shit poetry, growing up nerdy, Orange Kitty, Matt "Scientist"/"Poet" Swulius, the first frustrating hour of Phantasy Star II, Red Pine, 8-Bit Boys, Youtube videos, studying Chinese, fresh headphones, Last.fm on Netflix on Xbox360, all the other loves of my life, and yours fuckin' truly.

Live life, but no more than conscience dictates. Don't do what I've done and let the past capture and paralyze your imagination. Don't sweat perfection. Good times are now Dissect the past like the Renaissance man dissected human bodies. Learn. Right now is it, and this is it.

Scott's Stash: Maiden America

Today's edition of "Scott's Stash" covers one album and eleven bands:

V/A- Maiden America- Iron Maiden Tribute & American Metal Compilation

This is a two-disc set: the first being a series of Iron Maiden covers by underground and/or lesser-known American metal bands c. 1999, and the second being original songs by those bands. I haven't listened to the second disc, because I didn't know it was included until I was halfway through the Maiden covers disc, and I went into this album with Iron Maiden on the brain. Maybe I'll write up the second disc sometime, but don't hold your breath.

In the paragraph above I mentioned "American metal bands." This simultaneously means "metal bands from the United States" and "bands that play American heavy metal," which in turn means, by my lazy and imprecise definition, "heavy metal inspired by late '70s metal, the NWOBHM, and offshoots thereof such as thrash and speed metal, melding the lot into what might also be termed 'traditional metal'."

Enough heavy metal etymology. I'd venture to guess that my brother got this album from one of the Agalloch dudes when he was a regular correspondent with/web designer for them. Agalloch, one of the greatest bands ever, shares members with Sculptured, who appear on Maiden America and whose debut album I remember seeing reviewed in the pages of Sentinel Steel.* Sculptured provides the only really memorable cover here, pretty much by virtue of being Sculptured- i.e., the weird metal-jazz band on the compilation that doesn't sound "like Maiden if Maiden had a different vocalist/guitar tone/faster riffs/whatever."

Not to say that the other bands suck, because they don't. There are some good covers here; hell, they're all competent, but the problem is that they're almost all forgettable. Even when there's something that stands out- Final Prayer's growling intro to "Killers," the quicker pace of Twisted Tower Dire's "Powerslave," Sadus being Sadus on "Invaders," and what I'll call the standard-plus (or Standard+) approach to "Hallowed Be Thy Name" provided by Edenrot- the compilation as a whole suffers from half-assed production and a slavish love of the source material. These factors combine to give the impression that the bands played their hearts out of songs they love, but under horrible recording conditions and without any interest in or ability to make these Iron Maiden songs their own.

I hate saying things like that because the bands involved inevitably sound like amateurs. I don't think that's the case here, because the musicianship is completely up to snuff with the original Iron Maiden songs; there's just not the level of individuality I like to see on tribute albums. (See Nativity In Black, where the songs were identifiable as Black Sabbath tunes, but with the artist's own spin on them.) There are flashes of it here and there, and the bands don't all sound the same, but there's an undeniable similarity across the board. Sculptured, and to a lesser degree Sadus and Edenrot, are the exceptions.

I admire the spirit that went into this. Iron Maiden is a force of nature in the metal world, and the bands on this compilation proved their appreciation. They just did a relatively undistinguished job of it, which is hard to fault given the constraints of the album's theme.

The more I think about it, the more likely it is I'll give disc two of this album a spin. No, scratch that- I'll look into the bands' own work. I'm really curious to see how everyone does for themselves without having to try and live up to Iron Maiden.

And, honestly, I'm looking forward to the next album in my brother's collection.


*I think. According to the Encylopedia Metallum, Sculptured's first album wasn't released until 1998, when I would'nt have had access to Sentinel Steel, but I could swear I saw it mentioned or discussed before then. Who knows; memory is a fickle and untrustworthy thing.

High of semntysome'n.

