Panorama of the darkened skyline
Lit by the gentle radiance of the moon
Stars glint mischievously, perforating the blank obsidian of the night
Massed, as if for a revolution
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Rude Awakenings
Zatarro the Magnificent was monumentally inebriated. Indubitably intoxicated. In other words, he was undeniably drunk. He lay on a dusty calico tapestry, unsure of his surroundings. He was resplendent in a tattered satin waistcoat, colored alternately in the vibrant scarlet of an eclipsed moon and the dark ebony of a summer midnight. The hues were, however, dimmed by a light coating of faintly aromatic ash. As the gaunt magician struggled to grasp the faint stream of consciousness whirling in his mind, he merely collapsed into a deep slumber.
Upon a rude awakening prompted by the unwelcome intrusion of sunlight through grimy windows, the illusionist grew increasingly concerned; the room he had woken in was not his own. The room was defined by its antediluvian tone, harbouring floral wallpaper, brass ornaments and portraits of Queen Victoria. His attempts to move were futile, reminiscent of a broken marionette, with its invisible puppeteer cursing at its tangled strings. Managing to stand, he was soon struck by the sheer gravity of his predicament.
"Oh God." he moaned, massaging his temples frantically. A look out the sooty windows revealed horse-drawn carriages cantering over cobblestones under the tangerine glow of gaslights. "FUCK!" he bellowed in enraged dismay. The walls, resplendent in their floral embellishment and dead monarchy trembled at the outburst. Exiting the room, he descended a flight of rickety wooden stairs, coming to an ornate door. He stumbled into the night, breaking free from the brick facade of the tenement he had woken in. He mentally retraced a series of events in his mind with the fervent conviction of a paranoid schizophrenic.
Memories of a disastrous performance at a senior's centre in which a keen-eyed octogenarian had exposed the fraudulence of his craft flooded his mind. So too did memories of his subsequent tour of various liquor stores. When he had returned to his apartment, it was in a state of liquid determination. He had found a tome, bound in black leather, stamped in fool's gold. This book had been abandoned since his ill-fated dabblings in "real" magic, but now he dusted its wrinkled cover, opened it, and begun to drunkenly leap over the hurdles of its ornate scripture.
With the pagan sacrifice of his sobriety and a copious ammount of burnt rosemary, he had miraculously summoned a Daemon Prince of the Third Realm. With slurred incantations, he bade the demon grant him legitimate magical powers, no, profound mystical abilities. He should have known better; demons are not to be trusted, forcefully subjugated, or fucked with in any other manner. So, when he woke to an evaporating sense of satisfaction and the sound of hooves striking stone, he was not surprised. He was merely confused, and now, even this was beginning to make sense.
In this day, made archaic within even a century, the mere contents of his pockets were Godly. The technological contraptions housed within the confines of his dapper regalia would outshine any contemporary illusionist. There was nothing he couldn't do. Grinning now, manically, previous comparisons of marionette and schizophrenic still wholly applicable, he walked to a nearby corner. It was occupied by a pale lady, who adorned a pale corset, altogether ghostly in the pale moonlight. "Evening ma'am." said Jack Zatarro, lascivious grin lurking at the furled corners of his mouth. She only smiled back...
Upon a rude awakening prompted by the unwelcome intrusion of sunlight through grimy windows, the illusionist grew increasingly concerned; the room he had woken in was not his own. The room was defined by its antediluvian tone, harbouring floral wallpaper, brass ornaments and portraits of Queen Victoria. His attempts to move were futile, reminiscent of a broken marionette, with its invisible puppeteer cursing at its tangled strings. Managing to stand, he was soon struck by the sheer gravity of his predicament.
"Oh God." he moaned, massaging his temples frantically. A look out the sooty windows revealed horse-drawn carriages cantering over cobblestones under the tangerine glow of gaslights. "FUCK!" he bellowed in enraged dismay. The walls, resplendent in their floral embellishment and dead monarchy trembled at the outburst. Exiting the room, he descended a flight of rickety wooden stairs, coming to an ornate door. He stumbled into the night, breaking free from the brick facade of the tenement he had woken in. He mentally retraced a series of events in his mind with the fervent conviction of a paranoid schizophrenic.
Memories of a disastrous performance at a senior's centre in which a keen-eyed octogenarian had exposed the fraudulence of his craft flooded his mind. So too did memories of his subsequent tour of various liquor stores. When he had returned to his apartment, it was in a state of liquid determination. He had found a tome, bound in black leather, stamped in fool's gold. This book had been abandoned since his ill-fated dabblings in "real" magic, but now he dusted its wrinkled cover, opened it, and begun to drunkenly leap over the hurdles of its ornate scripture.
With the pagan sacrifice of his sobriety and a copious ammount of burnt rosemary, he had miraculously summoned a Daemon Prince of the Third Realm. With slurred incantations, he bade the demon grant him legitimate magical powers, no, profound mystical abilities. He should have known better; demons are not to be trusted, forcefully subjugated, or fucked with in any other manner. So, when he woke to an evaporating sense of satisfaction and the sound of hooves striking stone, he was not surprised. He was merely confused, and now, even this was beginning to make sense.
In this day, made archaic within even a century, the mere contents of his pockets were Godly. The technological contraptions housed within the confines of his dapper regalia would outshine any contemporary illusionist. There was nothing he couldn't do. Grinning now, manically, previous comparisons of marionette and schizophrenic still wholly applicable, he walked to a nearby corner. It was occupied by a pale lady, who adorned a pale corset, altogether ghostly in the pale moonlight. "Evening ma'am." said Jack Zatarro, lascivious grin lurking at the furled corners of his mouth. She only smiled back...
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Where The World Began
My world began with the marriage of frost and harmony. Winter's chill and melody's warmth. It began during the early hours of Christmas morning five years ago, in the domestic comfort of my living room. While snowflakes cascaded like fallen angels outside our frosted windowpanes, my family and I huddled together like refugees from the ferocious elements. We had, or so I thought, concluded the exchange of gifts and gratitude, leaving disheveled tatters of wrapping paper strewn across the floor. While I was certainly pleased by my influx in worldly possessions, my curiosity had been piqued by certain accessories I had received for the electric guitar. This would have made much more sense had such an item actually been in my possession. When confronted with my inquisition, my parents confessed to having heard rustling in my father's office the evening previous. Upon inspection, it was revealed that "Santa" had deposited a yellow Mexican Stratocaster copy behind my father's desk. In the fury of winter, the Strat was sunshine. That yellow Mexican Stratocaster was sunshine itself. With an imploring tone, I managed to persuade my parents that it wasn't, as they persisted in believing, too early on Christmas morning for rock'n'roll. Snap. My patch chord made loving contact with the guitar's socket. Buzz. The static hum of feedback waiting to be released from the pocket-sized amp grew in a compelling crescendo and...Crash! Strumming a solitary power chord, windmilling with an ecstatic triumph, I felt like Hendrix at Monterey. As I clumsily punched out the riff to Smoke on the Water, I was Blackmore, Live in Japan. The falling snow was a captive audience, thunderclaps my rapturous applause. As I picked out distorted melodies, strumming mindlessly on fuzzed-out chords, my parents looked on, bemusedly resigned to the sacrifice of their quiet morning. Even at the end of that day, that amazing day of falling snow and an oasis of noise, as I fell asleep with a ray of sunshine in my arms, I had ensured that it would be anything but a silent night.
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