I think I've finally managed to reach the level of self-isolation that causes pain. I honestly wasn't sure it could even happen, but here we are.
Mission accomplished?
My mental state has deteriorated further. Every waking moment that I exist without being fully distracted leads to the same thoughts. I cannot sleep without Ambien, and every night it takes longer and longer to work. Reality as I see it will not let me go. Looking backwards makes me aware of all that I have wasted, spending my childhood self-destructing, my teens disappearing, and my adulthood rotting away. Looking forward beyond a week sends me into a tailspin. Looking outside proves me right. I wish I could stop looking.
It won't give up. It wants me dead.
Recently I've been teetering on a more social edge. The isolation has been bolstering my innate desire to complain. So I suppose I'll use my twice-a-year burst of motivation to open the can of worms. It'll give me something to do for an hour.
I wanted to post something in genuine because this pertains to the group, but I don't see a reason to do that. It wouldn't do more good than harm. The truth is that I haven't seen myself as a part of the group in years. I participate in maybe 5% of the activities that go on anymore. I don't create anything in a group built on creating. Partly because my aforementioned motivation appears with the same regularity as a solar eclipse, partly because I am well aware that nobody is interested in the art that I have made. Is it that my writing is wholly founded on the music that I like, and that music is abrasive to most of the group? Is writing itself just a form of media that nobody wants to consume? Is it because what I do isn't porn, and that's all that people in the group seem to make anymore? I don't really want to know. What I do know is that there is not a single person that would be able to respond to me if I asked them, "What is the last creative thing I wrote?". Not even the person reading this.
The isolation goes beyond that. I haven't felt comfortable actually talking in that group since the early pandemic. All I've done is occasionally pop in with a cheap joke in the desperate hopes of mining serotonin from a laugh, and that wells has been running dry for a while now. A conversation that I even have the potential to have input on happens once a month at the most. Over 95% of the topics discussed are effectively brick walls. Magic the gathering. Coding. Drawing. 3d modelling. Anime, movies, games. Watching someone play a puzzle game for a week straight. Work. Moving out. Being a functioning adult. Planning for a future that isn't a black hole. Hours and hours of conversation I have no place or interest participating in. But what would be the point of publicly complaining about this? There's no solution. I don't want a "Talk About Me" hour. I almost always hate talking. If I can't plan out what I'm going to say, it's just going to come out as a jumbled mess that I regret for as long as I remember it. I don't want to restrict conversation topics, the call is already dead-silent enough. Everyone else seems to be able to split off into their own groups and play their own games. I'm the only one with a problem.
So, why write it here? I don't know. Am I just screaming into the void for catharsis again? Probably. I've got nothing better to do. Or rather, I have nothing better that I would actually do. Is it the selfish hope that someone could actually provide me comfort, despite what I will do to them one day? Unlikely. I will actively fight any attempt to actually help me, because I do not want to be helped. I am not capable of positive change, because I understand that all it entails is more of this.
In all likelihood it's just been another excuse to move the clock. Killing time is all I can do anymore. Just waiting until I finally run out.
I understand, at least at some level, there seems to be this constant animosity just under the surface whenever you talk to me. It's not there all the time. Sometimes we chat in a manner you could call normal. There's always that sibling sarcasm that doesn't mean much one way or the other. And still, even after everything, I keep trying to make you laugh.
But whenever there's discussion about the future, or I need you to drive me somewhere, or do one of the very few things I am normally capable of. I feel it. I hear it. I don't even know how intentional it is on your part. But it's impossible to mistake.
A soft, calm hatred.
The parents have gotten good at hiding theirs. Sometimes I can almost believe it isn't there. For them, their weak spot is the eyes. When I have to be hauled to the increasingly rare day out. When I skirt one of the three responsibilities I have in this house I am grafted to. When discussing health insurance, jobs, taxes. I can feel dad's gaze when he passes by my door, even if he isn't looking. There's Ryan. A loud fan, a loud keyboard, sometimes a loud voice. Consuming time and effort and money, two decades and counting. Generating heat and noise and nothing else.
The obligation rots on his disintegrating chair, and will do so forever.
So of course, I know why you hate me. Despite what it must seem, I am not stupid. I can see what I do to the people around me. I understand what I have been sowing for the last eight years. While you attended college, worked on projects, managed your own housing and transport in a busy city, graduated and got a job, your twin got to sit at home. Taking a sick day for most of a decade. Sleeping in the same bed he'd slept on for his entire life. With the same fucking blanket, sleeping and doing nothing else. You have worked hard to build your present and are prepared to work harder for your future, and you have to look at me. The one who does nothing and gets what he wants. The parasite that leeches from his parents as they grow old, growing in waistline and nothing else. The squeaky wheel that hasn't seen a road in years, yet continues to beg for oil.
And now, as the parents seek refuge from the lifetime of hard work they have endured, the burden lies entirely upon you. I empty the dishwasher, "cook" a meal once every dozen days, and open the door for a cat. You do everything else. You have made the immense stress that these periods cause you abundantly clear. And while I can never know how much of that stress is me, I can take an educated guess.
So when I found that gap in my hairline, I suppose I shouldn't have been disappointed by your response to my terror. You always found particular annoyance with how long I like to keep my hair.
It still hurt more than I thought it would. I felt like I was, for once, wearing my dread and panic pretty openly. Were you really unaware, or just too irritated to keep the mask up? A frustrated huff, and those words which I don't think I will ever forget. Then back to your game.
You didn't hear my muttered, "thanks" as you walked out.
You certainly didn't hear the next two words.
Around this time of year I always get stuck on a line of thought. As I am hounded to update my wishlist, to beg for even more resources I don't want, need, or deserve. I wonder if this year will be the one I run out of money for gifts, too afraid to check my bank account. And I always think, "They would be healing by now. If I had put effort into just that one thing in my entire life, they would be moving on. They would be free."
A useless idea. The past is unfixable. What-ifs are a waste of time, and as a lifelong expert in wasting, I would know. And I realize that I can't imagine that for any point in the future, because now they know. Now they won't be able to comfort themselves with the fact that I hid it from them. They won't have that nice hypothetical, that if they had known, they could have helped. They could have saved me.
They'll blame themselves for not doing the impossible, when it was never up to them. It's on me. At any moment I could choose to live, and I don't. I do not want to. So here I rot, until something inevitable finally comes and washes me away.
Recent events were painful for only a short time. The stress faded with the help of cannabis, and acceptance was all that remained in the morning. And an awful relief. Because if the world is really taking the fastest possible route into the fire, then I have my ticket. I can claim to die for a purpose. The thought of being a sacrifice for the chance at a future for anyone else is one of the two things keeping me going. I still have a shed of empathy, and I still have my rage. If I can take a fascist with me, then I will have no regrets.