It's begun: the light is falling differently as the seasons shift, and my brain moves accordingly. I love this time of year, these lengthening sunsets, the sense of manageable urgency as days fade into nights that, when I was younger, felt like new phases of the day, but as of late are over before I know it, in bed by 11 PM and nodding off over a page of Mason & Dixon or In Search of Lost Time.

Doesn't matter, this shit is still pretty rad. I hope you think so too. Enjoy your spring, folks.

DAS

now playing: Brant Bjork, Gods and Goddesses

Scott's Stash: The Dark Saga

Today, folks, I'm listening to...

Iced Earth- The Dark Saga (1996)

I don't know who was responsible for my brother getting heavily into Iced Earth not long after we moved back to Texas in 1997, but they deserve a handshake. While never groundbreaking, Iced Earth was (and still is, at least the last time I heard them) a solid metal band with roots in traditional American metal. Their endless parade of band members has, vocalists aside, never seemed to hurt the band, because sole original member Jon Schaffer has always stuck to his guns.

Anyway, The Dark Saga is Iced Earth's fourth album, and second with Matt Barlow, who's been the best singer they've ever had. It's a strong album- again, there are no great surprises- until the last three songs, which are components of a greater song called "The Suffering." This trio of songs packs less punch than the rest of the album ("The Hunter," where I really dig the drumwork, and "Vengeance is Mine" stand out) and things lose some steam. It's a shame, because the first seven songs keep up a good pace. "The Suffering" strikes me as a forerunner to some of IE's later multi-song concept pieces, none of which really worked that well for me. Don't think I'm saying the last 30% of The Dark Saga sucks, because it definitely doesn't- it's just not as good as the rest of the album.

All in all, this is a metal album you can throw on without being blown away or disappointed by. Better than background music, but nothing you really need to wrap your head around. Dependable records like this aren't exactly rare, but there never seem to be enough of 'em.

P.S. The whole album is a concept album, really- or maybe I should call it a thematic record. What's the theme? Spawn. As in "Todd McFarlane's," "Image Comics," "parodied in the pages of Cerebus," "made into a shitty movie" Spawn. Don't sweat it too much. It works well enough, and this is heavy metal, after all.

Scott's Stash: Introduction/Triarchy of the Lost Lovers

Before my brother hit the road for California, he asked me if I wanted his CD collection. Not only has he embraced digital storage of music more than I, he didn't want the hassle of packing so many CDs. I haven't counted them, but there are probably a couple hundred. Like me, my brother is a metalhead, so I was eager to take the discs off his hands.

Some of them I already own, but there are a lot I don't; there are also many I've heard over the years, but don't remember. And, best of all, there are plenty I've never heard at all- things I didn't know my brother had, stuff his friend Drew gave him, or CDs I'd see around the house or in his room that I never got around to checking out. Now's my chance.

My plan is to listen to as many of Scott's old albums as I can- ones that aren't duplicates of things I have in my collection, or dumb shit like U2, the presence of which is Drew's fault, according to my brother- and write a little bit about each one. Not reviews, necessarily, just some thoughts about the music and all the things that come with listening to music. Since I'm quitting my job next week, time shouldn't be much of an obstacle, so I hope to make this a regular feature.

First up: Rotting Christ- Triarchy of the Lost Lovers (1996)

A name I've known for a while, Rotting Christ has nonetheless never received much of my attention. I know I listened to this album at least once- the band's name and the cover art all but guaranteed that- but that would've been sometime in the late '90s. I always think of my old friend Fran when I think of Rotting Christ; I recall he was a big fan.

A name I've known for a while, Rotting Christ has nonetheless never received much of my attention. I know I listened to this album at least once- the band's name and the cover art all but guaranteed that- but that would've been sometime in the late '90s. I always think of my old friend Fran when I think of Rotting Christ; I recall he was a big fan.

