Staggering Winds

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Staggering Winds by: ~Alastair. Proudly Held Together by: Eleanor M. Evenstar A note on the edition: The original printing had only Appendix I & II The Second Edition featured Appendix III “Beyond the wind” edition completes the story. Another note. Despite words included and searches of our own, some information on page 11 & chapter XI could not be verified. Thank you for the support over the years. ~Editors. Contents: …Foreword… 6 …Staggering Winds… 14 …With What Regard?… 24 …All These Pieces… 45 …Folly… 54 …In the Gardens of Eden… 189 …X… 299 …XI… 382 …Appendix I… 401 …Appendix II… 417 …Appendix III… 421 …Appendix IV… 427 …Beyond the wind… 431 …Ecdysis… 432 Are you afraid of the wind? I think you should be. “6/17/2006 Another dream tonight. This time it was about those movies. Those triumphantly well made, lightning quick shots that ring through my head at night. The angry man. Who was he? Why did he make such a drastic change? Another dream of those three. That eye, that soot. That man. Just why does he invade my dreams so? For posterity, if someone is reading this: I’ve been having dreams of this movie series I stumbled across on the internet. It follows an old man driving a motorcycle before it switches to highly edited, processed and almost film-like quality of an eyeball and creature of soot following a man around. I’ve attempted to see what the deeper meaning is, though I fare no better than Hemingway at his typewriter. That is to say: not very well, no, not very well at all. At first I was simply transfixed by the color and vibrancy of the film, suddenly the next day by its clarity. Suddenly- you get the idea. Every minute detail of this film has been recurring in my head, burrowing ever deeper like a Ceti Eel. The perennial vision, why must it - rather - why does it come to me? I’ve tasked a few others with looking over this film, though they see no significance inside its chambered walls. Many. Many chambered walls. I feel this strange compulsion to watch it again. And again. And Again. It vaguely reminds me of Macbeth in a way, what with the “And tomorrow”’s. Either way, the day now draws close to its slumber. Perhaps I will make another excursion to the library, solely to watch this movie once more; though I feel that must become strange to them eventually. Alas, thus is the tragedy of someone who cares. ~With care and kindness, Alastair.” When you find something like these journals I’ve begun printing into colored format, you begin to wonder about the person who wrote them. There’s some undeniable charm to seeing someone you don’t know, reading their deepest feelings. Something intangible that strikes you into the deepest sort of intrigue, the same kind as wallowing in a dark place with no light. There’s something quietly stoic, like watching a million-ton crash as steel collides and bends and nurtures itself into a new form that will be used in something else eventually; or rot at sea. I invite you to try it sometime. Due to the cost of paper, this font may seem quite small, I’m sorry for that. If you can stomach it - and - if you have the gall to see, I invite you once more to read my crooked words and splay your mind across the pages as same a cat would lay on a window. To crawl through the soot and use your eyes to see the winds that carry us through life unto another bad decision before the inevitable final wrong decision is made. For me? I made that when I decided to examine these journals more closely. This is my death sentence, now I must pay Charon. This is my river styx, this is my mummification. I set out a year ago almost exactly to find the true meaning of this film, whether it be in Alastair’s stead, or my own sick fascination with morbid things, you should know before reading: the truth of these pages are most likely not as dark as you think. Sorry for the spoilers. There isn’t much more an introduction to be made, so let me dive into the pages of this delusional - sometimes genius - writer of whom I bear no relation, no similarity (besides possibly overthinking), no life to. First off, finding the “film” Alastair was talking about was nearly impossible. The title “movie” implies a production film that was made in excess with a budget from a studio. Alastair decided to use this term rather loosely, titling a video series on a peer-to-peer video sharing site a “movie”. This is the first pretentious thing said by Alastair, though I suspect some of the later things Never mind. That time will come. The video series was called “The Staggering Winds” from a man unnamed. His uploads went from standard (if low quality) footage of him riding his motorcycle to a fully (seemingly) scripted series that was predominantly made in some 3-d modeling software. From the looks of this man, you wouldn’t assume he was tech-savvy, nor a millionaire; though some things are always shocking. There are two “chapters” I’ll call them, of the original videos. The first chapter was simply a man riding his motorcycle around the Cleveland Ohio area, possibly above the speed limit for the time, going nowhere fast. This leads us to the second set of videos. The second chapter consists of him lashing out at every person he seemingly thinks has done him wrong at some junction. Sometimes literally. I have my own conclusions about this, though I’ll let Alastair speak for himself before I dive into this fully. For now, let me direct your attention to chapter three. Chapter three is a bizarre, almost oneiric* congruence of videos in a sequence that loosely ties them together. It shows a caricature of the man being followed by a large eye and black creature. *Oneiric: dream-like “7/24/2006 I finally had another chance to see it in its entirety. This time I noticed something in the background of them. All of them. There is a constant smile on the sun, almost cartoonish. Following this, there is also a frown on the moon. I showed this detail to Lindsey, her synopsis being that it was a play on a ouija board. That got me thinking about the symbolism behind the name “The Staggering Winds”. There are no winds in the movies. None at all. I can only assume the creator must mean the winds as a metaphor for something larger than comprehension, as are winds in general: Khamsin, Mistral, Sundowner. There is something in this world that pushes those around and yet we understand them not. Tis the shattered mind which makes the best art; I believe something has happened to the angry man. Something has set him off the deep end into creation that which is untold and at most.. Staggering. For all the interesting things inside this film, I’m almost more drawn to the angry man making them. There’s something mercurial about the whole thing: a random guy has access to this type of software, just happens to know how to use it, just happens to… I’m not sure. Maybe I’m looking into this absurdist nightmare slightly too deep for its perfectly skin-levelness. That being said, I can’t just let this fade out of the public eye and die with me. There has to be something I can do to get this out there for people. Something. …Full review soon. With care and kindness, Alastair.” Here’s the thing. Alastair never finished his “Full Review” (as if this was something tremendous and or worth a full review). That being said, the truth is a lot more mysterious I suppose. Alastair C. Weinberg was a strange man, I’ve come to learn. He never had a car of any type, despite having more than enough money. He never had a bike, scooter, skateboard, anything. He owned a two story house in the countryside and that’s about it. I’d come to learn his cause of death was ruled a heart attack, though by some of his writing I can’t imagine he was in the best frame of mind, perhaps taking something to prep for one on purpose. Let me take you back a while (in my world). Me, my friend Gale & a man named Steve. Me and Gale had known each other for years longer than we’d known Steve, though he was quite the charmer: we both clicked with him perfectly well. Steve was mainly a carpenter, would go out and fix houses on call. You know what a carpenter is. This job was special, however. Steve got a call from a man named Alastair - refused to give his last - requesting a new coat of paint for his bedroom. Said he tried it himself and just didn’t have the strength for it anymore. That’s when my phone rang. And Gale’s. Also no, Gale has nothing to do with The Staggering Winds. Just a coincidence; XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. Steve knew that both of us loved to paint and asked if we wanted to tag along. “Sure” we both agreed, save for a slight moment of panic from myself when I realized I might’ve had a meeting that day. Week goes by, get in the car, drive way out to a secluded house miles from any form of civilization: Alastair. Alastair lay coldly, his body slumped over the tablet, nay, compendium that lay before him, overlooking its contents even unto the grave. Between the shock of seeing the man literally cold and rotting, there was a strange sense of something in the air. Something sinister and dark protruded through this fog of decay, something foul and evil. Like a million eyes were watching from behind every wall. Of course, we took proper precautions, called authorities and whatnot. I couldn’t resist, however, taking some of the journals that lay scattered on the floor. Call me a thief or whatever you’d like. You are reading this, aren’t you? I vividly recall Steve having found out, laughing for a split second before the reality set back in. Cops arrived, told everything that happened, they checked the records: no family. No will, no nothing. As far as the world was concerned, this man was destitute. That’s what makes me say he was a strange man. Lived at least miles away from anything and yet he had no means of transportation and - believe me - the buses do not go that far. Cops tell us that either way we should fix the house up so it can sell, they leave after having escorted Alastair out. Very simple, yes? During this process, I happened to have noticed something jutting out from the wall and - to this day I still curse myself for it - I investigated. Gale, me and Steve all watched as we found an entire room with markings on the walls, trash scattering the floors, snapped pencils everywhere, all surrounding an upside down ouija board. Alastair was no old man going mad with dementia or something more malignant, he was fairly young at death. I don’t know what he was doing in that room (besides using the board), because there is no proper way to describe it unless you were there. It looked like something right