Archive for December, 2010

Merry Belated Christmas

Posted: December 26, 2010 in real life
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Things have been extra busy lately, but merry Christmas people! Hopefully I’ll be back on track after new year. Towers of Midnight review coming soonish. Hope you enjoyed the year!

THERION Concert Photos

Posted: December 18, 2010 in music
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What a concert it was, seeing this much talent in just two hours. I had been unclear as to which kind of music these guys played. Opera metal, definitely. Therion has changed much from its death metal days, and opting in to use 2 male and 2 female lead singers, Christofer Johnsson has made a choice that definitely suits me. Thomas Vikström handles the operatic duties very well, and even carries the aura of a nobleman with the way he looks at the crowd. I still miss Mats Leven, his voice is one of a kind, but I do agree that Thomas is a better pick for the band. Just, for the love of Joe Pesci, don’t try Blood of Kingu without Mats. At least get Snowy sing it or something. It just doesn’t work.

Coming to the other singers, Katarina Lilja is slightly overshadowed by the other singers , yet manages to get her sound across. And a body to die for, I might add, receiving a slight help from the corset-esque dress she has on her person. Lori Lewis makes the difference with her superb voice and by reaching those ridiculously high notes. I believe she even screamed in one instance, and she also plays keyboard. Her interaction with the crowd is way beyond average, and manages to sound very cute doing it. No wonder more than half the crowd (AKA, all of the men) is head over heels for her; she deserves it. But while she does great job between the songs, she can’t beat the interaction Snowy Shaw has with the crowd while singing the song. He uses every opportunity to help the crowd participate in the song, which is to say, very hard. Just as Vikström carries the detached persona on the stage, Snowy can’t help but smile upon seeing the crowd chant for them. The way he screams in those impossibly high notes, it is inspiring beyond imagination. And to think that he is primarily a drummer, he does a hell of a job singing in various voices, ranging from deep bass to high falsetto, and still managing to have a unique voice to top it all off. Often times he even makes you forget that it is actually Vikström that is the lead singer.

Unfortunately, most of the others are nothing to talk about. Christofer, with his hat and sunglasses of awesome, has the air that makes you feel that the man has accomplished something this wonderful, and he knows it. He knows that he made this group possible, and does not need to do anything more to be recognized. That, I admire in a person. The lead guitar duty is passed to Christian Vidal, who handles the job perfectly, while getting lost in the feel of his guitarwork. The solos maintain a uniqueness while still being true to their album sound. For the drummer and the base, well, I didn’t really notice them until they came in for the bow at the end. Not their fault, I suppose, since the frontmen of the group are so imposing that you tend to forget the others. Then again, that’s why we have drum solos; to remind people that there still is somebody playing the drums on the stage. That, and so the other members can catch a break.

The concert was better than I expected, and I was pleasantly surprised. I came in without knowing most of the songs and managed to have fun. A good night’s fun, I suppose.

Oh, and the photos are up, just click the image at the top to get to the album.

More images to come when they’re properly edited carefully selected (no amounts of edit will make anything taken with a 5 MP phone camera acceptable), along with the exhilarating experience put into words.

I’m currently in the middle of Wheel of Time book 13, Towers of Midnight. The book is simply legen-wait for it-dary. I’ll definitely be sad when this is over. Still one more to go, I guess.

Review coming when I’m done.

[The first sentence is obscured by pen beyond being readable, and as such, we are unable to produce the actual aim of this writing.}

You cannot create something from nothing. It has happened once, for reasons unbeknownst to men, and will never again. That is the fate of the universe, if it can be called that. That’s just how it is.

Writing is akin to forging your thoughts, feelings, and if it is any good, you. You cannot forge that which does not exist in any other form, just like a sword that had once been a simple metal. Thoughts, happenings, and even just the simple act of living may give birth to something elegant, a piece of writing that is, without doubt, you. It is what is carved out of the jungle of inconceivable thoughts, put into words only.

I can never gather my thoughts about anything (recently read books, imminent questions) without first putting it into words, in the means of writing. Perhaps that is the reason why I am writing this in the first place, this being a question of no apparent importance and probably to be answered later in this writing. It will be inevitable since it is the nature of thought to crave for what is unknown, the unknown at this time being the reason to this random selection of words.

Is it a failure to think that you cannot even think without first writing about it? Does that sentence even makes sense? Makes a pretty much failure of a human being, who is ubiquitously known for his social needs, I’d say. I know I continue to prove this day by day, during my interactions with other human beings. A shame, that. Nothing to be done about it, seeing I’m still writing just to get my brain straight.

Nonetheless I can feel the emotions a human being feels and if I cannot even experience the rather abundant emotion of love at the moment, I find consolidation in which I can produce an emotion so solemnly warm as love while writing, experiencing its effects on writing without even bothering to experience it firsthand.

Writing is a lonely experience, being a writer, probably more so. If one aspires to be a writer, does one consciously aim to have a lonely heart, to think by his head alone whilst the society operates in groups of two or more? The current basis of this society lies in couples, or rather, groups of two or more. Can one ever be such a simpleton to try to defy a behemoth, created by the collective consciousness of many, including the writer himself? With the hope of victory slim, if even existant, is it even wise to attempt it? Does the fact that hundreds of thousands attempt it a proof otherwise? A man can only guess. This one likes to think the entirety of the writing community is a gather of masochists who seeks to fulfill their desires by the use of a form of conversation named writing.

A form of conversation, is it? Maybe not necessarily a conversation with others, since it would be unwise to consider it for an actual means of having a discussion, the direct talk being the rather easier and universally accepted way. No, it is a means of conversing with your brain, an act that sounds ridiculous at best. No matter the image, the actuality remains that one just cannot hold a decent enough conversation with one’s brain to answer the key questions one has to ask to oneself, who actually am I? What is my purpose here? Why would a concept like right or wrong matter?

Now, if only anybody has tried to think this through, you must ask your brain these questions, and it has to answer you for you to know the answer of it. Only, it doesn’t. Rather stupid of him, but it needs a means of projecting what you need through mediums other than thought itself. Thoughts get distracted easily, appear and disappear as they wish, and are largely unreliable. Writing is just another form of your brain trying to communicate some sense into yourself. More often than not it will be a random clutter of words, unidentifiable in their meanings, but the single hope is that once the clutter of words are complete, it will provide a message to you, that which your brain had been wanting to make you understand all along.

I conclude this writing session as I have run out of paper and can’t be arsed to — [the writer trails off at this point, most probably having run out of paper on a trip and unable to continue it later as the thoughts have already evaporated from the mind.]