But first, the wedding. The only good thing I know I can do. After that I can open my schedule.
How's it going? How's it been? What's been going on with you? What have you been up to?
There is no answer. It hasn't. Nothing.
Waiting.
ECT didn't work. Medication A didn't work. Medication B didn't work. Medication C didn't work. Medication D used to work, but the withdrawal effects keep me from stopping. Medication E didn't work. Medication F didn't work. Medication E didn't work. Personal therapy doesn't work. Group therapy gives me something to look forward to, but it doesn't work.
After ECT was giving me no noticeable positive effects and some very disconcerting memory loss, I was finally allowed on the list for the big one. Esketamine. Psychedelic therapy. A drug trip proven to be reliably effective in cases of extreme medically resistant depression.
So after weeks of waiting and a few very pleasant highs, I am pulled into the office by the administering doctor. He asks if I've noticed any improvement in my mood, my energy, my motivation, on days where I had not taken the drug. I said no, nothing.
Maybe it would have helped if he had tried to stifle his reaction. Because the unfiltered look of shock and concern on the face of a medical professional when you tell them the treatment that was supposed to save your life isn't working isn't something you can move past. His next words may as well have been, "I don't understand".
So here we are. I will continue the esketamine treatments because I enjoy the high and it is the only thing in my life that currently gets me out of the house, and the third thing in my life I look forward to on a weekly basis. And we'll try more medications. And we'll try more therapy. And we'll try augmenting medications. And we'll try new procedures.
And none of it will work. Nothing will fix me, because the only things that can fix me is a desire to fix myself, or a physical rearrangement of my brain.
You can not help me. You are not real. Pixels on a screen, vibrations in my ear. I am the only one that can help me, and I do not want to.
Please don't let this still be happening in four years.
Well, something is happening. I'm not sure I have it within me to accurately describe it. But I suppose I can describe the events leading up to what is currently happening, and you can fill in the blanks. In any case I feel like it's important to make the attempt to archive this.
In short, I said fuck it and got a lobotomy.
In a little bit longer, I've been doing electroconvulsive therapy and it's been having... an effect. Probably multiple. Good? Bad? I really honestly do not know. The way I now feel is not something I think I can simplify. I'm being pulled in many different directions, but softly.
I think this is good.
The air feels different. The sun feels familiar. Reality feels like it's shifted somehow. My memory is pretty bad, which is to be expected. Time seems to stretch whenever it isn't being directly observed.
Yet I have more hope. Wordlessly, I do. I don't have reasons to, I just do. Everything feels more vibrant, more pure. I want to one day go outside and experience the world but right now I'm pretty overwhelmed. In the meantime I want to talk to my friends. I want to share this with them. I want them to read this. I want to share the things I've been hiding from them. I want to be closer to them.
So, I guess I'll post this. And we'll see what happens from there.
Above everything, you always stressed to me this: That there's nothing I could do that would ever, ever make you stop loving me.
I'm afraid that isn't true.
I can try to remember what you've given to me but I won't be able to get all of it. Your time, your money, your love. Help with homework I didn't want to do. Rides to band practice (and school, and the pharmacy, and therapy, and restaurants, and friends' houses and...). Food, almost every day. Hugs when I needed them, even when I tried to hide away. Words of comfort to a crumbling face of stone. Unyielding, unconditional support. Everything you had and then some.
And what have I given in return? A constantly eroding bare minimum.
I know, I know. You wouldn't ask anything of me. You gave me your life because you wanted to. Every time you see me smile is payment enough. And even though I can't believe that, I understand that you do.
You have done everything to help me, but I want to tell you that you can do nothing to save me. Nobody can. Words are air and hugs won't pay bills. Try as you might, you cannot puppeteer me into living a life I have no desire to. You and everyone else around me can offer advice, cheer me on. Throw life preservers, ropes down. Plead and beg.
But only I can choose to tread water. And despite how little I do, my arms and legs are so tired.
Is it worse to show you this? Is it a mercy to allow you the false hope that I can get better? No option is good. I have been propelled through life by the forces of obligation and consequence alone. And those concepts have been gradually losing meaning. It won't be any time soon; it's too close to Christmas for that.
It isn't fair that you gave everything and it wasn't enough. It isn't fair that I was born with a broken mind, into a broken body, and expected to live in a broken world. It isn't fair that you got two when you really only should have gotten one. It isn't fair that I truly mean every single word I've written here, no matter what I may say later. It isn't fair what I'm going to do to you one day. It won't be fair to any of you.
I know, I know.
But there's nothing you could do that would ever, ever make me outlive you.
It’s still in the edges of the plush stool that we keep the board games in. The air purifier/humidifier that has returned to dad’s office. I know it still resides under a black tarp in the garage. Sometimes, when walking around late at night, it flitters between my ankles and makes me hesitate. Even now.
It’s still taking up space in my bed every night, and I doubt it will ever leave. The absence of weight on my chest is heavier than it ever was.
But despite everything. The cumulative hours I spent looking in your eyes.
I can’t remember what color they were.
Paul gave us a scare. Mary, too. We stopped seeing her several months ago. We assumed the worst because we had to. I tried to not admit defeat but I have to admit that I stopped checking the windows so thoroughly after a while. Then, a couple of weeks ago, Paul vanished as well. He went from spending half of every day curled up on my little sister’s old bed to totally absent and it worried us immediately. After a few days, mom went over to the neighbors that technically had owned them, sort of. It’s a complicated situation.
After leaving messages, she had almost given up on contact with them. Then, a miracle revealed itself.
Not only was Paul fine, so was Mary. The neighbor had been keeping Mary in their house since December, and wanted to shut Paul in for a few days to prepare him for a visit to the vet. Since then, he’s come back. We think at least part of the reason he was let back outside is because he meowed himself hoarse trying to be let out.
I’ve been kind of trying to get him to climb up into bed with me. His schedule is still nocturnal though, and I think the general creakiness of the bed and my movements going up the ladder scare him off a bit. So far he hasn’t shown much interest in coming up.
I’m kind of glad, to be honest. I don’t know what it’ll do to me if he does.
I “hid” most of my last two journal entries. It’s still there, you just have to make the active decision to keep reading. I promise that you won’t like what’s written there. I don’t either. But I think I’m doing better now.
I’ve got a King Gizzard live recording on like Febreeze over an exploded sewage tank. I find myself rapidly swinging between borderline suicidality and just feeling kind of down. There have been many, many points within the last month where I would have used a loaded handgun if I were suddenly holding one. I’ve thought I saw clearly what my life was at several points and at this point I have no bearing on what clarity actually is any more. I want to die. I don’t I want to talk about it. I don’t. I want to write about it, and I guess I shot the lottery on that one because here I am. Why?