out of a stalker novel. By this point I was enthralled. Those two always said I’d get myself in trouble with my penchant for macabre things, looks like they were right. On the way out, I took the remaining script from the desk, him having no family or anyone to give things to the only reason. It was sort of freeing, in a way. I think that’d be nice for me. Nothing to anyone; come get what you want. Anyway, I took it home and began reading only to discover there were several pages either blank, missing or completely incoherent. Perhaps he had developed some kind of mental illness. Schizophrenia, bipolar disorder. Something like that, though I believe that is only wishful thinking. Over the last months, I’ve (essentially) thrown away my whole life to complete this deadman’s last work. I discovered that (and as you’ll see) Alastair had an interesting way of getting things to people. He didn’t just call a publishing company, no, he instead chose to mail the only pieces he had of the “Full review” in two page gaps. Why? Well, I’ll let you hear it from him. “4/9/2007 [missing] …mailed them two pages, letting them see my prose while not unfolding the entire mystery, lest they be sucked in and enwrapped in its glorifying light…-” So, without further adieu, I grant you now access to the “full review” of this bizarre set of videos that Alastair has labeled “movies”. I will warn you one last time, these pages are sometimes daunting and XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. Some even I shy away from in my writing. Alastair tried to burn several pages of text, it seems; some pages being torn and discolored, charred and mired. Those I will include with crossed out text. He usually saved bold text for something that was important to the “story”, italics for emphasis. Furthermore, the only reason I say he “might have” developed a mental illness and not that he “had” a mental illness is You’ll find it out. Don’t worry. If you’ve made it here, burning through these boring few pages, I salute you. Thank you for making my work worth it; thank you for honoring Alastair. ~E.M.E. The Staggering Winds. A review on expression There isn’t much to say about low-budget films that can’t be said about high, prestigiously made tools of excitement. In everything there is a certain level of merit, regardless if it’s Ed Wood or John Carpenter. Some might even say there is more artistic merit in, say, Ed Wood films due to the constrictions they faced from the budget. In truth be told to the proud light of day, let me guide you through these motions as though Charon through the River Styx. There lay an ancient being ready to awaken inside you, something that has been there for years and years yet lay dormant unless you permit it entry to the world. It’s a small creature but one significant enough that you can feel its wake when passing by. That is: criticism. Criticism is the backbone of all things creative, some may say it’s a negative connotation though I do not believe this to be true. To me, criticism means that you’ve made something undeniably real, something that people can look at and scoff at and think “here’s how I could do that better.” all while not looking like the odd man out. Thus enter The Angry Old Man. Though I know not his real name, I pray and hope that - should he be alive - I could find him through this work. There are a series of videos on the internet, permeating and echoing acoustically back from the grave of being forgotten in the industrial sense, such as “Eye See You”. Among these graveyards, there lay a sleeping body that simply hasn’t awoken yet. One that, despite being in the cold earth, has not yet hatched. “The Staggering Winds” is its name. It was uploaded by an older gentleman of - again - whose name I know not. It follows a man being followed by a floating, ocean blue eye and a creature of complete, utter black. Though all the friends I have shown these magnificent creations to have lauded it as just another effort of absurdism humor, I vow that there is something beneath the murky surface. Something much, much more deeply thought for and about. Something that the old man wanted us to see. | See? XXXXXXXXXXXX as one could be. Repeating the same things over and over to attempt to faux drill it into your skull. Even still, I feel like once you warm up to it as I have, it becomes more endearing. There’s something to be said about those who, despite not having the proper training, will still make something they care about. As for Ed Wood, I do agree. He was a masterful filmmaker in his niche; despite his budgets they’re still fun to watch. I've been sinking into movies a lot recently, having lost my partner. Not death, not a wife or husband, though it hurts all the same. I actually have even been rewatching TSW, seeing if I could find anything even this aficionado had missed. So far? No luck, but then, how could there be? Who’s to say it's even the same videos? Reuploads are always at risk of being tampered. You might notice I said peer-to-peer and - if you know what that means - you know that means someone sent him those videos on purpose. He gets to that soon, though I feel I should clarify. Alastair had a lot of friends. Friends in all sorts of places. He’d later go on to write about friends at strip clubs to penthouses. He’d confess in journals he’d let homeless people stay with him during harsher weather. At first I didn’t understand. I didn’t get why he’d throw away all this great work and life building he’d done for such a random piece of media; you’ve heard my story. It has a way with you. Something about it, it eats you alive. Every second you watch it, a small piece of your soul enters a nameless void and re-emerges a darkened shade only to be thrown away into a recycler and used to make another soul somewhere else while the millions charge on thinking nothing but happy thoughts and dreams of grandeur. It steals you. It rips you to shreds and smiles while you cry, patting your head and hugging your waist while you weep into the nothingness that has a hold of you. The worst part is opening your eyes, realizing it was all for nothing. There is no grand exit or finale. Only the remnants of the pretty. Alastair knew that, too. He treaded that fine line because he cared. XXXXXX fool. | There, in his shadow of shadows, lie a sleeping cerberus waiting for the maw of hell to flood with new guests. I am the one that answered that call, seeming as though no one else cared. My friend Alan found the original videos of the Old Man, cruising on his motorcycle, showing off the most interesting parts of Cleveland. It was interesting, seeing a man showing off his favorite places in a town. There isn’t much really to say about these, however, as due to the nature of these show-and-tell kind of videos, they all blend into one thing. The most interesting part is what happens in between the video “Cleveland Metropark Zoo” and “another idoit on the road”. Notice the differences between the titles. The vitriol present in the second title (especially if you’ve seen the original videos) is completely unlike what he had done before. Some people I’ve shown it to (Lindsey M. - C. T. Jr) attribute this to a change of uploads. They suggest he just got tired with making showcases of things and or places he liked, wanting to show more of his real self. I buy into this theory none, rejecting it at its rotten core, throwing it to the vultures to pick off the scraps. There had to be something more going on behind the scenes. Such hatred was never present before then, notwithstanding the year gap in videos. Around this time is when he would start posting extremely short 3-D animated models. This I find even more strange. How would a man looking well into his 60’s find the knowhow to suddenly use - or acquire - a software that powerful? I beg to differ, however, that one can be taught. That being said: these had much more than two months of effort put into each one. There are seven videos total, each one containing some form of metaphor (to my eyes). Within each video there lay a subtle undertone of something far more evangelical, whether it be for religion, activism, whatever it may be; it is undeniable there is something under the skin here. Something far, far down that would fly over the most observant people’s heads; I vow myself now to bring this dark monstrosity to light. | He’s wrong. There are actually nine videos. | See, with everyone I’ve shown these movies to, they all share one common thing: they all want to see it more than once. These films have a way of staying in your mind. Perhaps it’s because that absurdist art is not that common, let alone completely animated by hand in frame by frame animation ala~ “The Nightmare Before Christmas”, or perhaps it’s something more, something deeper down the rabbit hole. Perhaps it’s that smiling sun in the corner of each video, or that frowning moon. Perhaps it's the deeper meaning the brain subconsciously interprets due to lack of wanting to think about it in the moment. Perhaps it's just that it's animated very, very and oh so well. If you’ve heard of the “Polybius” conspiracy, perhaps it’s something like that. I digress. I believe the true meaning of the film can be ascertained by any viewer of any age through very simple understanding if you just connect the dots. The eye. The soot. The Man. As you soon will come to see, there are no actual “winds” in this story at all. Nary a single tree blowing or wind sound effect or mention of it being a blustery day. There isn’t so much a hair moving, as if the world had entered pure stagnation. It's as though the author interpreted “The Day the Earth Stood Still” as a literary concept and not of the actual plot. How disturbing it is then, that the title includes that dreadful, accursed word that we never even see. One can imagine a lot when it comes to technical limitations, though judging by the fact the Old Man has taken time to animate clothes falling with successive movement or hair bouncing with running or water falling off the eye and actually spreading across the floor instead of simply having the water disappear shows that there absolutely could have been animation for wind; it was a conscious decision to make it so there were not. This brings me to the last point before starting this often obtuse series: I will be delving into some topics that people might not want to hear about: grief, stress, unhappiness with life, etc. If those aren’t for you, continue on your day and enjoy knowing the briefest of brief knowledge on these movies. If those pique your interest, well… Perhaps we aren’t so different, you and I. | There’s something about the way he