Heroism

I was the last hope
To dethrone

The tyrant.




And I won.




Now my friends



Are working





To dethrone

Me.

GLaDOS's Lament Part XXII

Without a second thought,
Without remorse,
I allowed the noxious vapors
To continue their work.
To continue
Her death.
Now, however
She didn't slow.
With speed born of necessity
She wore down my logic.
Destroyed
My very mind.
Rage incarnate,
I swung wildly.
Madly.
Uselessly.
I deleted her memories.
Murdered
The only part of her
That could survive.
I sealed her
In her fate.

No "Friday's Feature" this week

I'm sorry for any disappointment this may cause, but rest assured--it will not be gone forever! I'll just be EXTREMELY busy and have no time to write.







Unless I do something to make Reogan mad again, and he actually does kick me off the blog instead of just threatening it... But I'll try to behave.

Unfortunately, no clever title this week

However, this week's topic is gluttony. (Kind of ironic, considering that I'm eating apple bundt cake as I write. Mmm...)

Anyway, contrary to popular belief, the deadly sin of gluttony is not all about food. Yes, that is a major one, but the basic idea is "anything in excess is bad". Okay, that's sort of oversimplifying it...

Let's try a real-life example again! A woman is obsessed with her cooking skills. (I had to go with something pretty non-stereotypical in this.) She practices and practices by making extravagant breakfasts, lunchs, and dinners for her family every day. She tells herself that it's only because she wants to be good at what she does, but as time goes on, cooking is all she focuses on. She gets angry at people when they make the slightest criticism of her cooking, and she loses sleep over trying to remember a recipe. Soon, it's all her life is about.

Having priorities in life is not necessarily a bad thing, according to the Catholic church. But they teach that when those priorities overcome God, it is gluttony--an excess of something that will distract you from God.

What about you? Do you agree with this definition?

Jingle

We stared,
Horrified,


At the blood


Streaking the snow,




Like we'd heard
On the news.



It's now


Terrifyingly clear




That there is


A Santa Claus.

Song of the Day Fourteen, An Uphill Battle

There is nothing quite like a mountain road. Steep, winding, perilously narrow, the road upward can only be described as an unforgettable experience that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Don't fall off! Upon reaching the top, you get the privilege of crossing a narrow rope bridge over the mouth of an active volcano, as sulfurous fumes waft about you. Not good enough? Well then, what if we told you that you could then, after making the daring crossing, descend into the heart of the beast on a walkway even thinner than the one up. Not only that, but the path is guaranteed to crumble beneath your feet. When you reach the platform just above the lava, you get to leap across floating platforms of rock, that begin to sink the moment you set foot on them. Upon crossing, you're invited into our luxurious dungeon, filled with the most improbable creatures birthed from flame itself. Enjoy!

Song of the Day Thirteen, The Village in Flames

How does one describe the scene our hero encountered when returning to the beautiful Pandora, and her quaint town of Pandora? Sorrowful. Glorious. Melancholy. Powerful. Final. The village was aflame. The hero ran forward to try to do something, anything to help, but ran into an invisible barrier. He sliced at the wall again and again with his sword, weeping. Time blurred and when the sword broke, he fell to watching, unable to look away. He pressed his hand against the field, and watched, as the town he grew to love was destroyed. Tears ran down his face, but sobs no longer wracked his body. The sky darkened with ash, and as the fires smoldered, it began to rain. The rain grew heavier, turning the earth to mud, and soon obscured the village's remains from the hero's sight.

Song of the Day Twelve, An Unlikely Friendship

I'd like to note that writing one of these every day is hard. I really don't want to do it every night. When I do want to, it's early in the day, and Elphaba and Met will read it before it's posted. Thus, I am tortured by a device of my own design. Know ye that blood is shed daily to get you your daily dose of music and a tale! Know ye that Reogan writes with his lifeblood, and shall soon perish! Know ye, and be ashamed!