This album is really good. Mid-paced black metal from a period when black metal was starting to inform other metal styles and vice-versa. It's neither raw and simplistic nor symphonic and overblown; Rotting Christ has something unique going on here, though maybe someone more well-versed in Greek black metal could contest that. I thought the overall tempo would wear on me, but the songwriting and the understated atmosphere keep things interesting. Some great guitar work doesn't hurt, either. Generally speaking, everything works together quite well- I listened to the album twice without feeling like I had to skip a song, which is always a pleasant occurrence.

I hope there's another Rotting Christ album somewhere in the stash. Even if there isn't, this is a good start to this project. Later, folks.

Edge of nowhere.

Awesome, yet rough, night. My mind moves back to where I want to be, where I'll never be. Heart swells to a tune that I'll probably never fully share. It's all views from 45 here, dreaming about what happens in that house I've never truly left...

There's no going back, but fuck me if I don't feel like I'm some kind of traitor if I don't try. Synthesis is inadequate. So is everything else.

Sleep now. Read Edward Whittemore's books. ASAP.

Otra vez.

Classes start tomorrow. I'm staying up late tonight out of principle, by which I mean "in defiance of common sense." I've barely kept up with my Chinese over the past month, and while my on-and-off-again studies have surprised me with how much I've retained, my active memory feels atrophied. There's a precedent for this- last winter break, to be precise, and the yawning chasm that is the summer between semesters- so I'm not terribly worried. That said, I am worried, because I've established a good reputation in the Chinese Studies department and I don't want to let it slip due to laziness.

Ah, laziness, the most underrated of virtues and most maligned of vices. I'm almost ashamed to say that I'm unsure whether I've used this weblog to expound on laziness in the past, but that's probably the case. At the moment I'm not inclined to do so, because the Ourobouros of idleness refuses to let go of its tail, which leaves me here at two-something in the morning, relishing the last minutes of this long interstitial period, its attendant heavy metal and beer dregs and exhausted wonder...

This is it, folks. This is how it's always been and always will be.

Your humble Corpse as husband-to-be.

Yep, I'm getting married.

I've been with Tracey for almost four years now, and it's been great. So great that, after several months of serious thought, I asked her to marry me last week. It wasn't a grandiose, romantic thing- that's not really my style, and the proposal was as much a result of circumstances as deliberation- but it felt right, and still does. I love this woman dearly, and I easily see us spending our lives together.

It's an interesting and exciting time, but not in a conventional sense: I'm not a giddy twentysomething in the throes of heady romance, but rather a dude who's immensely lucky to have had several years of solid happiness with another person. Marriage will be a continuation, and deepening, of that happiness, and that's what I find awesome. Of course, it's not exciting only on my end; if I wasn't sure that she felt the same, I'd be far more nervous than I am. (To my delight, I'm not really nervous at all, except when I contemplate all the logistical worries that come with impending marriage.) We're a great pair made of a couple solid individuals, and the overlay of the two will make for a fulfilling life together.

I'm stoked. So is Tracey. So are our friends. This is gonna be a blast.

Catch y'all soon. Love always.

-DAS

Man, oh man!

Big news forthcoming. Dig thee the Bully soundtrack in the meantime.

2011!

Happy New Year, folks.

So far, so good. New Zealand wine, a late night banging out what will be the first of many projects for the year, Type O Negative mini-marathon through the new headphones... yeah, so far so good.

Other folks have expressed great expectations for 2011, but I honestly have no clue what I expect from this year. Nothing, really: I'll take it as it comes, though I won't say I have no hopes for the next 360-odd days. I'm just not sure what they are.

For now, I'll just say all hail Type O Negative's version of "Paranoid" and writing, which go hand in hand in the small hours.

Yule MMX.