writes. Almost as if he knew this wasn’t going to be published. Not to be cliche, of course, though I feel I am to document everything I notice, seeing as how this is my recoverence after all. Perhaps it’s that I’ve already read the entire “review” and (you’ll see more why that word is quoted later) absorbed its profoundness. The late chapters of - Oh yes. There are chapters, he just forgot to do chapter one, I suppose. Maybe it was stylistic? Though at the same time, from the opening it seems like he was so eager to write he might have just forgot to include it in haste. This can be considered chapter one. He doesn’t even cover the videos until chapter three. Feel free to skip to page [22] to get to the point, should you not want to get the early backstory, though I suggest you do. The ending makes a lot more sense that way. Basically, don’t skip at all. I don’t know why I included that. Maybe it’s the overly verbose way of speaking that can be tiresome, though even then I feel if you’re still reading- Pardon me. After all, “a lady should have manners”. That’s what he said right before breaking it off. Imagine that. All the things I didn’t do were only the things he didn’t ask. It’s like having a speaker on maximum volume only to purposely overcharge it until it explodes and leaves a ringing in your ears louder than a sonar blast from a military submarine. Overcharging a million volts into your body at once and sending you into more shock than shock only to finally fry you from the inside out, stuck inside your own mangled mind until those five minutes are up and you finally cease…… Listen. I haven’t been having the best week. Sorry, reader. I’ll try to refrain from now on. Gale’s been calling and.. Well, I haven’t picked up. Same with Steve. This “review” just has a grasp on me. | CHAPTER TWO A man unfurled For now, we’ll take a look at the original videos of The Man. The original videos are less than standard quality compilation shots of The Man riding his motorcycle around Cleveland, Ohio. Sometimes making videos on historic districts, landmarks, even interesting street vendors. The most famous of these original videos was a one christened “Skyline from Edgewater”. That being said, a common theme between these videos is that he isn’t the one recording (of course, he is driving after all) these vistas. Instead, he has a woman who - despite not receiving credit - was referred to as “Susie” once by a friend they passed along 4th Street. Susie is unconfirmed in her role in his life, though I suspect it to be his wife, the two being around the same age. Beyond that simple fact, they also appear together in nearly every one of these old videos. Furthermore, you might be asking: “Alastair! How doth thou cometh upon such fine entertainment?!” Well, dear reader, friends in strange places. Before I continue on the videos, let me touch on how I procured these videos originally. One of my many friends, one “Alan T.” began sending me them after I visited his place once in Staten Island. He had quite the budget, that one. Always had the top of the line computers, phones, you name it. I was visiting and he happened to bring up these landmark videos, showing me them from someone who sent him them from someone else from someone else unto infinity. Finding the original poster would prove insurmountable, my almost year long search proving nothing but a ghost is out there. That is until I dug into personal records, though I’ll save that for later. For now, let us return to the familiar and comfortable videos of one man and his wife, traveling through the world one landmark at a time. The original videos are all just named after landmarks, streets, as previously mentioned. They share only the contents that they set out to, ending the microsecond the necessary visuals are over. There are little to no commentary in any of them, though when there is it is always from the man, Susan opting to stay quiet. Whether that be for the audio quality or the illusion that only he is there remains unknown. When there is commentary, it never takes place from the perspective of the man, always having another person there to aid him with his words. That is to say: the man never talks unless spoken to. To coincide with this, when he does talk, it goes on for (sometimes) actual hours. There have been full feature-film length videos (of how I’m not sure they’ve been uploaded, what with the strict file limits) of him talking to friends, family, confidants, what have you. There have been stories of his time as Medical staff in the military. There has been times where he talks about baseball games, NASCAR races, movies such as “The Exorcist” and “The Shining”. You get a lot of small glimpses into this man’s life, though never a peep and nary a whisper of even one letter of his name. After so long, I’d almost started to believe he’d not had one. Just a nameless entity in the words, in the sound, producing a visually extremist love for a city. Of course, these notions only proved more interesting once arriving to the second chapter of videos, which we’re almost to. This second chapter is only here to demonstrate that he was originally a very stable, simple minded man who enjoyed nothing more than sharing talks with people and keeping his own self well hidden under lock and key. Notably, some of the earliest videos were shot analog on what appears to be standard 12.7mm tape, digitized through a medium which is never revealed; though it isn’t just recording the tv playing. As they progress, they start to look slightly more “shiny” (I suppose is the right word) indicating a switch from 12.7mm to a more normal Hi8 that you’d see standardized in the 90’s. Either way and every way, this proves they had money to burn and/or were endorsed by either people at the time or a larger scale corporation to continue doing this as a job; the money loss on their end otherwise would certainly not justify the means. | “Opting to stay quiet.” Sure. Me and Gale used to record little snippets of our lives back in Texas, albeit with much worse quality than this man’s videos. Whether that be a tracking problem, who knows. We were dumb kids. It strikes me as odd that he chose to willingly omit the fact that The Man does speak quite often, actually. | That being said, the next set of videos are still shot on Hi8, eventually switching to digital. Notably, these all have a years gap of time from the last upload. Beyond that, the content of these films themselves are radically different to that of the previous few, opting more toward showing how much hate The Man has in his heart for the others on the road. Despite himself being in (arguably) the most obstructive piece of locomotion, often driving in that signature style of weaving between cars, he complains when someone even dare make a move not to his standard. I’ve dubbed these videos “Chapter Two” because of the radical shift in not only tonality but formality. The rest he was a carefully minded man, taking no huge risks, driving clean and talking to others when they gave word. Post chapter two, he drives recklessly, insults others any time he has the chance and seemingly (this being the most egregious) doesn’t take his wife out anymore. He records every video slightly tapered downwards with the camera mounted to his chest. Despite this, he seems to still have enough faculties to know what kind of quality he wants, again switching to digital from a film based recording. Another reason I dub these “Chapter Two” is because it seems that no one talks to him anymore, whether that be from him or plain and simple omission I can’t be sure, though I suspect his change in mood had an effect. Lastly, before getting to chapter two, this is where things become vulgar, disturbing, speculatory and overall rude. I don’t mean this lightly, the rest of this could leave you with existential dread, or worse. Tread carefully, reader. | So careful, youthful, cheery. All these qualities I’ve listed vanish upon the fourth act, vanishing into the wind as does a hair from a cat or a speck of dust from your desk. Wipe it once, it’s gone, though you still remember it for a while. He is right, however. The rest of the “review” deals with some - at times - XXXXXXX topics, which he again omits. I myself am liable to writing such as, I’ve always copied ever so slightly what I’ve read and or reading. I’m sure you’ve also noticed a similarity to a book here, something subconscious perhaps but I’ll hash it out: no, this is not copying “House of Leaves” by Mark Z. Danielewski. Whether Alastair was a fan I think is non-negotiable, the coloring of words, the use of Times New Roman such as (from what I gather) the character “Zampanò”. It’s a coincidence on my end that my typewriter has these characters, though I think it fits thematically enough to not warrant changing it. That being said, for existential dread, if you were to watch the series yourself you’d not have too much to worry about, save for the final five minutes. With Alastair, you’ve got a maelstrom of doom & gloom to dread. I’ve never read something so downtrodden and defeatist in all my days. My days haven’t been too long; even at that it’s remarkably dark themed and filled with idioms for the damned. Reminds me of the first time I picked up the book “Whisperer In Darkness” by the late & great H.P. Lovecraft. Amazing writer. Better than I’ll ever be. The idea of these insectoid creatures skulking around is haunting, reminiscent of “Capgras Syndrome” which if you’ve not heard is the mental block that your family has been replaced by fake versions of themselves, your loved onces molested into a form that is identical and yet completely different in some subtle enough way you don’t notice. I’ve begun to think Alastair might have suffered from this late in his life, due to some of the pages at the end. It’s a faint connection; it’d provide some kind of closure. Reminds me of an old game Gale and I would play with strangers at the bar. We’d change something ever so slightly about ourselves, something we could easily reverse and see if they noticed. Of course, 90% of the time people were too sloshed to even understand what we were, let alone who. There was one guy, however. I can’t recall his name, though I know it started with a T. Gale made one of her breasts slightly larger (more than standard deviation) and he - immediately after waking up from his booze nap - snapped over to her and asked if she needed medical help, rambling about tumors. “That shows character” I thought, commending in my head the immediate call for help instead of - Then he said after: “Or you could *hiccup* come back to my place, maybe a li’l squeeze’ll help” Once