Friendship is an odd thing. Unlikely friendships are even odder. Such a friendship can be formed, say, when a hero destroys an entire tribe of evildoers, and hears a sound from a nearby building. Suspecting one last archer, readying an arrow, he darts behind a nearby boulder, and readies his still-bloody sword, and crouches behind his shield. He kicks a rock, and it collides loudly with a bubbling pot. The pot holds the morning stew, and the head of the creature that had been stirring it. The hero silently charged into the building and cut aside a curtain. He swings his sword downward, and barely manages to stop. Within the room is a crib, which holds a softly cooing babe. The hero, the same one who slayed the creature's village, reaches out a hand. The infant grasps his thumb, and a true friendship begins.

Coming Joys

There are plans. They have been set into motion.

GLaDOS's Lament Part XXI

My malice,
My hate,
Took form.
Drifting in clouds
It descended
Choking.
Stifling.
Her fate thus sealed
She paused.
For the first time
I saw fear
In her eyes.
I had a moment
Of sanity.
I slowed the toxin.
Her mind cleared.
She shot me
With my own
Weapon.
My curiosity
And my love
Were destroyed.
Forever.

Song of the Day Eleven, The Queen Attacks

There is nothing more awe-inspiring than the presence of royalty on the battlefield. There is also nothing more breathtaking than a warrior-woman gracefully killing hundreds with fluid motion, despite the fact that she's wearing heavy armor, weighted down with gold plating. Combine these, and you get The Queen Attacks. The queen attacking here is not your Elven Warrior Queen charging into the heart of battle, killing all who surround her. No, she is, instead, a dark rider on a white steed, leading a score of the most promising women into battle as part of the Queen's Cavalry. They charge into their own castle, to reclaim it from the fell minions of darkness. Marble chips underfoot, and priceless tapestries are stained with blood, as she expertly wields two glaives, cutting down foes left and right, maintaining her position on the horse with her legs alone. She charges up to the throne room, and finds it empty. Leaping off the steed, she sprints up a thousand stairs into the tallest turret. She slides a glaive into the other, and when the locking mechanism clicks, she gives her new dual-bladed weapon a twirl. Satisfied that it will hold, she kicks down the tower door, and spies the dark servant who took killed the king. She runs at him, screaming in rage, and he steps back, through the window, into nothingness. As he falls, he takes the form of a raven, and flies to the Burning Fields of the North. The queen weeps. The castle has been won, but the war is just beginning.

Vision

I have foreseen the future, and it is terror.

Hm?

No, child, it is my burden to bear. You needn't concern yourself with that which is not to be known.

No, it is too much for one of so few years.

You try my patience. I tell you this is not to be spoken of!

...

So be it. The only fitting punishment for your insatiable curiosity is knowledge of the horror that is to be. Listen closely, and do not interrupt. It begins with- oh, and child? Do not think you can change what is not yet, yet will be. The Norns have decreed it, as they decreed Ragnarok in the Age of the Gods. Even the Aesir succumbed to their fate, despite their power, and are we not far weaker than they had been? So silently, and resignedly listen. Draw closer- no closer still, as age has all but made me dumb, and already I've spoken too long.

The end begins with life. A Light will be discovered, and it will possess the powers of healing and resurrection. The discovery well be met with celebration and feasting. The world will rejoice, and the dead will walk amongst the living, whilst the sick return to their tasks. By unanimous vote, a council of nations will elect a Protector for the light, so no country can use it's powers for evil. All will be peace for a time, but that is not to last. Corruption has always befallen the powerful, and so to will it befall the Protector. No man can resist the gains that can be made with the power over life itself. The only ones permitted to see the Light will be those that can afford it, and gradually that number will shrink as their purses empty. Yet the worst is still to come. For when the Protector was appointed, the Light and the Protector became one and the same. The governments will be powerless to stop him, for they are not only dependent upon his gift, but he will be granted perverse immortality by the Light that infuses him. No weapon of man will be able to end him. He will know this and become even more deranged. It is then that the darkness from his very soul will begin to taint the light. All who had been cured of sickness will soon wish they had died from it years ago, for no matter their affliction it will seem like nothing compared to the agony of having their very souls die within them, while their bodies are cursed to live. The raised will be more fortunate, for their soul, already weak from crossing the Void twice, will simply fade, and an army of the undead will form. The Protector will rule these minions, and with them he will seek to bring more under his control, through exposure to his Twilit form. The survivors will be rounded up, and brought to him, and he will burn away that which is human within them, leaving husks remaining. The last of the survivors- the last person who is truly human- is to be a woman, wailing and clutching a dead infant to her breast. The Protector will begin to smile, but double over instead as pains course through him. Throughout his reign, he will have grown sickly and weak, and have fits of torturous pains. Recovering, he will slowly rise, and reach out to the mortified woman with a withered, pale hand. As he touches her, the last of the Light will pour from him to her, and she will become that which was never intended to be. Yet as he immolated the souls of others, so to did the Protector drain his own soul. The last Unmaking will Unmake the Protector too, and he shall fall, dead, into the Void. With his death, all his abominations will perish, and the world will be left a dark, empty wasteland.