I want to tell my brother that I’ve given up on him. I want to say exactly what I feel about how he’s been treating me the last several years. I want to accuse him of gossiping about our friends, which is true! He’s been doing it actively and with no remorse. I want to accuse him of worsening my already awful mental state, and he is! Most of the suicidal thoughts have come as a direct result of him keeping me up past 4-5 AM jabbering with people on the East Coast, and thus keeping them up even later. I want to accuse him of completely ignoring me and everything I do, which is true! He has openly admitted to never reading this blog, because it scares him. He couldn’t name the last thing I wrote if his life depended on it. I haven’t streamed in months and he hasn’t asked about that because he has no idea. He doesn’t try whatsoever with me, which hurts because he was one of the few things that I was trying with. Oh well.
I gave up too, buddy. I gave up a long, long time ago. Did you know that the night after I tried to kill myself, you were what made me cry? The thought of what you would be going through when you heard that I was in the hospital and why. Do you remember a few years earlier, that you were the first one I ever confessed my suicidal thoughts to? Were you pretending to care then too? I won’t be linking this in the group and I hope I don’t take it down either, like I did the last time I emptily ranted at you on a webpage you would never read. None of my “friends” read this despite the fatc that I only ever showed it to people I deeply cared about, with the explicit message that it was where I wrote my truest feelings the things I felt were the most important to me. Nobody gives a shit. A couple of people skimmed the first thing I shared and sent me a tearful message of “talk to me if you need to” with the knowledge that they didn’t mean it, and that’s it. You aren’t reading this. If you are it’s only becuase I finally grew the balls and finished the job nad now you’re trying to act all sad and pretend you cared. Fuck off, I knew you were lying and this is what happened. Maybe I deserved all the pain I was born to bear but you certianly deserve what you’re feeling in my wake. I don;t mean that I do. I mean it. Get away from me. I gave up and so did you
Words are air, pixels on a screen. Cool. Thanks. You can’t do anything. It doesn’t mean anything. I have failed at every hurdle I have put in frront of me. I did not attempt any of my resolutions. I did not update my christmas wish list. The phone is a mess of electrical signals. My parents are dying. The world is further away and that’s good. It’s a nightmare anyways.
The future isn’t.
You can’t fix me. You can’t save me. It’s becoming clear that you can’t really help me anymore. Please stop trying. I don’t want to live. I don’t want to die. I want to wake up and be something and somewhere better. I don’t want to do anything, I just want it to happen to me. It doesn’t exist. I threw it away.
Mom’s going to ask how group went. it was fine. let me go
I had two consecutive dreams about Domino. Can I call them nightmares? He was alive in the first one and I knew it was wrong. They wouldn’t tell me how it was possible and I didn’t really care. I was a wreck the entire time because I knew it was wrong. Last night I saw his ghost in a different cat and could not recover. I burned every bridge in my family in a pure rage that he had been taken away from me again. I have been lying awake at night dreading these dreams and the horrible thoughts that precede them. I’ve begun to truly miss him, despite my best efforts to let go. It still hurts like nothing else and it finds me when I try to rest.
In 2017, when I held the bottle of pills I would use to end my life, I knew that it probably wouldn’t be enough. I had planned for two outcomes: Either it worked, or it didn’t. In the case of the latter I would admit everything to my family, go to the hospital, and find a reason to live. I vowed that if I failed to die that I would never attempt it again.
But there was a fear. That I, in my infinite sloth, would use my own suicide attempt for pity. That I would live out the next several years as if it was summer vacation, disregarding responsibility and the outside world to play video games all day, every day. That I would continue to leech off my parents, living under their roof with no attempt to find my own way. That I would continue effectively masturbating in my room for the remainder of my family’s patience, until the day it ran out. Until a parent died, or disaster struck the house, or the world ended.
Things haven’t quite turned out the way I had feared. I also got fat.
I no longer pursue music, because I don’t want to. I no longer pursue writing, because I don’t want to. I rarely talk to friends, mainly opting to sit in the call and listen while I kill time. I do the bare minimum in all aspects. My energy is spent from the moment I open my eyes in the “morning”. The only time I am not tired is when I put the phone away at 3 AM and the future starts suffocating me as I toss and turn in bed. I have no intention of growing. I have no intention of getting another job; the one I have is to keep my parents off my back. I have no intention of learning FL Studio, or writing music. I have no intention of leaving the house. I have no intention of outliving my parents. I have no intention of creating anything. I don’t really have any intention of playing video games, but it’s all I can do. I have no intention to kill myself yet. But that will change.
I could get up and do things but I do not want to. I do not want anything. Not enough to act. The thought of being a burden on my parents is not enough. The desire to experience life is not enough. The desire to be in a relationship is not enough. My mind is broken and I do not believe a pill can fix it. I need to be rewired if I am to have any chance of survival.
The last thing I want to do is to bring this up in group therapy. I don’t use that as a figure of speech, I mean it literally. That is the final thing I have intention of doing. Because I have heard that recent trials of psilocybin treatment have allowed the brain to be reworked. Maybe I could be given that as a treatment. This is all I can do.
I don’t think this is a cry for help because there is nothing you can do to help me. Words will go through my mind and there will be no action. I am the only one that can help myself and I do not want to.
I can sit in the chair in the corner of the living room. I can go several months without needing to replace the pads at the bottom of the chairs. I can leave the door open, as long as the new screen is put in, and have no fear of bugs getting in through any holes.
I can be in my room with the doors closed. I don’t have to worry about keeping space on my desk. I don’t need to cover the power button on my PC. I can enter the bathroom and close the door behind me at whatever pace I like.
I can enter the house and hear nothing.
I can walk down the hall and not trip on anything. I can walk in the dark with earbuds in. I can leave the doors open for a bit without worry. I can walk barefoot in the bathroom without a second thought. I could leave the door shut after I take a shower, if I wanted.
I can climb into bed, in the dark, without any hesitation. I can lay in any position I want, for as long as I want. I can sleep without leaving space anywhere. I can wait until my brother goes to sleep and hear nothing.
But I can’t sleep so well anymore.
Sometime in the winter of 2021 a couple of stray kittens started appearing around the house. They would appear on the motion-detecting cameras my mom placed around the garden, usually early in the morning. I didn’t see them until they had been around a good couple of months. I’m not sure whether it was my mother or my sister that decided to start feeding them.
They’re Siamese cats, and we’re assuming they’re twins accordingly. The only way to visually distinguish them is by their paws: One has full black sock patterns, one has blotches of white fur around their paws. The full-socked one is male, and from the start was more receptive to our food. Both of them are remarkably unafraid of humans, although the white-socked one is much more skittish. It’s clear these cats weren’t born feral. We’ve taken to calling her a female to help differentiate between the two. She doesn’t show up too often, but I’ve seen her within the past two weeks. We think she’s been with a neighbor that has also been setting out food.
