DRIvel(s) circa 2015-2024

[craola]

LIVE ws uh gude baandt urrli auhn. ai tchink ED KWLCZK's ienphlayt'd ee-van-gogh gauht te bst uv hm && d's-troid te baandt prty urly auhn. te jerugs && te gurrulz && te phaym ddnt hellp mch eeth-her.

PEARL JAM's frst albumb 's lujit. thay taynk'd auff teiu aas EDDIE VEDDER tuke mohr & mhrre wreign ov'r te sauhngRiecht~ING.

OASIS, obvsly, sffrs frm nt 1 bt tw2 ovr-infillet/ted ee-van-goghs frnt~ing a d,suhnt rauhk baandtb.

COLDPLAY le MUSE teynk'd haurrhd. Khrs Ma'art'n's ubseshun wth grey-ting phall setto, ad her d-zier teu stur emo,shins rathr then x'pres thm...altho ai doughen't nohw tht 'e evr didt musch 'n thaat reeguard eevn auhn PAIRASHOOTS. MATT BELLAMY, well, ai b-leav ai dis/cuss/d 'im 'n un urliur poughst.

Ego is such a delicate and funny thing. I think it drives young men to prove something, and they end up creating brilliant stuff. But then they feel validated and start to believe that it's them and not the music. Then they get complacent with their songwriting because they've "made it" or whatever. I mean, who else tanked hard, and would I blame their egos and/or frontmen as well?

As always, I'll rehash this in my mind and probably disagree with myself on half of these points in due time. Just need to get the thoughts out so I can look at them.
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[craola]

bands that sound like advanced versions of other bands

if you like PEARL JAM. you should listen to DINOSAUR JR. it's pearl jam pro.

if you think you like NIRVANA; you ought to listen to ____. that sort of thing. . ..

if you are a big fan of SIOUXSIE & THE BANSHEES!! then you're doing fine, actually.

if you're really into that GLASS ANIMALS - give WILD BEASTS a shot, but don't bother with their newer albums. they kinda went downhill a few times.

if you're really into them ARCADE FIRES, for legit you should be listening to ECHO & THE BUNNYMEN. it's all of the urgency of early ARCADE FIRE and WIN BUTLER but with a lot more talent and sincerity, no offense overrated Canadian FRAY.

ok but if you listen to a lot of um FRANZ FERDINAND, you're confusing me. BUT. i would send you to MAGAZINE.

if you're a big fan of of ooof of THE STROKES, you can go home. this party isn't for you. sorry. again.

big fan of Sufjan's Carrie/Lowell? Give Susanne Sundfor's new album a spin.

here's one you're not expecting. if you think CHVRCHES' singer has a bedazzle of a vox box, ditch the synths and listen to THE SUNDAYS. it's everything you love about jangly, post punky music plus everything good about CHVRCHES, which is really only the singer.

you dig them FOO FIGHTERS? go home.

hm. you like Holly Herndon, right? good on you, man.

TAKING BACK SUNDAY? get on with ARCHERS OF LOAF. they'll make your bad emo pop/punk TBS rock look as palatable as a basket of dog****.

in general, listen to SONIC YOUTH.

oh FLAMING LIPS? forget them. MERCURY REV is your new boy toy.

you like PINK FLOYD? weird. ok.

into them gummy gummy TAYLOR SWIFTies? screw it. i've got GRIMES, and she walkin' over TS like she thought it was the red carpet. man. don't go there.

listen to Stina Nordenstam from time to time. listen to more Minnie Riperton. hell of a light that went out. listen to more Bjork. listen to more Burial.

BEYONCE? Janelle Monae.

BON IVER? please don't bother with that. ALT J? i don't get it, guys. i'm not even going to give you comparables for those. just throw that stuff out. it's prattle and nonsense. cattle, bovine, swine.

THE CRIBS? try THE SOUND.

INTERPOL? Joy Division. JOY DIVISION? New Order. New what? I meant 808 State.

BRIGHT EYES? Cursive.

MODEST MOUSE? Cloud Cult.... but Modest Mouse too. both good. one depressing. one uplifting. both good.

JEFF BUCKLEY? i mean, once you hear COCTEAU TWINS, Jeff is a nevermind i don't know what i'm talking about JEFF is always good.

oh but you're a MUSE fan? what about MUSE? JEFF BUCKLEY + RADIOHEAD + DEPECHE MODE gets you all the MUSE you thought you needed and more.