Here we are, approximately 2,010 years after the birth of a near-mythical figure whose life and death are supposed to have delivered mankind from the uglier results of death. I've got a cup of wine, a few salvaged cigarette butts, a slow internet connection, heavy metal, and the prospect of sharing a room with my (literally) snotty nephew before me. It'd be easy to deride the value of Christmas if these banal things constituted the whole of my holiday experience, but seeing as how they don't- it's only 00:49, and my family awaits when I drag my corpse from bed- I'll venture to say that while Christmas ain't what it was when I was a kid, it's still worth celebrating even if you don't care about Jesus or Mithras or Saturnalia or the solstice. It's good to be here: Christmas reminds me of that, and that's enough for me for now.

Merry Christmas, folks. Here's to you, whether you're enjoying family or sweating it out alone. Without you, this wouldn't even exist.

My love always, for each and every one of you.

Yours,
Dave Smith

Axis Mundi Sum in e-book form!

Behold, my novel in electronic (and much cheaper) form! Buy yourself, and everyone you know, a copy for Christmas. I get a fistful of coins, you get hours of entertainment, and everyone wins.

"Hey! What's cool?"

"Oh nothing."

NOTHING IS COOL.

So sayeth Blockhead Skateboards, back in the day. I sometimes feel like they got it right (though I'm sure it was just a funny ad and not an existential statement). But then I remember stuff like

/b/
MC Frontalot
8bc.org
Judas Priest
Welcome to the NHK
oil pastels
nutritional yeast
glasses
writing

etc. etc., and life is good. (If still confusing.)

Musical selections as of late.

Winterfylleth- The Mercian Sphere
Fen- The Malediction Fields
MC Frontalot- Zero Day
Twin Stumps- Live 10.17.09
Grails- Black Tar Prophecies vol. 5
The Sword- Warp Riders
Marblebog- Forestheart

Research, listen, enjoy.

Cyclical.

How much can I write about late nights, up alone with only music and bad habits and the internet keeping me company?

A lot, apparently.

Right now I'm wallowing in nostalgia and not sleeping, which I should be doing since I have a Chinese test in the morning. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's not doing what I should be doing. I'd say that some day this will cost me dearly, but I'm sure it already has, in subtle and ultimately painful ways.

Listen to this song.

Another glass of water, and off to bed. 明天，我要考式。明天晚上，自由。

史大韦

Aww, yeah.

To rephrase the mighty YTCracker, "I remember way back in '99 when I could write all night".

I miss that shit. These days- or nights, rather- I get so distracted by bullshit when I stay up late with the intent to write. C'est la vie.

Speaking of nerdcore, I saw Schaffer the Darklord, MC Frontalot, and MC Chris a couple weekends back. It was killer.

Back to writing. Can't wait to see how rough tomorrow morning goes.

最后天气很凉快！

A cold front has finally moved in, and it looks like the temperature won't break 80 degrees anytime soon. This being Texas, that could change, but for the time being I'm going to enjoy being able to wear long-sleeved shirts, running my Jeep's heater (not because I need the warmth, but so I know it works when regular cold weather sets in), and listening to appropriate music.

Speaking of music, it appears Agalloch is releasing a new record later this month. I try not to buy much of anything these days, but this is an album that I'll definitely have Sound Exchange set aside for me.

I think I've started another novel. I say that because, at its current 25 pages, this project is too long for a short story, and I have tons more ideas waiting to be put into words. Maybe it's a novella; I can't say for sure. The going is slow- I work on it maybe once or twice a week, and the page count rises much more slowly than it did compared to novels I wrote in the past- but steady. That steadiness is really the main factor that leads me to believe I've got a potential novel on my hands. Another feature of this particular work in progress is that it's clearly a first draft. In the past, I rarely wrote anything expecting to go back and edit the hell out of it. This beast is ripe for rewriting, although I am trying to polish it as I go along, as long as doing so doesn't bog down actual progress.

More later. Hopefully sooner-than-later later and not months-later later. Apologies, dear readers. I hope y'all are well, and here's wishing an intriguing, meaningful autumn to all y'all.

DAS