again my hope had been lost. Whether he was trying to be funny but way too hammered or just genuinely looking for a quick fuck, he almost was a decent person. This is all to say that slight deviations in one's appearance, however minor they may be, can make two worlds worth of difference to people you’ve known for a while. I remember personally when I had my teeth done (root canal, caps, crowns) that Steve thought I’d got some kind of reconstructive surgery, complimenting me over and over before spitting that detail out, blowing over all self esteem like a tornado in Kansas. The seedy bar stories can wait for another time, though. And complaining about friends. Motorcyclists are quite annoying, I’ve come to learn. As a new kid on the block who certainly didn’t fit in (hair always done, dressed proper), Texas has its way with you. Thank God I got out of there after College, finally moving (or perhaps unfortunately) to Morgantown, West Virginia. Still don’t fit in here, either, in case you’re wondering. | CHAPTER THREE With what regard? The second chapters of videos from The Man start with his eyes barreling down the lens of the camera, though he isn’t looking in, instead he’s looking past. His eyes are affixed on something else behind the camera before he eventually turns it around. I want to note something about The Man from this point on: his pupils don’t ever seem to be small anymore. Every glimpse (and believe me there are only a few) of his eyes we see they are constantly blown out. Whether that be from drug use or perhaps that’s how they always were, we never see him reacting to anything around him. The first video is entitled “Unwelcome back” and starts with him lamenting to the camera while driving at - most certainly - dangerous speeds, doing wheelies and overall driving with safety on the proverbial back-burner. He laments about everything under the sun, how the world has treated him wrong, how the sky is too dim today, etc, etc. The thing he never mentions however: his family. Nary a peep or a whisper or anything that can be heard (though perhaps he was thinking it) about his family. No brother, sister, mother, wife, children (even though he didn’t even have children to my knowledge). He seemingly bears no mind to anyone being near or around him, speeding down the fair like it were the German Autobahn. This already contradicts what we know about the man in those previous videos. Sure, he drove slightly uncaring but he’d give ample room to anyone looking to pass. Now? Now he just cranks harder and speeds in front of them, even doing so to the ever elusive semi. By this point I thought: perhaps he’d been having a bad case of PTSD, flaring by the month of June, the heat reminding him of times uncertain. That was quickly squashed when I saw the next video: “another idoit on the road”. Notice the lack of punctuation and spelling errors. The Man before wouldn’t dare have anything so unjust toward his righteous ways. That video follows him driving recklessly, following a random Sedan who does nothing visually wrong on camera, unless its grave offense was turning the blinker on slightly too late, though I hardly imagine that’s worth screaming over at the top a’ your lungs. Beyond that, this video was rather short, him nearly smashing the window of the sedan before running after noticing there were witnesses. He shows us at the end of the video his plate is deliberately scratched in places making it hard to read the numbers. The corners of numbers were cut in such specific areas, down to minute detail you’d think The Man was a sculptor. The third video “dumbfucks” follows The Man yelling at two other bikers before attempting to (what looks like, remember the camera is angled) slash their tires, the two speeding off. Once more, the offense that the two committed looks identical to the way he’s driving, giving the idea of “Don’t do as I do, do as I say” which when used in this circumstance can seem rather dictator-ish. He seems quite content with himself, no less. He cheers and hollers after they scamper away from this blazing maniac. He raises his arms and revs his engine with extreme force. It’s almost as if he treats this as a sport, something fun while trying to hunt down others like a vigilante would a criminal. The next video is what sets off the final “This guy’s lost it” alarm. “Extinguished” is its title. The contents being the scariest yet. The others were at least harmless yelling, annoying yes but nothing that would be considered harmful. In this video, we see the man covered in black from head to toe, mask over face and glasses over eyes, plate covered. We watch as he chases this lady on the road in her SUV, slowly approaching before bringing out a baton and smashing a window on the left driver side. By this point I think any rational sane thinking human could point out there’s something wrong with him by now. Something in this man has snapped, something disturbing and dark and uncaring about others so long as he deems them unworthy. This brings into question, what could’ve gone wrong with him? When speculating about people you don’t know and have nothing to go on other than short (sometimes long though rarely) clips of their life, it's important to remember that nothing is concrete and therefore should not be treated as such. All possibilities I list here should be taken with many grains of salt, so many in fact that you could age meat with it. Though I guarantee I’m right on one of them. The first thing I thought, I’d already mentioned. PTSD. He’d mentioned in the past that he’d been to a war as Medical staff. Didn’t say which, though does it really matter? Wars break people. The mind isn’t designed to be surrounded in constant death and destruction of all things you love and cherish. It simply isn’t. This theory works until you realize that his attitude continues on beyond this point up until chapter three, where he begins waxing poetically about certain topics we’ll get into later. Perhaps it holds water if you consider that he’d only upload from that point on when he was having moments of recurring thoughts, though I find that highly unlikely. The second is that he stopped taking some kind of medication. Perhaps he had a mood inhibitor that made him more docile and cheery that he stopped taking one day. This is much more believable than the PTSD theory for me, solely due to the years of activity he had with no attitude. The third is that something snapped in his head. Undiagnosed stroke, blood vessels popping, etc. He isn’t exactly young though I wouldn’t say he’s old enough for this to be the likely answer. Or perhaps he just aged well These theories disregard the idea that perhaps it was something external that broke him: wife leaving, family member passing, pet missing. Something like that can just as easily shatter the mind when the mind doesn’t have room to escape. We pride ourselves as people being resilient, though even the most minute and small thing can destroy our sense of self in one second. | That last line is the first sign of Alastair showing his true colors. Whether he was depressed or just really poetic, his writing begins to delve deeper into self-derealization and destruction of the senses. Reminds me of an old lover I had right after moving. Name was Jerry. Tall, strong, good-looking, most importantly kind. He was always the stoic silent type who’d never give up anything about how he felt or what he was doing. Always just silent. I vividly remember the one time I ever got to hear about his emotions was when we were both feeling particularly juiced that night, slipping into bed with each-other, not a piece of cloth to be found. After some (quite frankly) incredible foreplay on his part, he completely broke down crying after XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. Killed the whole mood, though in all honesty just getting to hear things from his perspective was well worth the un-satisfaction. There’s nothing worse - I maintain - than someone who is completely closed off and one sided. He talked about his upbringing, his failed endeavors, the bad choices that led him to Virginia. Everything. It was one of the best nights of my life, no holds barred. I’ve always loved helping people, cheering people up, whatever it might be. There, in the shadowy and hot volatile night, we sat in the hyperborean chill completely nude while comforting each other, confiding our deep-seated problems to one another with no restraints. He had gone on in detail the worst moments of his life, consistently asking if it made him a bad person. I (of course) assured him that everyone, even the brightest of minds like Stephen Hawking, Einstein, Voltaire, Socrates, Scorsese, Lynch, all make mistakes sometime or another. I only wish that moment could have been as special for him as it was me, less than a year after we fell apart for reasons I won’t say (though we remained amicable), he was found dead, hanging from a rope tied to his shower, wrists sliced and multiple pills in his stomach. I still love him. We see The Man descend ever deeper into his degeneracy, now filming the next video inside a strip-club, awkwardly grasping toward the poor dancers, making their lives even worse than they already are. The video is entitled “proper male alone time” which implies his wife doesn’t know he’s doing this. You can hear him behind the camera snorting and grunting and - thankfully - it never pans down far enough to see what might be happening. The dancers of course play into this, grinding against the camera lens, showing off in hopes of getting more scraps of change for their vigorous and often-times disgusting work. The video cuts, the second half now filmed digitally, to him at a bar. He orders a whiskey on the rocks before inspecting his (seemingly) brand new Smith & Wessen secretly under the bar. This is unsettling for a number of reasons, though I don’t feel I need to say why. Anyone could piece together that something was already wrong; the man now has enough firepower to blow someone away should he not like the way they looked at him that particular day. It’s worth noting that there doesn’t appear to be any bullets loaded into the chamber, though that doesn’t help with the ramping, rampaging and insurmountable anxiety seeing this brings. He drinks the whiskey, leaves the rocks and gets on his motorcycle, but… It isn’t the same one? Correct, reader. His motorcycle has changed from candy apple red to pure jet black. As the sole reviewer for these films, here is a moment I’d draw on someone’s thesis about the whole ordeal, whether it be representative of his new self, his new style or something more sinister. However