Our unfortunate assumption is that these cats were born in a house, but the owners decided they didn’t want them, and so drove up our road and dumped them out. Thankfully, almost fatefully, they found their way to a house that would care for them.
The black-socked one, the male, has very much grown attached to us. It took a while to build up enough trust to let us pet him, but now he’s at our door every day. He sits or lies down on the white mat outside our backyard door, patiently waiting for one of us to come by and give him pets. He’s comfortable walking a foot or two inside and flopping down on the ground as we barrage him with attention. He sometimes wants to play, and often gives gentle bites to whatever exposed finger or toe is within reach. We have to punish him by ignoring him for a minute when he does that, but I can’t stay mad at him for that long. He barely makes a sound aside from purring.
The first few times I was able to pet him, I couldn’t stay around him for long. There were too many ghosts.
I’m still not sure I have it in me to give him a name. It’s been a year now. When I’m around him I can’t use any of the affectionate whispers I used before. I can’t. It’s stupid but it feels like cheating, in a way. I can’t call him “kitty” because that word doesn’t belong to him.
Every day he comes around, and every day, regardless of the weather, I let him in. It still hurts, but I give him some love. I have to. I wish I could give him all of my love.
Reading a literary or lyrical work from the 70′s, wringing its soul in the fear of a war-torn future. Seeing a few candid photos of kids being taught how to aim wooden facsimiles of rifles, in countries with borders teeming with the million-strong forces of some enemy. A song from past times, decrying a corrupt government figure that is openly worshipped by spit-pelting masses at the step of a public institution. Short, disyllabic phrases to post and scream that show to all your apathy for your fellow man in favor of a singular other. A mask worn, just barely, to protest another. The slow and excruciating dread of the upcoming summer. A murder for the radio, the TV, for each and every tab. Bad news that comes as no surprise. The insidious decay of something everyone you know of has taken for granted, suddenly catching up. Laughing at something that is funny to no-one. A very subtle sinking in your chest when you aren’t sure if anyone can hear you. Reading the final published words of the dying and displaying nothing. The fear of the empty page, and the far more terrible fear of the same sentiment expressed in dozens of one-sentence headlines.
That funny feeling.
The pills I have been taking have not made me want to live. Of course not. The outside world does not have a cure that is both sustainable and effective. The pills have, however, made me stop wanting to die. Small victories.
The cure is not easy. It is not a pill, taken by any amount of individuals. It is not reducing meat consumption or recycling. It is not a petition. It is not a ballot, nor a rally. It is not one’s own words used against them. It is no amount of exhaustive and well-documented studies. It is no ordinary individual, nor any group of ordinary individuals. It most certainly is not words.
The cure is not developed, not because we don’t know how.
And now, for something completely different. Well, it’s music-related again, so maybe just somewhat different.
After each of the D&D campaigns I’ve been playing with my friends for the last few years I’ve assigned each of our characters (plus the odd important NPC) a song that I felt fit their personality, actions, and/or arc. I’d usually put a decent amount of thought into my choices beforehand, and since I never really elaborated on why i picked the songs, I figured I may as well suck myself and my taste in music off a bit more by going into my reasonings. This won’t mean too much to those who weren’t actually in these campaigns. But for the exactly 4 of you who were, welcome to my vent blog! Please enjoy this post before you start scrolling down and getting sad.
Campaign 1
Flea: Alela Diane - Take Us Back
I remember the guy who played this character (a semi-feral child with the ample ability and intense desire to murder drug dealers) was confused at my choice for Flea, and I get it. She was extremely energetic and often violent, which is the exact opposite of this song. Still, I felt this song may have been a good choice for her backstory. I thought of it as a quiet mourning for a childhood and innocence lost to slavery. Flea never showed too much remorse for what happened to her, but I imagine there was a song like this one beneath the vengeance and excitement. Also, this was the song used at the ending of the final chapter of Telltale’s The Walking Dead, which may have played into why it was on my mind at the time.
“Meet me where the snowmelts flows
It is there, my dear, where we'll begin again”
Yul: A Perfect Circle - The Package
Initially I had this as the QOTSA song below that I re-assigned to Jay. However, upon discovering this band I felt this song was a better choice. Yul wasn’t necessarily chaotic, moreso driven. Perhaps a bit too driven. His goal was always to look out for himself, even if that required sacrifices. And to be fair, he took a couple of those risks himself. But the inevitable in-party fighting that comes with hosting an immoral character brought Yul to his end (or perhaps, his new beginning). Also I wrote the song “You’ll Know” about him. Seriously. That’s the one song that I’ve mostly written, and it’s 100% about him. Look at the lyrics.
“Lie to gain what I crave
Lie, just smile and get what's mine”
Seswin (not the right spelling but it’s wacky characters): Porcupine Tree - What Happens Now?
The journey of the straightman in a world full of wackjobs has a way of challenging the mind and spirit. In this case, I believe it forced Seswin to callous himself to deal with the rapidly changing world around him. In the end he was not a shell of himself, but rather a suit of armor around what he could hold onto. While he wasn’t the nicest fellow, I do think he got the shorter end of the stick in terms of outcome, what with the Pollution and distasteful desk job trying to clean it all up.
“You think you can save my soul? Well, okay.
Tell me, with all your conviction
What happens now?”
Jay: Queens of the Stone Age - Smooth Sailing
Now here was a character that gelled with chaos. The poor decision-making, feeling of invulnerability, and general disregard for sensibility that comes with drunkenness is all this man knew. So far under the influence they’d have to put his gravestone on top of it, and all by design. I gotta say, Jay (whose name was constantly being vandalized with other words that started with the same letter) was a very ballsy choice for first D&D character. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that he was damn well played and will be fondly remembered. All two of him...
“I'm burnin' bridges, I destroy the mirage
All visions of collisions, fuckin' bon voyage”
Izzak: Viagra Boys - Common Sense
The sudden discovery of Jay’s alter-ego was a fantastic twist that I doubt any of us say coming. His old responsible side, boarded over with dugs and booze for years, only managed to make his way to the surface after a prolonged period of forced sobriety. Izzak was much more thoughtful than his party-demon counterpart, but full of regret for his past. It led to the party trying to hide drugs and alcohol away from him in order to keep this more tame and predictable persona around, sad sap as he may have been.
“Why do the drugs always go right up to my head?
Why can’t I remember the fucked up things I did?”
Danlorn: Gorillaz - Amarillo
This song has few lyrics, just like the man it represents. He was a stone in a river, tossed around by the current without caring much where it took him. Until by chance, someone picked him up and took him along.