THE BIRD AND THE BEE? Dissociatives.

MBV? Pale Saints.

if you're into STING and/or THOMAS DOLBY, just put your PETER GABRIEL record on. you already own it, and you know it's much better than those other two, admittedly good artists, but you know... PG towers.

LORDE? stop trolling me. also, BJORK makes LORDE look like an absolute amateur. i don't get all this hype around her new sub-par record. the pop aspects of it fall flat and bore. she still sounds uber self-conscious in her vocal delivery. the song structures are weak. the lyrics are REALLY week (with the exception of a line or two). instrumentation is nothing special. i mean, not bad, but lordy, what's with the hype? so weird.

FLEET FOXES? rather than driving yourself actually insane, just put your clothes on backwards and go about your day like it's normal. that should irritate you about as much as Fleet Foxes. you don't need to actually listen to this stuff.

forget THE CRANBERRIES. you want COCTEAU TWINS.

SIGUR ROS? you telling me you haven't heard about WORLD'S END GIRLFRIEND?

U2? which era we talking? we talking early, ALTERED IMAGES, MAGAZINE, SIOUXSIE & THE BANSHEES / ECHO & THE BUNNYMEN era? THE CHAMELEONS ERA? or are we talking KMFDM era? PRINCE phase? COLDPLAY/KEANE phase (please no. please please no.)? this new era of BEATLES-esque wannabeism?

this list goes on and on and on and on. i'm too tired. i regret the negativity. i'm also mostly joking. mostly.
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[AfterHours]

Is this the Trout Mask Replica of Music Diaries?

9.4/10

Keep this shit lit. And all.
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Best Classical
Best Films
Best Paintings

[Repo]

JEFF Buckley?!?! Fuck that crap. His father Tim's where it's at.

edit: LOVED your list btw. Ver funny stuff. And I mostly agree of course.

[craola]

[craola]

if clouds precede precipitation
the signs plastered over the sun
i should have seen the storm rolling in
but this tide took me by surprise

unpalatable taste to accompany
the morning coffee, the daily commute
knowing in the back of your mind
that the nightmares struck again

so don your bravest smile
when the monsoon pours its sorrows
you can take me the next time
you send everyone home

scattered thoughts sharing maybe something about my head space these days. where i'm at. following a bad morning waking up to horrifying news earlier this week. sort of tangential to what happened, but it's more or less that helpless, confused feeling. the morosity and the madness. a cry for resolution. perhaps a bit of survivor's guilt projected into it, or perhaps a creed or prophecy. really, i'm not sure. it's words on a page. poetry? chasing a fleeting emotion that doesn't make much sense when tied down to a dowel. emotions run free as thoughts, and we can't really catch only capture them, right?
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[craola]

i realized today that for as much as i can't stand RUFUS WAINWRIGHT, i haven't ever listened to an album of his. to make things worse, the last time i listened to the guy was when i was 15 or so... and now i'm wondering if i wouldn't hate his music. i know he covered cohen and the beatles, and the covers, from what i remember, were really weak. have i ever heard anything he's written?

i wonder....

but my curiosity isn't going to be satiated today.

*edit: curiosity WAS satiated, and i can't say i care either which way for the RUFUS. talented? yes. my thing? not really. and so we move on with our lives.
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[craola]

apparently, i'm really into singer-songwriter stuff recently. i used to hate the genre, but a good chunk of my favorite releases this year come from that camp:

Susanne Sundfor: Music for People in Trouble
Emily Haines: Choir of the Mind
Laura Marling: Semper Femina
Soley: Endless Summer
Jesca Hoop: Memories Are Now
Kelly Lee Owens: Kelly Lee Owens

stuff not from 2017 that i've listened to a lot recently:

Stina Nordenstam: And She Closed Her Eyes
Agnes Obel: Citizen of Glass
Jenny Hval / Susanna: Meshes of Voice
Sufjan Stevens: Carrie & Lowell
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[craola]

the sea that separates
can only break what spans across
i'm tethered to the anchor
but it's buried in the sea
with my frail heart
the curve of the earth
bends enough to break this boat
but i'm not sinking

this bruise is bluer than the others
these blues abusers of the other ones
this bruise is bluer than the others
dangling in the sea with my guts on your hook

---

turns red * greener * this bruise is bluer than the other one
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[craola]

As the raindrops slop on the crop like fingers tickling the tabletop, I like to flop and plop on the pillow top mattress in the rear of the jewelry shop.