unfortunate it may be, myself and my friends might very well be the only person who sees these, therefore: How his motorcycle subtly changes his appearance: In the previous years worth of videos, we see him driving a candy apple red Harley Davidson, with all traditional stock parts, no extremities. It serves him well and gives off that classic “rockstar in a movie” kind of vibe. It has a bright, vibrant hue that tells people he’s approachable. Then after the skipping, we see him driving the same model except pure black, as though all the natural self has been sucked out and replaced with a fake version of itself, dead behind the eyes and only a dirty glare to indicate any life once inhabited the mortal shell of the person driving. See, all colors contribute to moods, feelings, ideological reasoning and some even as a sign of high power or faith. In the Bible, gold, ivory, and purple are signs of high belief, power and status. They exude the idea that one is wealthy whether in faith or in mind. At that time, red was seen as an unholy, demonic, vitriolic color. Something to be scared of and scorn, relating it not only to the fall of Lucifer; also the distinct color of blood pouring from a seeping wound one might get by disobeying the higher power. While its reputation has changed now, do not believe it is all positives. Now the color can be associated with Nazi Germany, still with the devil, just a different form; still the blood that would run warm. Another example: pink and blue. Widely known for their “girl” and “boy” designation; did you know that at one point pink was the more masculine color? The same way heels were seen as a sign of strength and therefore were traditionally worn by men. The world can change, colors can change, though the effect is still felt. A modern example would be “Baker-Miller Pink” (or “Schauss Pink”, “P-618”) is a specific hue of pink that was thought to reduce violence in people, slowly making them more passive under its charming effect. Whether this truly works or not is a mystery, the main test that was run was in a prison. While sure, the painting may have helped ease the nerves, what else do you have to do before painting, dear reader? That’s right! Clean. So while in essence the fact the prisoners displayed calmer moods with less rioting and stabbing, that could also be they had their first clean night in over five years. In the same way hues of color can reflect something in society or perhaps change moods, the same is true about when something owned by someone is a certain color. If someone’s attire is in all black, their face adorned by panda eye makeup and their hair puffed out, that indicates they like either punk/goth culture, subculture. If someone is dressed in a slightly-less-yellow than dijon mustard suit with glasses you’d see on a professor, hair slicked back and a green undershirt: it's safe to say they are either from and/or like the 70’s. Between those two are one shared thing: they both understand where they are and what they want to present to others. Traditionally the color you buy something in says something about you, whether it be that you’re approachable and want to converse with anyone you find or that you’re closed off and wanting to be left alone for a while. When someone has something in bright as red as candy apple red, it shows they are usually cool and unencumbered with life, flying by on the free spirit. That or they think it makes them look cool and therefore eliminating any sense of such ideas. ‘Point is, it's a bright color. People see bright color, they become entranced as though to a moth to a flame in the deadest of dead nights, blindness seeping through their eyes like water flooding a tank. Finally seeing a light in that darkness would be the most serendipitous of feelings, knowing you’ve found home, you’ve found others who are like you. Others who were lost to be found in either a streetlight or a window of someone’s apartment. In a way, I think these videos were my proverbial light. I had been adrift for so long trying to come up with ideas for a story, though now I need not come up with anything, for it's already laid out; me the messenger of its message. | You’ll come to see Alastair had a love for moths, specifically for white moths, ones that he’d see during the day hanging on posts. The color theory is true, same as the heels he was referring to. Funny how life can change like that, so drastically, so fast. | It isn’t too common that a man (I suspect to be mid 60’s) would suddenly want to learn about or take part in goth culture, nor reinvent himself again. That always happens around 35-44. I take it this new color was not a sign of something changing or needing a new part and using a spare, I take it as a sign of him losing something. Something or someone. Black is oftentimes related to crows, limbo, the Grim Reaper, anything that could be seen as or could possibly depict the death of all life. While I think black is a perfectly fine color for anything to be in, surrounding yourself in a dark room with a dark couch and dark stairwell and dark basement would certainly induce fear after so long. No one can stay stable in pitch black forever. Not me, Not you, Not The Man, Not the crows, Not the reaper, Not the sun, Not the moon, Not the editor And so we have to interpret the change in color as something else entirely, something much more malignant than benign, something dark and all encompassing as are the Virginia roads in the late hours of winter. Beautiful, ebony darkness surrounding what is normally a beautiful place. Covering the ground in white, lighting the sky for a while while two dreamers search for something greater than what is. Once more, this kind of poetry / pseudo melancholy is strangely compelling once you know his full story. As for the line “Covering the ground in white, lighting the sky for a while while two dreamers search for something greater than what is.” is a strange inclusion as Alastair never had a partner of his own, at least not mentioned in his journals or writing. I went back there recently, to his slowly crumbling house. We realized too late there had been rot in the support beams, now unable to be restored by a three man team. Hopefully someone gets to it eventually, it is a rather nice spot despite the isolation. Anyway: I went back there once more to find more journals, though I seem to have picked the house clean. There isn’t anything left inside worth taking, plus there’s a strange feeling inside there. Something bad took place, before or during Alastair's time I know not, though it's undeniable. I’m not one to believe in the hysterical mysteries of the paranormal, though if I had to suggest somewhere to be for someone who wanted to be; that house is it. You get chills running down your back just by standing, let alone observing. Perhaps it was just that we saw his corpse laying there, decomposing a good amount, though even that hasn’t bothered me before. The interesting part was that some things in there appeared to have moved. I know another crew of people had swept through before I could make that pilgrimage again, though it This isn’t worth speculating. Ghosts aren’t real. My mind has been playing tricks on me the last little bit of time, I too have been having dreams about these videos now. That crossed out “editor” up there could’ve been a dream; I’ve reread these pages so many times and yet I can’t find out why I added that. I can’t find that scrap of paper that was torn anymore. It might’ve just been in my head but then, why would I have dreams from his perspective? And why did that dreamer line stick out to me? I tell you, for a “review”, this feels more like a psych-eval. The Next video entitled: “dwan of creation” shows the man elevating his terror to another level, not only chasing a driver off the road into a ditch but then (while covered in clothes head to toe) threatens her with his pistol. She begins crying and begging for her life, which is when he points at the sky and fires, she begins screaming. He seems to take delight in this, laughing and cheering as she wails and moans and pleads for mercy from this unknown assailant. He screams in a southern accent, one he had not shown before (I believed to conceal his identity) “You done me wrong, now you’ll learn!” he points the weaponry right at her head, her voice now losing luster as she has surely shredded her vocal cords. Something interesting happens here, however. The instant she stops screaming as he moves his finger to the trigger, a sound comes through the camera. Something as unmistakable as a bomb falling from the heavens, waiting to end life as we know it. He hears a cry from the backseat, something that shudders him to his core, as we see the man stumble, lose his footing and fall, put the pistol back into its holster, and slowly get back on the bike waiting for the woman to pull away ahead of him before turning around and going up the road. What he heard that instant was a small baby, reacting violently as one would (of any age) to hearing a revolver blast next to their ear, their family screaming around them. Upon that one simple sound, he swallows all of what he was doing and becomes completely normal once more. This brings several things into question, most notably the woman. The baby was a coincidence. What did The Man mean by “You done me wrong”? What could he have been referring to? Why did he run this poor girl down and threaten (seemingly planning on following through) to kill her? What could possibly be the motivation for such a disturbing and sickening occurrence? Me personally, I would probably faint or have a heart attack should I be chased down by a vigilante looking man with a revolver. I can’t imagine just having a child then that occurring. We watch as he must’ve forgotten he was recording, which is another eerie sign in of itself. He rides up the road for several minutes before mumbling a quiet “This… isn’t my turn?” He notices at this point he is over five minutes away from where he thought he was. Now, the road didn’t stretch itself into something unfamiliar, it seems as though he truly had just forgotten where he was, what time it was, etc. He seemed lost, which is a far cry from the controlling maniac he had been just a few minutes prior. For a split second he held all the power in the world, pointing that gun against the woman. He had all the cards in his hand. Every strength possible and every weakness didn’t matter in that moment. He held the keys to the kingdom, the bullet that would give him immortality and show him as the true power over life. Nothing could stop him at that point: that woman was dead. She surely is