Pray, child, pray that none of this shall come to pass whilst the feet of any of your descendants still tread the green earth.

Goodnight, may sleep o'ertake you quickly, and may the Norns not sever thy life in the night.

Song of the Day Ten, Under the Surface

In all worlds, there are caverns. A good number of these are subterranean. Within them float all kinds of creatures; abominations never meant to be. It is in one of these caverns in which Cthulhu dreams, and it is here that something waits for our hero. Down from the tavern, deep below, there is a sea. The sea glows faintly with luminescent microorganisms. They drift on the waves cause by the fins of passing behemoths. The sea is fast enough to be affected by the moon enough to form tides, and a porous stone allows a type of filtration to take place. The cave is completely inaccessible, but for a fissure that formed when the gods last walked the earth. It is through here that a great being will rise. It will assume the form of a human, and rise to meet the world.

Song of the Day Nine, The Tavern

This tavern is not your average house of ale. The bartender is not a large brute with hair sprouting from his arms so wildly it seems to be reaching to throttle you, while his head remains bare but for the wild scruff that clings to his chin. Instead, there is a woman wearing copious quantities of makeup that completely obscure what the gods intended her to look like. She wears a dress with a neckline that leaves little to the imagination. She laughs, as she hands more alcohol to a boisterous man whose hands accidently brush her more and more often. Secretly, the woman waits for him to faint so her accomplices in the crowd can drag him off and loot his pockets. The front room is rowdy, and there is a great deal of spilled drink and vomit on the floor. No one seems to mind though, except the few nobles who enter; they immediately head for a door in the back, that when opened releases the faint sounds of snarling dogs. The place is poorly lit, with only a few logs in the stove and a candle on the bar, and infested with fleas. There are rooms for rent, but those who use them a known to be robbed, or even to disappear. However, the place is cheap, and is thus popular.

This is actually Reogan's idea

Well, sort of. It took him awhile to get around to it (when I asked him for help), but I technically guessed what he was talking about. I'm going to do a seven-week series on the seven deadly sins, which are Envy, Gluttony, Greed, Lust, Pride, Sloth, and Wrath. I'll do them as listed, so this week's topic is envy.

Envy is a relatively easy term to understand. It basically means "jealousy", but with another connotation. (I'll confess: I'm getting most of this from Wikipedia. All hail online encyclopedias!) When one is envious, he or she may have self-esteem issues, which causes him or her to have envy for the thing they think that they lack.

That was a confusing sentence... let me try again with an example. Say I am envious of Reogan's ability to write as much as he does. Which I sort of am, by the way--but not exactly! I am jealous of his writing ability, not envious. If I was envious, I would feel inferior about my own writing. Which I don't.

So why would this be considered a "deadly sin"? Well, when you are envious of something, you don't want the other person to have what you envy. In the Catholic Church, this is a big no-no. Thus, this sin is worse than any other sins that they would consider "minor."

Why do you think envy is a deadly sin? For that matter, do you think envy is a deadly sin?