I’m listening for windchimes when the storefront bell sings the sign of a customer in the wings, and I spring from my cushion to the ring counter.

Like the sun, the truth never hides for long.

My morose and mundane life marches onward like a funeral procession. Day-in, day-out. It’s like the Ecclesiastes says: there is nothing new under the sun.

I put on my brightest smile for the customers at the counter, an elderly couple. I presume they are retired, and I can see that he treats her very well. She is already adorned head-to-toe in fine jewelry, and I don’t see why their visit here is necessary.

He tells me their sixtieth wedding anniversary is imminent, and he is asking to see the biggest diamond in the shop. We keep the fanciest items from our collection in a safe in the back of the shop. I ask him what he has in mind as I make my way to the safe.

I look away for only a moment while I pull the diamond collection from the bottom shelf. They’re all loose stones, but we can set them into any ring he desires easily enough.

I look back up, holding the cumbersome collection up like a peace offering to a slumbering god. The man has drawn a revolver. He holds it close to his hip with one hand, his other hand outstretched.

Our shop has security cameras, but they are a facade. None of them record anything. They’re simply props positioned around the store to deter criminal activity. A lot of good that’s done.

I hand him the diamonds and watch him exit the store. I count to ten before running for the phone. The police arrive within two minutes.

My hands are still shaking when I get inside the house. I park the car in the garage so that no one will see the bent frame, paint peeled back like fingernails or blood. Blood. I hit someone. This is really happening.

I pinch myself for the nth time. This is not a dream.

As if I haven’t had enough to drink already, I rummage the cabinets for alcohol and begin to pour myself a tall glass of wine.

“Forget that!” I mutter to myself, abandoning the wine glass, “I’m drinking straight from the bottle tonight.”
The world goes black.

Ear-splitting doesn’t even begin to describe my headache. Why am I so strung out? Oh yeah… last night.
I start to shake again. Springing to my feet, my feet start pacing around the room, dismissing the worst hangover I’ve ever had.

“This can’t be happening!” I repeat to myself.

Really. This can’t be happening. I’m a good person. Drinking-and-driving? Hit-and-run? That’s not me.

But it is happening, and I know that. I’m sober now, and the truth is crippling.

I had better check the news.

Google news search: “hit-and-run”. Tools: last 24 hours.

And there it is:

Hit-and-Run Turned Deadly

This can’t be happening.

“The identity of the 68-year-old victim has not yet been made public as authorities contact the family, but they have verified the man was a faculty member at the University, leaving campus after a grueling week of grading final projects.”

I re-read the article again and again and again and again and again. Could I have hit -

I can’t afford to speculate about who I killed last night. Killed. Yes, killed. I killed someone.

I refresh the page. The author added a footnote:

“Police are seeking help from the public in identifying the culprit. No witnesses have come forward as of yet, but authorities believe the victim was killed by a silver sedan, based on paint found at the scene of the accident.”

Oh God. I’m going to jail, as well I should. I killed this man. I read the words again. Culprit. The word sounds softer than the dull pain in my chest and the piercing headache. No witnesses.

I need to figure out what to do about my car. Someone is going to notice. I can’t bring it into the shop. I’ll need to repair it myself - and quickly. I wonder where the nearest junkyard is. Perhaps it would be wiser to visit one in another county, but how will I get there? I’ll have to get a ride. But who? Who can I tell? Who wouldn’t rat me out?

---

It is said that there are certain monsters lurking in the woods north of Fluria, the capital city of Gangan, that look very much like shadows. Unlike regular shadows, these shadows are cast by no one. They are not reflections. They are fully alive.

Typically, they hide beneath the cover of other shadows, making them virtually invisible. When some prey worthy of their appetite makes the unfortunate decision to find cover beneath the same shade, the living shadow devours the creature’s shadow whole, which kills not only the shadow but its caster. Of course, if you can get beneath the shade before the monster devours your shadow, the beast loses sight of your shadow beneath whatever cover you find.

The carcass is left behind, which is perfect bait for the living shadow’s next victim. Because of this, people are encouraged to look for a sleeping beast’s shadow before taking it home for dinner.