today, mentally. You don’t recover from something like that, at least not easily. I imagine she went through years of therapy to achieve some normalcy and being able to go outside again. I would try and find her but I feel like asking her anything would be not only unproductive but also horribly disturbing. If it weren’t for that baby, The Man could’ve reasonably been a wanted murderer. That baby was the savior, the redeemer, the one to shut down his sins and keep him righteous. I’m not saying the baby were divine intervention, I’m saying the baby was the proverbial light in this man's darkness. He found a way home through the crying in that backseat, reminding him of something personal. Something he obviously cared about a year prior: family. | It’s more disturbing than he makes it sound. Don’t go looking, reader. Please. For me. | This leads us to the final video before he quit uploading once again only to return with the movies of current. The final video, posted nearly three months after the last, is christened “why is this”. I was unnerved watching the whole thing. Even more than the previous one. This one is highly edited and posed like a stalker. It starts innocently enough, The Man just driving through Cleveland as he used to do, stopping to look at houses every once in a while. It isn’t until the camera enters The Man’s hands and pans back to himself that we see the ghost of what once was. Panning back to the man reveals the one hundred year decay that makes people bend the knee and submit to life as they slowly erode as though the stones of canyons. He looks disheveled, dirty, tired, and unhealthy. It’s a sad sight in all honesty. His eyes almost seem glossy, like something else has taken the wheel and led him around. We watch him look at houses for a while before finding a driver in a white minivan to follow. He follows her for hours, upon hours, upon hours, fading in and out of traffic to remain inconspicuous. We see him drive by as she parks at her house, him parking down the road. The scariest shot of anything he posted happens next, even more so (again) than the woman he threatened to kill. Our next shot comes to when the man is sitting idly outside in a bush, watching and waiting as the dark slowly comes. A few hours later (as indicated by timestamp, he could’ve moved during those hours as footage does not exist) we see her arrive back, it now fully dark with no lights surrounding the house at all. We hear tired and raspy breathing growing more excited as she enters her house. Four hours later he’s still there, sitting outside her bedroom window, 2:33 AM, watching her sleep. At one point, he goes up to the window with his gun drawn. At this point, he begins panting, flashing a light inside the window proves to not wake her up. He stands there, loads the gun and then stops when he shines the light on her face. He stops dead in his tracks, looks at her and begins weeping. He sobs and through whisper says “ This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me. this is me isn’t this? This isn’t my house ? this isn’t Who am is this what am this isnt this isn m th is t i why am here ? who am i? This who Isn’t is Me. this? any longer why Why? ” Over twenty-three times. He says that phrase twenty-three times in quick succession before whipping the window with his pistol then shooting himself in the foot. On purpose. PTSD was now out of the question, something far more disturbing was happening here. This last video served as the only shred of The Man we’d see left in his work, that last part of realization of what he was doing was the final straw. After this video, The Man went into hiding, or was taken into custody. There wasn’t another upload from The Man until 2006. The videos that followed were nothing like the previous seven. In fact, they don’t even have The Man in them at all. No voice, no sound, nothing. Only text on the screen, adjoining three animated figures. That isn’t to say it isn’t him, it clearly is somewhere in there. The ideas and way the characters speak through their text boxes indicate this is someone who knows life very well. This final video I almost feel too disturbed to talk about, though that is the point of what I’m doing here. It serves as almost an epitaph of sorts, singing the final tune of a man who once was and is now not. The final bit of water in the river drying up just as a bird came down to get a drink with its young. The final blink of an eye now lost to whatever dream realm it inhabits when the mind can no longer sustain itself on its own merits. The final heartbeat of a newborn child, screaming life and granted death. The Man is now gone as we know him, however little shreds of him remained in that video notwithstanding. He is now not more than an animated figure that slightly resembles him in his youth. Here’s the thing, the timestamps on the animated videos show a timeline stretching up until “why is this”. The final animation was supposedly done a day before that was uploaded. That begs the question, if he was making these amazing animations, why go out and harass or threaten or stalk people? What was the disconnect? | It’s terrifying. Everything in that video are some of the most disturbing and outright vile compilations of shots you could imagine. Alastair waited until this point to make reference they were done at the same time because I believe he was going to make a parallel of real events to the animations but decided against it. At least, that’s the only reason I can imagine he’d wait so long to mention it. The Man is clearly unwell, his animations prove that just as well as the videos themselves. There is no correlation, so I’m glad he didn’t go for that angle. Alastair would later go on to say in his journals that the strange spacing and typing above there was not intentional and that upon waking the next day didn’t remember doing it. Whether you believe that or not is up to you, though I gleam that Alastair was a very emotionally driven man, possibly doing that in a fit of sadness or something else he was feeling seeing that video again. As for me, I didn’t sleep that night. I live in a house that looks remarkably similar to the one featured in the video, not on the same street though definitely the same contractor. I called Gale and stayed up all night. We and Steve went out barhopping, them trying to have a good time, partying and feeling high spirits; me trying to drown the clouded, shrouded and faceless demon that wandered the halls between the gray matter in my head. I couldn’t get those eyes out of there for so long. So, so long. It got to the point I had the two just stay over at my place, despite how drunk they’d become. I’d rather have had someone there even if it were Sméagol from Lord of the Rings. Anyone. Anything. The next morning I woke up, accidentally flashing the two as I’d blocked the previous night out of my head, forgetting they were here while I got ready to shower. Gale threw a joking whistle and Steve just turned away. It took me weeks to stop thinking about that glossy stare. It really was as if no one was left behind those eyes. Only a husk. A dream. “9/12/2006 I think buying a computer to keep rewatching these movies might have been a mistake. While writing my review of them, the spacing I noticed was quite strange the next morning, myself not remembering doing it. I’m no skeptic, though I’m starting to suspect something is befalling me. Some primeval obsession with this. That final video fucked me up. Big time. Just seeing it is terrifying, let alone thinking about it happening to you. What if a crazed man showed up outside your house tonight? What would you do? Ah~ tis best not to dwell. As for the next chapter, the only posts I have found are dated alongside the 2nd chapter, though that can’t be entirely accurate. There’s footage spliced in from something else. Though, hold on. Never mind, I think I’ve figured it out. They were made alongside these and then not uploaded until the other part of House was done. That makes sense. So he dated them correctly but waited himself to upload them… How strange. See how powerful writing can be? I was thinking about this very long ago but still, the fact I can write these words down and somehow they become tangible to someone and to myself is a miracle. I’ve been stumped all day, thinking about how that could work and then suddenly I write down the idea and it clicks. I wonder what DaVinci would’ve come up with if he had lived longer. What would Bosch have painted? It almost makes you question yourself: “Is this me?” As in, is this what I’ll be known for? I guess I’m not trying at anything else. That isn’t my fault, though. I don’t think at least. The last time I tried everything went to shit and back. All these days I’m powered by mystery, Poe and porn, Lovecraft and lovemaking. If only there weren’t such constant disruptions. ~With care and kindness, Alastair.” Two things: he made sure to bold and write italically that “constant”. Second, he (through writing and more unrelated journals) was incredibly upset and often angry about how he’d fallen into what he deemed “depravity” with self-love. He viewed any form of treating yourself with care as something to shy away from, it making whatever you were doing more lackluster and of less value. One of those “depression makes the best art” people, missing the simple fact that Van Gogh was only happy when painting. He wasn’t depressed and making art about it (though the blue period suggests otherwise), no, instead he was using it as escapism from the undiscernible misery that was his day to day. Furthermore, he viewed masturbation as the ultimate evil in his world, detesting everything it could have and would have stood for in history. I say, reader, these notions are ridiculous and you should enjoy your life spent the way you want. Self-love is a lot of things and - if that means you get a little wild sometimes - enjoy it. You only get around fifty-five years to, anyway. He wrote several times in more journal pages that he was stricken with immense grief and disgust any time his body would suggest the idea, though he still followed through on impulse. Oftentimes in too much detail. This is one of the earlier things to me that suggests Alastair was working through something on his own without a therapist or someone to talk to; every time he mentions his friends they’re just taking the day away from him. Having such a radical view is (usually) something deep-seated from something you’ve experienced, you don’t just innately have such thoughts. That being said, I know depression is all too common, just know you aren’t alone. And hey, every once in a while, give yourself