Now it's party time... with archives | August 21, 2004 22:49:03 PM

It's not really party time. But I did add a right-side archive link list to the front page archives for my entries here, the same type of list as visible in my dream journal. That way you don't have to go back to the hub page anymore.

Also I brought back the permalink (it looks like ), but since it's dumb <a name=""> HTML, again, there is no current entry permalink. But all the archived posts have working ones, in case you want to link someone to this thrilling exchange.

Happy birthday, HPL | August 20, 2004 8:56:52 AM

Ex Oblivione
by H.P. Lovecraft

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victims body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.

Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.

Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth till I reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbours, and undying roses.

And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze.

Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to trunk, sometimes disclosing the mould-stained stones of buried temples. And always the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the little gate of bronze therein.

After awhile, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, so that I need no more crawl back to a dull world stript of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country from which, once it was entered, there would be no return.

So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall, though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.

Then one night in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and among them was lore of a golden valley and a sacred grove with temples, and a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this lore, I knew that it touched on the scenes I had haunted, and I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.

Some of the dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the wonders beyond the irrepassable gate, but others told of horror and disappointment. I knew not which to believe, yet longed more and more to cross forever into the unknown land; for doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures, and no new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace. So when I learned of the drug which would unlock the gate and drive me through, I resolved to take it when next I awaked.

Last night I swallowed the drug and floated dreamily into the golden valley and the shadowy groves; and when I came this time to the antique wall, I saw that the small gate of bronze was ajar. From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the tops of the buried temples, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the glories of the land from whence I should never return.

But as the gate swung wider and the sorcery of the drug and the dream pushed me through, I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for in that new realm was neither land nor sea, but only the white void of unpeopled and illimitable space. So, happier than I had ever dared hope to be, I dissolved again into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which the daemon Life had called me for one brief and desolate hour.

Quorn 2 | August 19, 2004 8:10:16 AM

I think I'll try to restore the permalink function on my website at some point, it can't be that hard. I wanted to link to the entry I made about the vegetable-based protein substitute Quorn a couple of months ago, and how I wanted to try it.

Mom bought a couple burritos -- or did I? -- that are not the usual brand and I failed to notice that they "contain textured vegetable protein" in addition to actual beef. This was odd; it was like the Pepsi Edge of burritos. "There's some meat, but don't get too excited."

Anyway, I guess the protein resembled beef, albeit raw, squishy beef. I imagine Quorn is similar. It was nasty.

Tough to enter a saturated market | August 16, 2004 8:56:19 AM

Gigli | August 2, 2004 7:23:34 AM

Seriously, one of the worst movies ever. We rented it for a lark. It's the kind of film that gets made when everyone involved owes everyone else involved a favor. Ben Affleck is a Los Angeles gangster who has a New York accent, and so do all the other LA gangsters. Very little actually happens in the film, so to shore that up, the movie had to be character-driven. But their idea of "character-driven" consists of someone saying something simple, and then two characters endlessly dissecting it and looking for cute and clever symbolism.

Here is an example of Gigli-style dialogue.

Someone. Hey, what time is it?
Someone else. Huh? Time?
Someone. Yeah, what time is it?
Someone else. What time is it?
Someone. Yeah, are you deaf or something? I need to know what time it is.
Someone else. Funny how when somebody asks "what time is it," you never really know what "it" they're talking about.
Someone. Well, it's like... "it." It, everything. Everything has the same time, so it doesn't matter what "it" is.
Someone else. Einstein's theory of relativity says otherwise. He postulated that black holes vibrate, emitting Cerenkov radiation in a binary system that actually sends out sympathetic closed time-waves. (sic)
Someone. Look, I just want to know what time you have.
Someone else. How can I have what doesn't matter? A sentence without a subject. Perception of the entire plane of existence as static and unyielding. You can tell a lot about a person from how they ask a question.
Someone. You... you think I'm unyielding? (falls over himself in explanation) I'm yielding. I'm plenty yielding. I got yield.
Someone else. You got yield?
Someone. I got yield.
Someone else. You got yield?
Someone. I got yield, etc.

... which would be written, presumably, to turn "I got yield" into some kind of quotable nugget that hip adolescents would drop at parties. "What's that a quote from, it's really funny!" "Gigli. So funny... and so wise." What a nightmare. Anyway, happy birthday, Kim.