“The sun has come to save me
Put a little love into my lonely soul”
Jezebel/Campaign: Desert Sessions - If You Run
This song came out of the blue and knocked me on my ass with how good it was. How good it still is. And the lyrics are serendipitously fitting for the occasion. A girl running away from an unwanted life, into a world she isn’t quite prepared to face.
“She started out like most of them
Heart full of dreams, head full of nothing”
Campaign 2
Bort: Supertramp - Goodbye Stranger
A bit of a goofy pick, but Bort wasn’t really one for being especially serious. My intention from the get-go was to play a barbarian Ned Flanders for God’s sake. But despite all the otherworldly and existential horrors we faced in this campaign, he made it through with the same go-lucky attitude and simple determination to see a genuine smile. If the evil out there is beyond action or comprehension, then what’s the point in kicking yourself thinking about it, eh?
“You can laugh at my behavior, that'll never bother me
Say the devil is my savior, but I don't pay no heed”
Elisio: Radiohead - The Daily Mail
The desire for revenge can be usurped by more dire needs for a while, but it often comes back. With the experience and powers he gained from his journey, Elisio came back around to do what he had wanted from the start. For better or worse. Hey, at least it wasn’t rat mind-slavery.
“You got away with it
But we lie in wait”
Tarps: Psychedelic Porn Crumpets - Ergophobia
This was a mid-campaign character switch that was born not of interpersonal conflict, but internal. I think we all enjoyed Tarps’ antics and the Pornography Equation, but if he wasn’t fun to play, then by all means, he had to go. I suppose I’m just glad he was able to simply stop the ride and get off safely. He seemed like a nice guy, if one that needed to get his life together. What do you mean the chorus is too on-the-nose?
"’You've been living in another dimension’,
My old man said”
Jack (bad ending): clipping. - Attunement (VOLUME WARNING)
Given both the misery of the character and the tumultuous ending to the campaign, this was the song I had chosen for the ending I feared Jack would find. He was tortured mentally and physically since birth, moving forward only through inertia. I was afraid he was already running out of steam, and that the end of the campaign would stop him dead, so to speak. Thankfully I was wrong.
“You've been saying you hated this skin, why you stuck there?
One more step to the wind and then compare
If it's better to never begin, or if there's sun there.”
Cirrus: Nine Inch Nails - The Background World
fuck me i love this fucking song It would have been naïve to think we could make our way through such a treacherous and dark campaign without losses. Still, we had all hoped...
Cirrus had made some mistakes, that was to be sure. His faith lead him to a life of making choices inconsequentially. But when the stakes are raised beyond human life, these choices can come with heavy cost. Twice in the campaign he made a decision that he would regret deeply and emphatically. The consequences weighed upon his mind and soul with crushing force. In the final battle, a companion NPC we were all very fond of was lost. Cirrus managed to pull him back from beyond the grave, but the strain combined with all his previous mental wounds proved to be the straw the broke the camel’s back.
At the four minute mark, he opens the Gate.
“Are you sure?
(This is what you want?)”
Jack/Campaign: Dave Grohl - Mantra
Jack’s actual story, as well as the outcome of the campaign, ended up far better than many of us had expected. The final combat remains the closest we have ever been to a full party kill, the consequences of which would have been world-ending. Jack, like many of the survivors, remained driven to continue. To move on, despite the cosmic hate-light above us. To build something better, even in spite of it.
“Everything is new
Stare into
What is not
Yet”
Campaign 3
Finnegan: Paul Weller - The Changingman
A simple man, sucked into not-so-simple times. From the start of the campaign, he was uncomfortable with the hands he was forced to play. As any good man would be. His past was behind him, and he was happier when the troubling and often incomprehensible present was too. The truest and most lovable himbo we’ve had yet. The bandana image will never leave my memory, you son of a bitch.
“And the more I see - the more I know
The more I know - the less I understand, yeah”
Zamana: Swans - Song for a Warrior
Not to toot my own horn in a large text post dedicated entirely to tooting my own horn, but I think this is the best song pick I’ve made as of yet. While the Zamana most of our characters knew was oft-impulsive and occasionally prone to outbursts of passion and/or violence, in truth she was haunted by more than she wanted to show. An impossible choice she made earlier in her life ended up controlling her future for the entire campaign. And when we defeated the odds and walked away from fate, she ended up something lesser. And yet, something more. Free.
Also earlier in this album Michael Gira starts mumbling some gibberish that sounds a LOT like he’s actually saying “Zamana zamana zamana zamana zaman” so we can call it fate if you want.
“Use your sword
Use your voice
And destroy
Then, begin again”
Vorne: Radiohead - Talk Show Host
While Zamana was haunted, Vorne was constantly surrounded by hostile armies, both spiritual and literal. Just surviving is hard enough when your kind is hunted for sport. It doesn’t help if a part of you, deep down, believes that you deserve it. But through great strength and personal sacrifice, Vorne pulled through not only his past, not only his future, but even the futures of those like him. The deep scars of the past may not heal, but often times one can muster the fortitude to grow around them.
“You want me?
Fuckin' come on and break the door down
I'm ready”
Sier: Rishloo - Feathergun in the Garden of the Sun
To be totally honest, I could never find a song that I was satisfied for Sier. It’s a shame since he’s still my favorite character I’ve played. Really, the message of this track only aligns with his character late in his life, long after then end of the campaign. Through his ingenuity he inadvertently jump-started firearms development, and while he initially enjoyed the massive piles of wealth it afforded him, he grew to regret the death that was dealt by his inventions.
Also, I just want people to listen to this fucking album for God’s sake.
“Who might you be, who should you be
Killing with featherguns
When they don't understand you're fighting for ground control“
Campaign: Muse - Knights of Cydonia
I initially didn’t have a theme for this campaign, but looking back I realized it’d be unfair since all the other ones had one. The reason I never chose this song specifically is because I’d thought it was too “cheesy”. But come on. This is the cowboy campaign. Three of the four characters were wearing cowboy hats for most of the entire time, and the other one was a gunslinger. Tumbleweeds were almost an essential plot point. We visited a bandit camp and rode horseback for ~80 of the total distance we travelled. We robbed a train. Shit was undeniably cowboy as hell, just give it the cool cowboy song.
“And how can we win when fools can be kings?
Don't waste your time, or time will waste you”
Campaign 4
Dain: Jim Croce - Operator (That’s Not The Way It Feels)
This song is actually quite a bit sadder than the ending Dain managed to achieve. I mean, given how many times he, his girl, and the entire party very nearly got annihilated in our attempts to “rescue” her, I think I speak for all of us when I say that I was sure she’d either perish, defect, or just go insane from the stress of it all. But after escaping by the skins of our teeth for the ~4th time, he decided enough was enough. He knew a point of no return was upcoming, and that he couldn’t put his love through any more of this. In an unprecedented move, the player decided to pull him from the campaign purely for the sake of the character’s life. And we all knew it was the right thing to do. See you, space lawyer.