some love. You deserve it, reader. IV All these pieces Thus unto us all begin reading into the third chapter of these videos. The third chapter is an animated sequence of videos where the blue of the sky becomes a dim hazy red filled with only the idea of what they could mean. It should be noted that these movies are - as mentioned - dated alongside the events of The Man harassing people ever so steadily in his terror; I do not believe they are a premeditation nor correlation to what (if anything) he was planning those days. The strongest case I have for this is the fact the final video is dated right before The Man shoots himself in the foot. Almost as if a zeppelin coming down from the sky, Icarus falling with his wax wings, The Man knew something was wrong. Something cataclysmic or at least perverting to the senses. Something blowing through the wind until it can no longer be caught. Metaphor aside, these movies are at no point conveying real events, rather showing a world which my friend, a one "Wilhelm V.” suggests is a literal depiction of The Man, though I counterclaim this and argue that instead of a literal depiction, The Man uses dream-like imagery to tell a story that pertains to much more than just himself. We ourselves both could be so far from right the navigators of the past would be impressed, though through enough guesswork, anyone can find the true answer somehow; partly the reason I’m writing this. Unlike a review on something such as Dante’s “Divine Comedy” or Homer’s “Odyssey”, there aren’t peer-reviewed studies about this. I intend not to say that these movies match nor surpass the quality of those two works, I merely state that while my observations may seem limited, you must remember this is true and wholly my own narrative I’ve gathered, not one others have thought up, wrote, published and I can draw from. Layman’s terms: if I’m wrong, feel free to write your own. I would love to see what you think of this bizarre almost cosmic confluence. The first video is just over twenty-seven minutes long. It shows (in quite gruesome detail) the everyday life of a man. We are greeted by this (still) unnamed man laying in his bed, soon to wake at the fault of the alarm. It’s almost pulled directly from every movie ever made with this kind of scene. Alarm clock, 5:59AM, rolls over, 6:00AM, ringing. There’s something to be said about how simple that shot works despite the immense amount of times I, you & everyone has seen it. I think that even despite something being done over and over, there can still be earnest feeling and an attempt to convert something to being new from under its overdone status. That is to say: it sets the stage well for an average, everyday life of a man we’ve just met. The title “Farebird” implies the price of something. A former co-worker of mine, one “Ellen R” suggests the video's title implies the innate cost of being free. She hadn’t seen the series past the first two videos, though I believe that is a fair assumption based on the name. I propose the title instead means something along the lines “The constant price of being free”. Birds live quickly, birth to flight to death. During their tenure on this world, any slight mishap may doom them to an early grave; the many prices. Furthermore, they encounter hardship at a rate far quicker than humans. The median age of death is 73-78, most people experiencing incapacitating problems towards the latter half of their years; birds see that all in five years. The way time works makes sure our aging only gets progressively worse until death almost seems a mercy, surely existing too for birds though they don’t suffer as long. A “farebird” in my opinion is someone who experiences constant problems. Day to day or week to week you chose yourself though I think it's a fairly ironed out concept. | I’ll throw my own opinion to the open sea. I believe the title is actually one half of something. Something Alastair never found the true ending of, the second video series that cuts into these, entitled “Folly”. Alastair got it nearly spot on without it, just not the full title. The full title is supposed to be “Farebird’s Folly”. So while that makes a good bit of sense and proves he’s right, making those last few lines there unneeded; he never knew the actual title. Years ago there was a small town book sale here, only for local entries. Went there on a whim after a long sleepless night I attributed to more paranoia generated by that morgue. See, I had worked as a mortuary assistant for a little bit of time at this point, routinely seeing corpses with varying degrees of quality.(?) There’s something about working with the dead that just unnerves you, whether it's that you’re staring constantly into the eyes of the once living members of someone’s family, or the many, many times the shakes would occur. That night in particular was terrifying. I had never seen something so horrifying that it put even “The Thing” to shame. Occasionally, the dead will have releases of gases and rigor mortis, sitting bolt-right upward on the gurney, covered in cloth. There is nothing so vile and disturbing. It was the first time I’d seen it, going home proved to only make the terror and dread worse: the house as dark as one of the claustrophobic holes we’d put those people into. As clear as day, I had just finished my shift, checking all the bodies from that day, about to turn the lights off when I heard a strange and ghastly sound. The creaking of metal and the pulling of cloth. Slowly I turned, out of shock surely, towards the haunting sound. Working alone in a place like that never helps. My uncle would always tell me stories of his friend who had the same job, putting beers in the hands of the dead to ease his own mind; I’d never really believed it until I’d seen it. Completing my rotation, seeing a dead, blood drained body now sitting directly upright is a sight I’d not wish on anyone. Anyone. I couldn’t even scream. The amount of pure terror coursing through my veins could’ve killed a deity. No amount of formal nonsense and “Oh, this’ll happen” prepares you. The saddest part is starting to get used to it, however loosely that applies. In the traditional sense, you don’t ever accustom yourself to seeing the dead moving, though it eases a little after a long time. I think I was too light on the intro. When we saw Alastair, Gale and Steve went straight to vomit and heaving, Steve having a mini breakdown. I’d calmed the two down before having a few heaves of my own from the odor of decay. For Steve, laughing is his way of coping with things he doesn’t want to think about in the moment, hence the laughter after I grabbed the journals. Gale sat stunned for a while, though she has a strong resolve. Staring at his corpse, while not instilling that primal fear that the moving dead would, still shook me slightly. The striking pose the man died in, sitting head first against his desk, papers nearby for when ideas struck. It was oddly sad (more than normal). Something so close yet so far and in between the inky jet black eyes of nothing, just like those dead. The pit of the soul now empty and barren, reacting coldly to anything and everything that could provide stimuli. Clock ticking strikes me now; a side effect I never thought of. That clicking, rhythmic heartbeat like-sound of someone at rest. It gnaws against me ever since I saw that man move. Then, I ask myself: “Is he to blame?” even though that in itself is a foolish question. How would the man be to blame? Or, how could. That wasn’t that man, let alone a conscious decision. Simply his vessel had lost its time to the great unknown and departed his soul for a brighter and better place, one devoid of agony and sorrow and disgust and perversion and heartbreak and So no. The man is not to blame. Neither am I, nor you. I credit that as being life-changing. I started seeing the world a lot more vibrantly that morning. Trees were greener, flowers were more plentiful. Dullness dissipates when you realize that life is so precious. Those eyes… The morning after, as mentioned I hadn’t slept, I went to that book sale. I’m sure disheveled and grotesque, I still went. That proved to be one of the best spur-of-the-moment ideas I’d ever (and have) formulated. After arriving and looking around carefully at some of the heavily cliche ridden and campy Dramas, eventually I’d made my way towards the Fantasy and Sci-Fi stalls. There were a few that caught my eye: the first of which was by a man named “Laurance Arkham” which while I can’t guarantee, I fully believe to be a penned name. It was titled “Tales of Cissalda”, set on a planet named as such. Another by Joseph L. Kron which was entitled “Interseminary Obfuscation” was about a period of travelers bounding from one star system to the next, hoping to find the original planet Earth. One was by a lady named Aria Valentine, titled “The Unsettling Beauty of Death”. I actually stopped to ask her about that one. In a land full of cosmic racing and aliens, seeing one that had a rather grounded title piqued my interest. She explained the premise was that in a futuristic society that had retconned the idea of death, metallic parts were made for everything and everyone, leading to whole subsides of urban places being coated with full bodied machines clambering their way through undeath. I have my copy of that one sitting next to me now, though this isn’t my review; it was quite good. Her hair was braided very ornamentally, giving off the same look as Sappho. It was most impressive, that amount of effort. I made sure to compliment it. To get to the point, the last stall I checked was another title that caught my eye. “Behind the Grand Closed Door”. Something mysterious, yet familiar. Upon approaching that stall I met the most charming author I’d seen, not only at the sale. Thus enter the late and wonderful Jerry (born Geraldo) Marchegiano. Almost immediately we clicked due to shared love of Tom Petty, his book’s name being a play on “Into the Great Wide Open” as he’d awkwardly explained. Of course I have a copy, even signed if you can believe it. After that day, I took to reading the full thing in only a few days, which would’ve been hours had I not been extremely busy. It was quite the tale, a troll king trapped behind the gate to his grand underground kingdom, trying all sorts of things to escape his confinement to no avail. The ending was very good, though I’ll leave it from here since all proceeds now go to his family. I have a copy of his final book on my shelf “The Reinfield Perspective”, though I can’t bring myself to finish it. He used to work on that book for over four hours a day. Every day. For months. I