Even though these beasts tend to lurk in shadows, they have been seen crossing the Plains of Purrendou. They’re roughly the size of a hippopotamus, and they look like shadows cast by giant, gangly-mouthed deep-sea anglers.

---

There are times when a tree’s shade won’t save you. Although a person is safe from living shadows beneath the shelter of a tree, they may very well be in the clutches of a bewitched shadow.

Unlike living shadows, bewitched shadows are not alive. They’re essentially glorified booby-traps. They are one way portals used by vile critters with malicious intents. Witches, spiders and even living shadows have been known to use these portals to ensnare their prey.

Bewitched shadows are darker than regular, harmless shadows, but the distinction is subtle. When walking through suspicious territory, it is advised to throw pebbles into shadows before embracing them.

---

A person isn't too accustomed to seeing a man walk around with a giant eyeball for a head, at least not a civilized person, but it's a well-known fact that the monasteries in Ga:nga:n are chock-full of them. Parents do their best to shelter their children from the shrill reality of it all, but by the time children are old enough to go to school, they're all well-aware of the deformities.

One popular tale among children is that every year, scores of unholy individuals rise from their graves. This explains their religious obsession, since all of the mutants dwell in monasteries. Adults tend to think it is a sexually-transmitted mutation.

There are many peculiarities surrounding the mutants. Every prison in Ga:nga:n lies in the dungeon of some monastery, and the monks receive compensation from the city for their services.

My name is ɒnʃaʊvaʊ, and I want to set the record straight.

Four years ago, I murdered my wife's extra-marital lover and was sentenced to life in prison. What I did was entirely justifiable. You'd have done the same, I digress. That is another story for another time.

On the day of my sentencing, I was not led down into the catacombs beneath Flijau (the name of the monastery of my imprisonment). Instead, I was brought to the center courtyard, where the neɪreɪ (mutants) were preparing for a feast. Before me was the most extravagant meal I'd ever laid eyes on. They seated me next to the head of the table, poured me wine and feasted.

I felt hungover before I'd even finished my first glass of wine. I'm unsure whether it was the food or the wine they'd laced with magic, but it was powerful. The room was spinning. My head felt like it was at the center of a vice grip.

The next thing I could remember, I was blind.

I was deaf.

I was mute.

But I was alive. It took me a while to process, but I figured it out: I'd been turned into one of the neɪreɪ. It didn't take me long to figure out that I was one of the ones with a fist for a head. I burst out in anger, standing up to run in each and every direction. I wanted to smash everything, but I was locked in a cell. I was in the dungeon. The catacombs. Whatever I was supposed to call them.

I don't know how long I was there. It could have been minutes, months or more. It felt like an eternity. I was left with nothing but the voice in my head and the fist on my shoulders. It was cruel enough to punish someone in this manner. It made matters worse knowing that in spite of all my rage, I could only hurt myself. I could feel the warm blood dripping from all three of my hands. I spent most of my time pounding the walls of my cell in anger.

Eventually, I gave up. I slumped down into a corner, resolved to live out my life as a freak. Were all of the neɪreɪ criminals like me? How did they ascend the hierarchy? It was an enigma, and it didn't matter. I was probably deemed to be one of the dangerous ones. I would never leave this cage. I would shrivel, rot and die here. There weren't that many murderers in Ga:nga:n.

Then, out of the blue, someone grabbed me. They grabbed my hand-head with their hand-head. They dragged me out of my cell and into a bigger cell. There were more people in this one: all of them hand-headed like me.

It took some time, but I learned to communicate with them, Helen Keller-style. They'd come up with a sign language that they could use to communicate with each other through touch.

Apparently, a man was released from this group cell about several hours before I showed up. He was signing with a fellow cell-mate when he changed back into human form. A couple of prison guards immediately freed him.

The problem is, no one knew for sure what determined a person's freedom. All criminals were given life sentences, and some neɪreɪ turned human in mere months while others had been locked up here for years. Occasionally, a hand-headed neɪreɪ who hadn't reverted to human form was allowed to leave the cell and partake in regular monastery life. None of it was immediately evident.

The prevailing theory was that neɪreɪ reverted to human form only after making themselves right with God, but not everyone agreed with that speculation. Nonetheless, it is a monastery, so I started offering God my praise and worship. I prayed to him without ceasing. I prayed for release. I prayed for rebirth.