“Isn't that the way they say it goes?
But let's forget all that”
Ruzi: Queen - The Show Must Go On
I mean, from the voice and general mannerisms given to this character, it had to be Queen. My choice was solidified when he voiced his appreciation for Dain’s romantic (and incredibly dangerous) actions, and was first to stand behind the choice to part ways with the group. And despite his eternally low HP and AC, he managed to play through to the end. Shine on, you beautiful bastard.
“I'll face it with a grin
I'm never giving in
On with the show”
Azil: Massive Attack - Saturday Come Slow
Plans are made for God to laugh at them. This player has had a reputation for playing characters that made... questionable decisions that often times ended up getting themselves posessed/cursed/haunted. So for this campaign, he played a perfectly rational, reasonable, and intelligent man who acted exactly as cautiously as the rest of us did, given our situation. And he still got cursed. It came down to chance; none of us expected it to happen, and he just so happened to lose an unseen coin toss. It was terrible for the character, who became paranoid and haunted by delusions for a good while. But I’ll be damned if it wasn’t at least a little bit funny. Sorry, man.
“Lost in the magic
From the last time”
Marco: Radiohead - Separator
As the meta-narrative elements of the campaign began to come to light, I figured I’d have my character end up seeing something through the veil that’d drive him insane like Cirrus. But what ended up happening surprised me; I got WAY more into the character than I thought I could. So after I abandoned my intended arc for him, I found myself really enjoying fleshing out his motivations and reasoning in a world that seemed to be crumbling before him. So when finally given a chance to tear through the veil, I thought it was only fitting that he have the wisdom to not want to. Enjoy your wacky teleporting tower, you vulgar dork. Use it for good.
“Like I've fallen out of bed
From a long and vivid dream
Finally I'm free of all the weight I've been carrying”
Liza: Anna von Hausswolff - Liturgy of Light
Despite her being an NPC that was deeply engrained into the backstory of one of the characters, as well as the character that Dain’s player ended up taking over for the final leg of the journey, we never learned too much about her. Marco wanted to, and I wish I’d had him ask. I think this song at least fits her calm mystery in tone and sound.
“Some of it is true
But we can't see it”
Campaign: Nine Inch Nails - Right Where It Belongs
I mean, it had to be this one. The whole campaign was about seeing through the veil. The final NPC was damn near literally the DM talking to and through the characters, referencing through past and even scrapped campaigns in a monologue that came this close to outright revealing that they were all being controlled by nerds all-powerful beings that had shaped their entire world for fun. This song pretty neatly ties that all up. Also there’s a possibility that I listen to a lot of Trent Reznor.
“What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?”
Campaign 5
Astrid: Metric - Combat Baby
I assigned Astrid this song early on in the campaign, and while her character changed significantly over the course of the story, I think it still fits. At least a little bit. At the start she was definitely always looking for a fight, seeking the adrenalin more than the spoils. She went to prison on purpose, just to escape it. She injected herself with bug juice she got from a man who took the memories of her mother in exchange. She was prone to getting out of hand. But after one risk put the entire party in danger and nearly killed her, she began to sober up. Over the course and many hardships of the campaign she matured, making tougher and tougher decisions. At the end, she had to give her own life to save us, and the world. Maybe one day I’ll find a song that can more properly encompass her arc. For now, we have this fond old Rock Band 3 disc track.
“I want to be wrong
But no one here wants to fight me like you do”
Amuq: Moby - Everloving
Ironic that Danlorn wasn’t the one to get an instrumental track. Still, the atmosphere of this song resonated me since I started playing this character. The feeling of someone flowing along with the breeze, floating with grace wherever they may go. I had a few things I wanted to do with him to better flesh out his character, but time is a limited resource. So it goes.
“
“
Bastian: KGLW - Honey
Upon first listening, this was a very simple and sweet (ha) love song, which I felt was already quite fitting for this once-doomed NPC that joined us from nearly the very start of the campaign to the end. Then, when I looked at the lyrics, I realized that the song was serendipitously chock-full of sailing references. It immediately stuck.
“Days are ever sweeter when I wake up near ya
The world we're in is broken and you're the magic potion“
Tanika: The Pack AD - Yes, I Know
If it’s easy to find fierce druid music, I must be looking in the wrong places. I kinda had to drop the druid part. Still, the energy and soft righteousness matches, I think. Now, she wasn’t hot-headed all the time: She absolutely reciprocated Bastian’s feelings, and their relationship was a fun thing to watch. But I personally feel like she was at her best when she was tackling slavers into stormy waters, or calling elder beings abominations to their faces.
“One note to beat my heart
Beat my heart
Like a drum“
Celeas: Porcupine Tree - My Ashes
While the man himself never discussed much about his own backstory, what we knew and were able to find out from his private conversations with people he had known painted a dark picture. Sold and bought at a young age, he became accustomed to his slavery as a fact of life. He never outright expressed much regret at his upbringing, but still, I think he felt it somewhere deeper inside. I hope he’s feeling freer now.
“And my ashes drift beneath the silver sky
Where a boy rides on a bike, but never smiles”
Fuscolo: Low - The Price You Pay (It Must Be Wearing Off)
Maybe it’s because he’s still very fresh in my memory, but I feel like Fuscolo was the most compelling villain we’ve had as of yet. So much so, that I gave him a song. His intentions were never necessarily evil; he wanted to halt death. but such a monumentous change would bring even more dire consequences, and the centuries spent wallowing in his undeath and the loss of his kingdom poisoned his reason. I also view this track as a potential band ending to the campaign.
“I put a lot of thought
Into the price you pay
To hear the morning come
Keep the ghost another day”
Campaign: All Them Witches - Elk.Blood.Heart
As soon as I heard this song I knew that I absolutely needed to apply it to a campaign. And given the thematic focus on death and the circle of nature that we had here, it only feels fitting. This track is overflowing with some ancient, covenous magickery, and it ends with one of the most effective guitar solos I have ever barely heard.
“Let it ring through the arch of my skull
Let it breathe through the teeth of all of these people
There's nothing we could do
There's nothing we could do
Oh, but praise them”
The backseat of a car that was too big for me, and gargantuan for you. Climbing up the mesh baskets on the backside of the front seat and looking out the window. The arms of my mother, maybe yours someday.
Home.
On our old beds, as well as under them. On a dinner table (at least, until you learned you weren’t supposed to) that I cannot remember the shape of. Up and down the hallway at breakneck speed for no reason we could ever discern.
Under beds when you saw us packing luggage. Nestled in between two kids in the backseat, face buried by the buckles to help the anxiety. Up and down the rare set of stairs, one of the only two you’d ever known. Climbing up ladders to bunkbeds. From a countertop, to the fridge, to high up on a wide ledge we didn’t even know existed.