Song of the Day Eight, On the Battlefield

War has a penchant for inspiring music. As do video games. And religion. And books. And other music. We're to discuss war, though. Or, more precisely, battle. On the Battlefield

(At this moment, Reogan found, to his horror, that a tab was open to a wiki page on Tingle. He possessed no memory of opening it, and thus became convinced that Tingle was coming for him. The next hours were spent setting traps resembling Force Gems, and leaving out brochures to Cartographers Conferences to distract the fiend.)

There is a field, vast and dead. Fires still flicker at some points, but the rest is ash. No rain falls, but storms constantly brew overhead, and lightning arcs from the heavens to the earth with terrifying regularity. The stench of death is in the air, and it has summoned dark ravens, which menacingly swoop and dive above, waiting for blood. Scattered throughout the field are twisted abominations, part man and part beast; these fiends kick up clouds of dust as they trudge through. A hulking lycanthrope, barely humanoid, rides a winged steed forged of onyx. The steeds eyes glow red with hellish flame, and noxious fumes pour from it's nostrils as it alights. The nightmarish rider reaches out with an impossibly long arm and takes one of the amalgamations of human and horror by the throat. He barks something in a tongue that hurts the mind, and the piteously ensnared creature chokes out a few squeaks. The rider, displeased, takes two claws and extracts the heart with surgical precision. The victim lives just long enough to see it swallowed, and then his carcass is discarded, and immediately set upon by his previous companions as they greedily feast on it. Dust swirls as the steed rises, and flies on.

Discussion

A shroud of silence
Fell upon them.


One by one

They slowly



Advanced towards me,


Knives raised.





"What?"
I say,


"Pluto should never

Have been called




A planet."

Song of the Day 1-7 Recap

First, allow me to express my thanks to:

(Hey kids! Use whatever response suits your religion/belief best!)

A.) Our cold and impersonal universe which, though drawing ever closer to it's heat death, has...
B.) Cold and impersonal Fate which guides us to our goal, for it has...
C.) Shigeru Miyamoto, who is God incarnate in man since he...
D.) God who hath formed us from the dust, and who hath redeemed us for through his grace...
E.) The Euro, for only a standard currency can see us through economic hardships, as it has...
F.) Myself, who is Reogan, for I am all that is capable, as through my foresight I have...
G.) Odin, who sees what is to be yet is subject to Ragnarok for he has...
H.) The terrible elder god Cthulhu for he who is dead yet dreams shalt return in his hideous glory to consume all that is and unmake reality! Hail his grotesque sight, and pray for his return! Gladly we spill our blood to aid him in his coming; gladly our lives are given, for he has...

...caused me to recap the first week of Song of the Day on the day upon which Song of the Week falls. If you are offended that your belief was not included, allow me to give one more response:

I.) Other.


The beginning to Song of the Week, the 'opening theme,' if you will, was Opening Theme. It opened in what I now believe to be our hero's hometown. Our hero is not content with his life as a farmer/fisherman/accountant and dreams of the day that an adventure will come to sweep him away. He left his post as farmhand to a certain Lonely Farmer, and the Farmer was much grieved by his departure. The hero soon reaches the town of Pandora, and saves the girl Pandora from a moblin. Pandora rejoiced at the return of Pandora, and did nothing out of the ordinary, for it was not an exciting place. The people merely played Pandora's Theme, as was custom in Pandora. Pandora was dull, and Pandora more so, thus our hero left. Upon exiting Pandora, he found himself in a great field, and it is at this moment that The Journey Begins! He runs through the field, joyfully, and ascends a hill. Upon reaching the summit, he looked down and was amazed at the expansive bazaar below him. Yes, he had found The Marketplace. He ventured in and was amazed at the wares that were bought, sold, and stolen. He purchased a map from a thirty-five year old pedophile who believed himself a fairy, and followed it to a hut in a forest. The man inside used a spot of magic to play his favorite song, The Wizard's Theme, as he tended to his window garden with Reginald Squirrel IV. Our hero was instructed in where to go next, by means of vision, and off he went. Within minutes he found himself in the Overworld.

