Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Somehow, I'm not surprised.

You are Form 8, Demon: The Destroyer.

"And The Demon took advantage of the chaos
and seized civillization. With grace and
style, Demon slit The Goddess's belly and
drowned the world in her blood. The Goddess,
The Demon, and the world were no

Some examples of the Demon Form are Seth (Egyptian)
and The Horsemen of the Apocalypse (Christian).
The Demon is associated with the concept of
destruction, the number 8, and the element of
His sign is the full moon.

As a member of Form 8, you are a very strong willed
individual. You don't let others' opinions
sway your own and you're usually not afraid to
speak your mind. However, some may see you as
a bit overly passionate but it's just because
you never back down from your values. No
matter what, you always do everything with
style. Demons are the best friends to have
because they will back you up.

Which Mythological Form Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Tuesday, November 15, 2005


The End, no safety nor sorprise.
The End...
I'll never look into your eyes again.

It is a melody that initiate the Thing.
Some ancient song toss me, like an unwanted cigarette end, a memory. This memory revives rotten nerves and the Thing starts.

Like a dark cold fire. Like a bright shadow; leaning out from the dim gloom among my braincells, offering me a teethless smile.

This was the warning: I put beers on the fridge, I order a pack of cigarettes (that has arrived at this very instant) and I pull out the scotch from its hideout.

Then come the symptoms: Tachycardia, my sight is blue and the world is pulsing; a sudden thirst that compels me to take the beers out of the fridge, my taste is vast and dark; To walk nervously around the living-room, whispering and nodding; To smoke a lot, expectantly.

The big-buttocked muse dictates.

And I punch and hit the keyboard with bloodshot eyes and lustily look, smiling sickly but happy; and I pray to my muse:

Forbid me to trascend. Let me Transgress.

And the shadow/muse/Thing bends behind my chair and whisper imperatively in my ear.

"Prey Them. Ass-rape reality"

Let us shot Them when we reach the trigger; let us maim Them, reduce Them to cripples, to bags of bones... before they carbonize Our art, Our life.

Let us prey Them.

Friday, November 04, 2005

3 Pounds

It is always hard to click on the "Create" button without feeling like an art-rapist. Or at least, it is hard for me.

To "Create".

I was preparing something special, well, not especial... let's say adequate, for the Walpurgis night, which, as all of you already know, was on October 31. But I was busy (I am) doing more honorable tasks.

And so... all the loving fans (thank you very much) of the EMP Project are wondering why the fuck I haven't post.

Well, it is easy: I am a Sith. I deal in absolutes.

I'm quite sorry to contradict my sister, but I don't like gray.
I'm an spiral-minded; my cognitive process is complicated (fuck it is), and it twist and twist and twist. But even spirals are governed by an order. Spirals hold a vortex.

My vortex is MUST.

My mother taught me to be noble, kind, be a good person.
My father taught me to be respectful, obedient, be a gentleman.
I learned neither.

I took the liberty to mix their teachings in my personal moral blender. And I pour out honor, valor and bravery.

I must not take shit from anyone. Not even from myself.
I must be what I must.
So I do what I must.
The vortex has spoken.

My old man is dying.

On November 1°, I was taking my annual shot of whiskey to honor the dead when I surprised myself wondering what photograph of my father would be the most suitable for the next year offering. Should it be the one that shows him young and handsome? Or that one? The one that my mother took when he was in his mid-forties. Or better yet, the one that captured him six months ago, when he was stepping out of coma.

My old man is dying.

He smiles while he tastes a simple spanish ham with melon dish; at the swift opening of a can of beer; when my mother tell him that I've already fixed the toaster.
He used to smile at the Sunset. Now, he just deals with It.

He who hunted pigeons to eat while the germans and the franquists were killing his uncles and cousins.
He who killed a boar holding nothing but a knife.
He who, at the riots and public meetings of 1968 (he was forty years old), used to beat-up cops; just for the fun of it.

He who taught me to never pull out a blade if I'm not going to use it. He who taught me that women are all we want, but nothing we need. He who taught me that the subtlety of a single look, can destroy universes.

My old man is dying.

Everyday a little more; gracefully walking, almost tiptoeing, towards the blackness of the next Sunset.

He who, all this past week, had made me renovate the basement new bathroom, regardless of my homework and translation job.

He who is now plugged -doomed- to the tank oxygen.

He needs 3 pounds of oxygen per hour to survive.
But he prefer 160 pounds of myself per day to smile.

My old man will die.

Cheers old man! I drink to your smile.

Hail Grim-Reaper! You shall have him then.

But today he is mine.
This is my must.