At the screen door at night, protecting us from other animals we rarely saw. In the air underneath a moth dancing under the light. Right behind the destination of a laser pointer. In the same room as the family activity. Under the Christmas tree, sometimes halfway up the inside of it. Grandma’s house when we went on extended vacations.
Outside a few times, but rarely after the raccoon incident.
Exploring the wooden and tile floors after the renovation. On top of the cat tree in the corner of the living room. “Sitting” parallel on the backrests of the new chairs, with one arm and one leg on each side. Next to the fireplace. Lying on the mat at the entrance to the ramp door, even when we were trying to get through it. Blending into the dark, thick rug in the den, giving me several heart attacks.
Between our feet whenever we walked down the hallway, pre-emptively guiding us to the food and water bowls. Watching us do yardwork from one of the big windows. Still sprinting down the hallway at night. Curled up on the vinyl ottoman with scratches all over the corners.
Running to the front door within seconds of us coming back home.
To say hello.
Jumping up on my desk. Jumping up on my computer tower, and even hitting the power button a couple of times. Walking across my keyboard, in front of my screen. Sitting on my hand on the mouse. On the lap of anyone who sat in the black vinyl chair in the corner next to your tree, within no more than 30 seconds of them arriving, as if you had alarmed that spot. Reaching under the door to the guest bathroom. Sometimes following me in there and patiently waiting in the corner.
In my bed, for at least half of the nights I have ever slept there.
Next to me, usually around shin-hip height. Down at my ankles, curled into a ball, sometimes attacking my feet if I moved them too much. Sitting in a heap on my lap, until eventually I got uncomfortable and had to tilt my body until you clambered off. Kneading at the blanket around my midsection, either tickling me or causing me sharp discomfort.
And in the later years, sitting on my ribcage, face inches from mine. You would have one of your paws outstretched into the crease between my neck and chin. Often times I would wrap my hand around your arm and you would lay your head down on it and close your eyes, and we would fall asleep like that.
These are some of the places you were.
The middle cushion of the couch directly behind where I am sitting.
This is the place you weren’t.
There is a relatively recently disturbed patch of earth somewhere behind our house.
This is a place that means nothing.
My mind, my heart, my soul. These are the places you are now.
You were my life. What I have now is something else.
Sure, two calendar years. Let’s do it. Let’s stop thinking about it, stop putting it off, and do it. Write for the first time in months. Vent for the first time in dozens. Oh god, that word has been ruined since the last journal entry. Lots of things have been ruined since the last entry.
How much can possibly happen in two years?
Well, for one, the unthinkable. A global pandemic wasn’t on my list of things to expect for 2020. But all the things that can be said about this whole shitshow have been said a thousand times, and I feel like it would be generally useless to spend time and effort pissing in the ocean on that subject when we’ll all remember this for the rest of our lives.
And for two, the very thinkable. The thing that I have been thinking about and dreading for years and years.
what words am i supposed to have? what am i supposed to write here? what haven’t i thought to myself already? or said in therapy, or moments of weakness? or even said directly to him, in that last week?
At the end of April of 2021 my cat died. He was about 16 years old and had lived with us for the entire time. He was more to me than I am. The gaping wound can never heal, but maybe one day I can grow beyond it. The pain won’t be over. I understand this and have understood it for years. I will grieve for the rest of my life, regardless of length. All that matters is that I was there for him until he wasn’t any more. Sometimes, in bad moments, I want to know where he was buried. But I can’t. There is nothing there. There ceased to be anything there the moment his heart stopped. The middle cushion of the couch sitting directly behind me will forever house his ghost. I will dream of him forever.
So it goes.
The pandemic kind of fucked my hopes for getting that summer job at the school back. Instead I spent the summer wallowing in a heat so extreme that we bought one of those terrible portable air conditioners. Also, we nearly had to evacuate our home due to nearby fires. There’s some fear that is beyond description when you are sitting in a cramped room at night, with all your most precious possessions packed in duffel bags by the front door, fire trucks regularly going up and down the skinny and unkempt road outside the open window, all with the knowledge that at any point a sheriff could show up and give you orders that you cannot even imagine complying with. That any minute could be the last you spend in your childhood home before you are required to leave forever. It’s all the anxiety of packing for a long trip, elevated terminally. Thankfully the fires never got close enough to warrant that. But every summer will only get hotter, and dry thunder will only become more common. Nothing can be done.
Hey, at least I’ve probably accrued enough deep and meaningful pain in the past couple of years to write impactful music, right? It’s a shame that FL Studio is so monumentally complicated that it terrifies me to the point of paralysis. Maybe I’ll pass my song ideas along to someone that can actually accomplish them like I’ve already been doing here.
All is not lost though. I have another job finally. It’s hard, but sporadic and it works with my terrible sleep schedule. I miss some aspects of my old one at the school, but there are some decent trade-offs here. And things are going pretty well with my band. A member had to move back to Sweden, but before that we managed to record and release a 4-song EP, as well as have one last live performance as a group! That especially seemed unthinkable last year. The last couple of years have also fully radicalized me politically, so given the way things are going, maybe I’ll have a cause to die for in a year or two when the class war finally gets really going. Probably beats dying to global warming.
I’d like to write more for FftB and other music stuff, but I’ll save you the empty promise this time. I still have some ideas for Deaf and many ideas for Mosquito, the problem is finding the motivation to push my way to and through them. But sometimes inspiration and motivation line up with the stars like they have tonight.
New year, new me. Let’s repeat that until it becomes true.
There seems to be a pattern with how I discover music. At a very young age, I hear a song in a very specific circumstance. It has a big impact on me, but I make absolutely zero effort to check out any of the artist’s other music and instead meander onto another earworm. Then, years later, I have another chance meeting with the same song/album/artist and fall completely down a rabbithole that foundationally changes my taste in music. It happened with Radiohead (High and Dry as one of the default songs in the original Rocksmith), Queens of the Stone Age (Lost Art of Keeping a Secret in a stick figure animation), and Nine Inch Nails (Hurt (Quiet) on Spotify radio). Then, there was this strange song called “Scissorlips” that I saw on a very small Rock Band 3 drum channel. I showed it to my brother because of how fun the chart looked, and made the mistake of watching his reaction to the video. His disinterest embarrassed me enough that I never chased the music. That is, of course, until many years later, when I was introduced to Tool. The rest is history, and is frankly stalling me from starting the actual review. Let’s get to it.