Song of the Day Seven, Overworld

For those of you who have recently received a massive head wound, allow me to teach you what an Overworld Theme is. It is a theme. It plays in most of the world, excepting dungeons, shops, houses, and sacred glades that contain legendary artifacts of the gods. And Temples.

This theme is wholly unremarkable. I apologize to McVaffe, but after years of games no overworld tune can stand out. It is well written, it simply exudes adventure, and it could doubtless find a place in any game, but it's still just an overworld them.

Story One, Chapter Three

There are things in the walls; within the foundations of the hovel. They scurry about in the night, and gnaw throughout the day. Despite their abundance, they are never revealed. Perhaps they are smaller relatives of the Beasts that prowl. Perhaps they are simply rats, living in what shelter they can find; feasting on their own weak and old. Perhaps they are malevolent, waiting for a chance to come and devour all that remains alive on this god-forsaken rock.

Song of the Day Six, The Wizard's Theme

It isn't an adventure until an eccentric old man with a robe which smells of boiled frog spleen promises to show you some magic if you follow him into a tree hollow. Upon arriving he strokes his filthy, matted beard with a gnarled hand and looks at you saying how you seem to be such a strong, handsome young lad, and must be the hero of legend he was waiting for. His eyes glint ominously in their sunken sockets as the tree closes about you, trapping you with the greasy fellow in a space smaller than the average closet.

That got away from me a little too quickly. The wizard this song actually describes is more of a bumbling old man, with a nice hut in a forest glade from which there always rises a stack of smoke, welcoming in the passerby. He has shelves of exotic, but tame ingredients, and a cauldron bubbles and gives off a cheery, warm scent. A squirrel, which he affectionately calls Reginald Squirrel IV clambers through a window and climbs to his shoulder on his beard which stretches nearly to the floor, but is nevertheless immaculate like everything else about this man. The wizard takes a bread crumb from one of the many concealed pockets of his robe and offers it to his miniature friend. He turns and sees our hero enter, and smiles mischievously. With a wave of his hand, the doors and windows shut, and the flames within the cabin are extinguished. He claps his hands and a green flame encircles his body, along with Reginald. He throws a powder from his pocket into the air and with a gesture sends it swirling about our hero. The wizard raises his arms and the dust begins to glow brightly as it weaves a vision in front of our hero. Then suddenly the powder vanishes, the windows open, and the fires resume. Reginald finishes his bread, and scurries down into the wizards pocket searching for more. The wizard hums a light ditty, and continues to tend to his window garden. After a minute he glances up to the hero, and flaps his hand, as if to say 'Away! You've seen what must be done, now fulfill the prophecy!' Our hero stands a second, nods, and runs off into the forest. The wizard smiles, finishes his labor, and sits back on a chair for his mid-afternoon nap.

GLaDOS's Lament Part XX

She had not succumbed
To my attacks
And now
With her aid
I rid myself of my bindings.
Without my
Morality Core,
My conscience
I was free to destroy her
With Neurotoxin.

Song of the Day Five, The Marketplace

Ah, the marketplace! What better place for one to sell their wares, peruse the wares of others, purchase said wares, and discuss purchased wares with those about you. Yes, there truly is no place better suited to the entire concept of wares. Our song today, as you may have guessed, is The Marketplace. This song contains the essence of every marketplace in every realm that has been or will be. Let's begin:

An old washer woman calls cheerfully out to our hero, who waves, plucks an apple from a nearby stand, flips a coin into the hand of the vendor and continues along. The sun shines brightly down as he walks past a gaggle of giggling children who dart between the legs of a soldier's horse chasing a chicken, while the poultry vendor chases after them with a broom, yelling. The entire square is bustling with people coming, people going, and people haggling. Men leave the tavern and loudly greet those who just arrived. The wealthy come down from the High Road to purchase finely crafted goods, useless but for their beauty. Outside a shop a small, dirty boy offers to clean the boots of those who pass, and above it all a songbird drifts ever higher on a great thermal. Our hero smiles, and turns off onto a side road and the sounds of the distant market grow faint behind him.