Eventually, I was released from the cell and given duties at the central alter.

One day, as I was placing wood on the alter, I was overcome with remorse for the wrong I'd done. I signed out to God. I wept for what seemed like hours. I offered God my anger there on that alter, and then I was human again.

Over time, I learned what this monastery was. This was not a prison for people to rot and die in. This was a place of healing. Upon initiation, a magic spell is cast on each and every prisoner, turning them over to their vices. For me, that was the hand I'd use to kill. The spell transfigures the prisoners. The spell is broken only once the vice is crippled for good.

I was free to leave. At first, I was nervous about how I would be received back home, but I found that my reflection had drastically changed, and I was completely unrecognizable. I had been reborn, and I was a new person.

---

Munshi lived in Dela-Foglauti, one of the largest Dowolo mountain-fortress kingdoms in all of Verilijan.

Dela-Foglauti was dug into the cliffs of steep mountains resembling giant pillars that rose out from the ground (similar to the Hallelujah Mountains in Zhangjiajie). From the outside, their cities look like a cross between the rock-cut tombs in Myra and the city of Petra - only much higher up. High arches lead into caves deep within the core of the mountain, and bridges crisscross back-and-forth between the many parts of the city, allowing trade between neighboring mountains.

The caves themselves are immense. The roofs are set high like gothic churches, and nearly everything is cut from stone. The Dowolo pride themselves in their statuary, and every room, hall, nook and cranny is elaborately carved in high decorative-style. Even outside the mountain, giant statues overlook the land outside the city.

Of course, in order to reach the caves, you have to climb several hundred feet straight up. This is something that the Dowolo are masters in. Their long, slender arms resemble opossums tails: strong and opposable. Their feet come to a point, and their legs are likewise long and strong.

This is where Munshi spent her entire life, but we'll get to her later.

Moshno grew up in Toratsidje, a Dolowo settlement bordering the Shwahali Desert. Architecturally, Toratsidje is quite similar to Dela-Foglauti. Still, being nowhere near the Foglauti Mountains, it rests in the cliffs of a grand mesa (also known as tableland). The entire city is part of the same mountain, so there are no bridges spanning the expanse between different sects of the city. Other than a couple minor differences, however, the two cities are very much the same.

I suppose the rock they're cut from is also quite different, but that's another story for another time.

Eight months ago, a curse fell over Toratsidje so that clouds fell on the city and poured rain relentlessly on the city, so that it flooded. When the rain first came, the city rejoiced. They were, after all, at the edge of the desert and did not get rained on often, but it gradually became apparent that the rain would not cease.

When it rains over Toratsidje, the chambers are filled with sound. The Dowolo stretched and tuned skins over holes atop their mountain, created drum heads that sing throughout the mountains when it rains. Up until the torrential downpour came, rainstorms were welcome with festive hearts.

Dela-Foglauti has drums across their mountains as well. Each mountain is tuned to a different chord, but they all compliment each other, so that if you stand outside between two mountains, you hear two chords in perfect harmony resounding through the archways.

It was during this time that Moshno left Toratsidje. The rain showed no signs of letting up, so he resigned to find a new home, which led him straight to Dela-Foglauti.

Moshno had heard about Dela-Foglauti. It was legendary, and some said it was the closest you could get to God, geographically speaking. He wasn't particularly religious, but he still thought there was something special about that.

It took him a little more than a week to walk there (about 200 miles - all traversed by road). He volunteered for military service on C#Minor (the mountains were named after their respective chords). This provided him with an income and a place to stay. Further, it insured he would be welcome in this new community he wanted to make his home.

He had already served in the military for two years before he met her. He was asked to make a run to the market to collect rice. She was a farmer's daughter, selling rice in the market. It was infatuation at first sight, and he returned every day to make sure the seeds of infatuation grew into flowers of love. Several months passed before she decided she liked him too.

Her name was Munshi, which roughly translated to "pretty grain amid bags of discarded rice". It wasn't the most romantic name, but it managed to show how much she meant to her parents.

Within a year, they were engaged to be wedded. Moshno set off on a journey to his hometown to invite his wedding party. While he was away, Munshi fell through a shadow-portal. Two villagers, who witnessed the event, followed in after her before the portal closed.

Nobody knew where the three had gone until Frank showed up.
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