Scissorlips - 8/10
The strange, dark jungle the album begins with is a nice representation of the album cover, although it won’t rule over the entire runtime. Don’t let the de-tuned guitar under the vocals deter you; the rest of the guitarwork here is beautiful. As we reach the pre-chorus, the percussionists may hear why I was interested in this song as a kid. This is also where the sonic background really opens up, swallowing you for a moment before the intro verse comes back. The lyricism here is also very abstract, yet isn’t impossible to follow. A couple of metallic bites taken out of the mostly psychedelic walls of guitars, then, the first of many beautiful delay effects. The build-up got me pretty good when I heard this so many years ago, and It’s still damn good. For the love. There are so many guitar lines here that just intertwine and enlace you. Then, something a bit heavier (yet oddly hopeful) to round the song out.
Turning Sheep into Goats - 7/10
This intro is more of what can be expected for the rest of the album, sonically speaking. A lone guitar with delay playing a complicated and alluring line in a strange time signature, then built upon. The path you may assume this song will follow is extremely suddenly changed at the chorus, the vocals really driving it home. Then, back into that nice opening riff like nothing happened. The next time that chorus comes thundering around, listen to that low guitar and the way it combines with the drums. Then drop out the ugliness into a floating mesh of palm mutes and synthetic strings. And don’t miss the fl
Systematomatic - 7/10
awless transition into the next song. Immediately, a new riff rises from the pond of reverb. You may not identify it immediately, but don’t worry, you’ll get more chances to. Very fast guitar-work that somehow doesn't sound so frantic, although the chorus definitely has a certain desperation to it. The mood gets heavy again, before quickly sliding into a strange, feverish haze. Some hits of percussion, then a recontexutalized and slower return to the riff at the start of the song. Weave us back into war.
River of Glass - 8/10
Now this is an ear-catching introduction. What seems to be a calm wave of delay is punctuated by war drums and a grimier lead. The mood builds, then crescendos into the song proper. The chorus is hear damn near immediately, and is extremely catchy for prog. This album is really just full of extremely memorable vocals, and the instrumentals complement them perfectly. We get two goes-around before we fall into these twisting and sliding strings. The drummer is also on his A-game here. Then, the guitars push into the clouds before coming back down with another short but heavy low. Then it all cuts out for a second, juts to make the burst into the final chorus that much more effective.
Keyhole in the Sky - 7/10
This one is simpler, but also very filling and peaceful. Unfortunately it does begin to showcase my only problem with this album; the vocals are mixed too loud at times. And while the singer is absolutely incredible, sometimes I’d like the instrumentals to breathe a bit more. The walls of high guitar come back around, this time feeling much more friendly and familiar. One last chorus, closing on a quiet note. Though it’s not over; an alien feedback loop and somber, echoey horn passage lead us into the next track
Downhill - 10/10
This song has two main phases, and is absolutely perfect throughout. An easy start; a relatively simple and serene riff fed through a pleasant delay pedal, with some subtle synth and bass backing. The vocals shine through, as clear as ever. And wave, goodbye. Then, like stepping through a portal into phase one. A very interesting, rhythmic and almost bluesy instrumental accompanies the title-drop. Then, we fall for miles down a well of piano. The bottom greets us with a moonlit key solo, then an incredible Floydian guitar solo. Hanging on the last note, phase two begins with an ominous drone and repeating guitar line. The drums rise, give a false start. then... perfection. I cannot do phase two justice with words. Just close your eyes, listen, and be swept away in what I believe to be one of the greatest vocal performances of all time.
Lost.
Feathergun in the Garden of the Sun - 9/10
Not to be outdone by the previous masterpiece, the title track opens with another wonderful soundscape, before the distortion comes in. The drums pick up the tension, bringing us into the pre-chorus. That riff is going to be impossible to tap your foot to at first, but the next ones should be easier. And here we have perhaps the best chorus on the record; extremely powerful in writing and execution on the parts of every band member. The second time around is just as good as the first, then the brdige begins. Ready, aim... The heaviest riff on the album, and an abrupt switch into the last chorus. Fade out.
Dreamcatcher - 7/10
A nice break from the intensity. This feels like a peaceful tidepool on an alien world, with creatures and colors beyond the world floating around my head. Short but sweet.
Diamond Eyes - 6/10
By no means bad, I do feel like this one may be the weakest track on the album. While it’s certainly beautiful, I feel like it doesn’t do a whole lot that’s new or interesting. Also, when listening at high volume (which is the proper way to listen to this album), the faults in the mixing really rear their ugly heads during the choruses. Still, there are some very pleasant rolling delay loops here during the bridge, and a nice and satisfying buildup towards the end.
Katsushika - 7/10
While the guitar opening this track may be the most straight-forward and least effects-driven riff we’ve heard so far, this song will eventually become the most alien one of the entire lineup. In a good way, of course. I can barely even decipher exactly what’s going on in the instrumentation during that build. The chorus also ends with a nice drop-off into the next verse. You may be noticing a pattern with the songwriting, where the chorus usually leads into the second verse, following the pattern of the first one but with more layering. I like it; it gives the ideas present more time to mature and develop. Anyways, here comes the bridge, where everything changes. Out of everything going on here, I feel like the drums and the background vocals are the most striking thing about this outro. What a fantastic progression and dropout. Beautiful monsters.
Weevil Bride - 8/10
The finale. This riff here is extremely well-done. The tone here is somehow piercingly bright and concerningly dark at the same time. The lyricals themes of the album also come to a head here. This chorus is another incredibly written and performed beast; just wait until it’s modulated. The second verse lays away with the subtleties and strikes at the head. And I just need to know that everything is fine, and everyone’s alright. This bridge also kicks ass, with its heart-pouding combination of guitars and toms. Then, comes the heaviest part of the entire album: Yes, please. Then we are snapped out of the masochism and lifted back to hear the main point of the album, before the intro riff carries us into an uncertain but complete conclusion. After the “true” song ends, there is a long passage of somber horns and a tranquil, almost lullaby-esque keyboard. There’s something extremely nostalgic about this outro to me, but I still can’t put my finger on where it comes from. This section almost feels like the music they play after the end of a play, as the lights come on and you make your way down the dimly-lit theater steps on slightly numb and shaky legs. The story is over; this is your time to reflect.
The main reason I wanted to write about this album in particular is because I feel like it hasn’t gotten the attention it’s deserved. It truly feels like a masterpiece worthy of widespread recognition and praise, but despite being released over a decade ago, few people have even heard of this band. It feels like injustice, not only for Rishloo’s efforts, but for the people who would connect with this album as much as I have. Also, there’s the slightly selfish hope that increased attention would incentivize the band to work on more new stuff, or better yet, remaster their older works.
In any case, It’s very late, my back hurts because my spine hates my nervous system, and I need to actually get to sleep tonight so I can heal the godforsaken nerve that wedged itself in my inner workings yesterday. On a scale from “Your all-time low just lowered again”, to “Want some? Yes, please”, I give Feathergun a “Oh, what beautiful monsters”.
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