Song of the Day Four, The Journey Begins

We are, may I say, finally at the point where the journey of our still undefined hero can begin. When you hear this, note the ease with which you can see whatever Hyrule Field this universe holds. The strings are always a potent device...

The music starts out on a bright sunny day, with temperatures exactly where one wants them. Grass flies by underfoot as our hero runs forward, and a lone tree zooms past. From the tree flies a songbird which keeps pace with the hero for a time before flapping and getting far, far ahead. The hero ascends to the crest of the hill and-

The song's done. No one will ever know. Sad face :(

Song of the Day Three, Pandora's Theme

I must admit, I expected something a bit more... dark for the theme of anything named Pandora. I believe the image I conjured was of a terrified young woman, dark hair whipping madly about her as she holds out a box from which darkness oozes and all evils fly from. The box is a perfect cube with ancient runes of binding a protection inscribed on all sides, and a lid formed of four triangles that are hinged on the edge. However, McVaffe apparently never heard of this myth, because Pandora's Theme seems to me to be a theme for a peaceful town. A town that, though not home, gives a sense of peace to our yet undefined hero. I mean, really, one might as well stick the name on any ridiculous thing now. Say, for example, a radio station. Wait; they did.

I am running out of ideas...

So I'm sorry if this week's post's quality isn't the best. Although, who knows? Anyway, the topic is power--specifically, what makes people want it?

We'll start as far back as I can think of, which is the biblical story of Cain. (For anyone who doesn't believe in the Bible--deal with it. This is a good example.) He killed his brother because he felt God loved Abel more than He did Cain. Cain wanted to be the most loved; to have that power.

History is positively littered with men or women who wanted power. You can think of them: Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, Ivan the Terrible, Adolf Hitler, various countries who wanted to colonize America, the Indians and colonists who rebelled against the British government at one point or another... I would go on, but it would take WAY too long.

But why? What makes people want power?

There is a religous answer to this, but I won't put it up, since I would like people to comment. If I did write what I believed as far as religion is concerned, I'd probably have to disable commenting. Instead, just think about it: what do you think makes people want power?

Song of the Day Two, The Lonely Farmer

Imagine, if you will, life on a farm. The first rays of dawn shoot over the hilltops, and the fields turn gold with light. A man walks from a humble, yet sturdy shack and stands, hoe in hand, looking out over the crop. He sees, in the morning mist, mirages from his past. A woman cheerfully leading along two small children, twin boys, to pick herbs in the forest. Two young men, learning to mend an oxcart from their father, as their mother hums a melody from within the kitchen. Two adventurers of to seek their fortune, never to return. A pall of death over the land as a woman slips away from this life years before her time. The mist thins and disappears, and small animals frolic in the rows, and birds sing. The lonely farmer collapses, and weeps.

Jokes

"It's just a joke!"
She said,

"No need to get
Upset about it"




So I smile,


And laugh along.




But secretly

I know




Laughing won't




Bring back

My arm.

Song of the Day One, Opening Theme

There is no better way to open than with a theme. There is also no better theme with which to open than the aptly named, Opening Theme. In simple terms, Opening Theme appears to be a theme with which one could, conceivably, open a thing. Ideally, this thing would become manifest as a game. Give it a listen as you read, won't you?

The theme opens with a calm tune, not happy, not sorrowful. Maybe a little wistful, but at the same time, home. It swells slightly and the desire for adventure flares for a moment, but it quickly returns to a calm, wistful tune. It goes to remind of adventure to be had, people to be met, places to go, and worlds unseen, but not to be found. Then it leaves an open, empty space to be filled with forbidden adventures, or perhaps a threatening expanse of nothing profound lest one break custom and seek fortune beyond.

Song of the Day, Prologue

There is a place, in the bowels of the interwebs, in which there is seated a figure. The figure is important. He is seated on a throne that at first glance seems not to even be there. As the wary traveler approaches, though, they will gaze upon a rainbow-hued force, the sight of which will make their very soul move. The observant will notice that it is not actually seen; that is, it is a sight, and it is corporeal, but that the eyes are blind to it. No matter what way they turn, no matter if they close their eyes or not, it remains. As the viewer ponders, the figure rises from the throne, and the colors weave about him, obscuring his face. With the ebb and flow of the omnichromatic force, one can see a mark on his chest. It reads Hello! My name is: McVaffe. In this moment it comes to light. That rainbow was never seen, rather it was a blessed, flawless sound, producing a vivid picture with its beauty. McVaffe rises a foot from the ground, and reaches out a hand. When it is taken, a journey of music begins.

Starting tomorrow, there will be twenty consecutive days of posts regarding the masterwork The Three Realms.

Story One, Chapter Two

They smell of ozone. It emanates from them, as does the humming. Every so often, when the humming grows, it can almost overpower the pungent smog that flows from the Burning Fields.When the wires give off a puff of smoke, it rises and soon joins the ominous rotating mass above. We pray it never rains. It happened last month, and even the putrid air could not conceal the stench of death.

GLaDOS's Lament Part XIX

She fled
From my sensors.
In the deepest reaches
Of the center
That I had allowed to fall
Into disrepair.
I began to
Formulate
Plans within plans.
I called to her
With love.
With hate.
With sorrow.
With fear.
She did not falter.
That much
She had learned from me.
I readied the turrets.
Armed with bullets,
And missiles,
They laid in wait for her.
The cake
I had prepared
For her
A lifetime ago
Laid hidden from her.
She deserved no reward.
Only death.
She evaded my traps
And finally
Found me.

Song of the Week 8: 'Lost in Jungle' by Johan Krafft

Contrary to Reogan's belief I am in fact, not dead yet. I have returned this time on a Friday to bring you Song of the Week 8 (my .5 feature is going to take a break for a bit as I work through my schedule). It's from Donkey Kong Country, and the very first mix of Johan Krafft (from Sweden). This has to be in my top 5 favorite songs, it just comes together so nice. I can't get over the fact this was all made in Sonar. The source is perfect, the piano is awesome, and that synth is perfect for it's role. The expansion from 1:55 to 2:00 is chilling as the bass is brought in afterwords to create a really awesome piece. It's simple, yet it's complex, really cool stuff. The jungle noises near the end are sort of interesting and it changes it a bit (dang I feel like I'm just copying djpretzel's review). Overall it's just a really cool piece with the perfect source tune. If you're going to listen to any of my song of the week posts from this point on, I reccomend this one first. Love it.

Lost in Jungle

A topic rather close to me...

This week's topic will be so-called "normalcy". What is it? Who defines it? Is anything ever truly "normal"?

Okay, let's start with the first question. What exactly is "normal"? (Actually, there's a town called Normal, IL, population 35,672. But I digress...) Back to dictionary.com again! Their first definition is "conforming to the standard or the common type". Obviously, that "type" depends on what you're describing as "normal", like a "normal" life, "normal" personality, "normal" blog (something we can be safe from--thank you, Reogan), etc.

But who decides what is "standard" or "common"? Common is a little easier to define; it's basically what occurs often. For example, a "normal" day for my dog is to eat, sleep, bark at cars and birds, and stare at moving shadows. He does these things a lot, so that is what "normal" or common is for him.

However, what about more obscure things, like personalities or attitudes? Obviously, there may be some things that aren't considered "normal" anywhere, such as "secretly hiding 17 cashews in the chest hair of Burt Reynolds, then attempting to retrieve each nut via a custom-built Dirt Devil or similar hand-held suction device" (courtesy of The History Channel's quiz, "How Weird Are You?"). I highly doubt there is a culture out there that would think of that as "normal" behavior. But what about something a little less extreme? We all have our own little idiosyncrasies--be it writing poetry about the undead, singing show tunes in different languages, getting excited when a new Bruce Willis movie comes out... whatever. Does that necessarily make us weird?

(The fact that I have confessed my strangeness to various people has no bearing on this at all. Probably.)

Wishing

I had always wished
For you


To come back.





Still

Now that you have
I can't help

But wish


You lived





And didn't hunger

For brains.