saw him again the next week at a local grocery store, sheepishly approaching him to tell him all about how wonderful it was and all that good stuff. I received a cursory “Thank you.” In hindsight, just from his prose I should’ve known how he would be, though it struck me in the moment as bizarre. If someone came sprinting up to me to tell me about something I did they liked, I’d be ecstatic. What followed was how I instantly knew I’d loved this man. He looked back towards the shelves, his eyes widened, he turned back and said “Oh! You’re that girl that likes Tom Petty! I knew you’d like it!” I’d never seen someone so excited, ever. I went on about every minute detail I liked about it, stepping out of the way for customers who were grocery shopping and not heart-shopping. He told me about his process and how methodical he was towards making something great. He told me everything about his setup, of which he used until his death. A rugged 1959 Smith-Corona 3Y. Don’t ask for the serial number, that has long since exited my faulty memory. Before you ask, no, I’m not using his. Not only would it feel disrespectful, I don’t think I could bring myself to anyway. I discussed some of my own writing for a little while before finally thinking he’d heard enough only to sigh and say something along the lines of “You’re working on another, right?” at which this point I was enthralled. For one that I wasn’t just being a creepy fan and two that he actually seemed to care. I confided that my current novel at the time “No Devil Lived On” and by extension myself were under a heavy wall of writer’s block. He gave a longing stare before saying “Have you tried living in that world?” which is something I do to anything I write now. It’s brilliant. In fact, I’m shocked he was the only person to ever say that bit of advice to me; you’d think it’d be a trade secret. Some more time passed before he looked at his watch and exclaimed it was later than he’d thought, followed by a chuckle from us both. I remember so well: “You know, we’ve been talking for thirty minutes now and I don’t think I’ve caught your name.” he said, smiling and as joyful as he’d ever been. “Eleanor, well, friends call me Ella and some people just-” the nervous stammering was absolutely a result of the (fairly obvious) fact I was completely smitten. He interjected once realizing what I’d said initially. “Your family loved Poe, I take it?” “Oh, well, yeah. We all do, me included.” once more flagrantly nervous. “What a wonderfully charming name that is. It fits you perfectly, if you didn’t already know.” I tell you a new river could’ve flooded Morgantown had it not been for the fact he had matters to attend to. He passed me his home number and went on his way, myself not believing any of that just happened, pinching myself a good few times. The man wakes up, we see his hand roll over to turn the alarm off, while the photo on the nightstand comes into view. It looks like a family portrait from his youth, both parents prominently holding his hands while laughing and smiling on a 4x4 ornamentally flowerful frame. He sighs and steps out of bed, checking the windows to see what’s going on from his third story apartment. As per usual (the viewer can assume) nothing interesting appears to satiate the desire for change, leading the man to his usual routine. He makes the bed, taking his sweet time folding the sheets before fluffing the pillows. Already there’s some things we can gather about this man. You might notice he doesn’t seem to be bothered by anything, having enough time to fully treat his tired self later that day to a comfortable bed. You can also tell he prides himself on his family, due to having pictures of his mother and father adorning his nightstand. There appears to be another picture present on a wall hanging shelf in the background, though the quality is far too poor to make it out. If I had to guess, it appears almost as him next to a girl with long flowing brown hair, circular glasses and a striped sweater. We never see this picture zoomed in though, so I doubt it has too much significance on the immediate story. For backstory purposes, I believe this could symbolize a once had lover or a lost sister. The frame of that photo looks different to the family oriented flowery design. The frame of the background painting seems almost somber (the reason I suggest a time once remembered fondly), giving the appearance of something that was once a bringer of joy, turned to the sourness of something now disappeared. It almost looks like the face of the woman is scratched or perhaps covered by something ever so slightly. Once more, we see this painting not mentioned nor in any background again. | Once more, wrong, though he couldn’t have known. | As for the true significance, I’ll elaborate later after having gone through all the videos. That shall wait. The rest of movie one is the man going about his day: showering (with fully modeled nudity), making a sandwich, brushing his teeth, etc. Everything seems to be completely normal, that holding true until the end of the movie. We see the man go to work, do paperwork. It’s a rather boring entry though I promise it gets better. Another thing we notice about the man: he seems rather content with everything. He displays a collected, calm demeanor and reserves his speaking for when people will have time, not wasting a second more than needed wherever it was needed. That being said, surely one can not stay sane doing the same thing every single day. Not to his degree. We see the first sign of burnout when he enters the breakroom, suddenly dropping his smile and giving a long (silent) sigh before walking back out to his cubicle. When he sits down, we see something purely fantastical. As he sits, the screen of his computer, shortly to become our screen, throws several flashing colors before a sudden cut to something uncanny and yet distilling a sense of familiarity to something you might’ve seen in your childhood. Something that reminds you of times long since past yet remembered slightly changed in rose tinted bliss, forever to be recalled in your head until the final curtain falls. Something that no one can take away from you no matter how hard they try, something ironclad and steeled to the core. A memory so faintly strong that once brought back you get to relive the past self that experienced it. What I’m trying to say is: it looks as though it were made in another universe that was so similar to our own that no distinct differences were to be found, save for the occasional slip up of the creator, revealing the cracks in the façade that permeate a thousand years, making you wonder if it was ever your memory to begin with. Like listening to an old record, warped and distorted by time, dust, scratches, what have you. Like viewing old photos that are comfortably blurry and unpronounced, giving vision to what it might’ve been like there in that moment when it was taken. That cozy, almost childlike enjoyment of seeing home videos of yourself and your family, harkening back to the days of getting portraits to remember people by. Something so familiar yet far away that it can’t be described. We see a flash of white, distilling the alien feeling to us; not one of flash but of burst. Next is a crooked windmill, churning its twirling head around and around ad nauseum. There’s a small swingset in the background, so small you can hardly see it. The next shot is of a seesaw, also crooked and worn down in appearance, seven forget-me-nots growing in the center, clinging on for their own life. Next is of a tree with windchimes, what sounds like 30’s cartoon music starts playing in the background, alongside the clapping of a toy. All those shots are in less than eleven seconds. We cut to a small clapping ape toy, gleefully bouncing around and slamming its cymbals together like nothing else matters in the world. Another cut and a house is revealed to be right behind the chimp, a mantle above the door showing to be its face. Already so much has happened, I’ll let it go for a few more seconds. Two zooms, we’re brought directly up to the face, golden and glorious though almost looking to be fading. Its “eyes” open, one facing a separate direction from the other. From movement, we can tell this isn’t of volition, it simply having a lazy eye. It looks around four times before we get a cut to another shot. Now, let's reflect on what we’ve already seen. To clarify, the quality difference in between the original animations and these new ones of the house are staggering. It's as if two entirely different people worked on these. One is polygonal, looking almost like the music video for Dire Straits “Money For Nothing”, meanwhile the house looks almost like something out of a Tim Burton film. An interesting note about these works is the subtle tempering that washes over the viewer as it starts to become “normal” in a sense. When you first see it it’s rather shocking, though once just a few seconds have gone by, the horror has vanished and replaced with a weirdly melancholic sense of lingering sadness. The sun’s face is rather weary looking; the toy it is “playing” with seems also run down. In just thirty seconds we get all this new information, while the original video is nearly halfway done. It makes you ponder whether The Man knew it would be more interesting this way. The shot after the face of the sun zooms out to show the surrounding landscape, the house observing its toy. This shot lingers for nearly five seconds before suddenly, with no warning or reasoning to be found, the house erupts off the ground while sprouting five “legs” from underneath. Legs being in quotes because it shows later it can grab things with them, though I fail to see the need to call them “arms” because that implies the house is crawling around. It stands up rather shakily, almost as if it hadn’t for some time or possibly (and judging on the coloring, style and mannerisms of the face) that it could be in quite old age. As it stands, we see two front appendages are jaggedly bent, sort of resembling a horse’s back legs. It stands for a moment, giving the idea that whatever this being is is sentient, before slowly (for its size) turning toward the camera while looking past it. While this is surely far too early to be interjecting deep-seated ideas and theories, the shot matches eerily closely to The Man in “Why is this”. The seemingly blank stare emerging from a once lifeful place gives credence to the idea that perhaps the house is a manifestation of something The Man wanted to forget, something he wanted to put away and did so by making art about it, much like Vincent van Gogh. The next shot is a wide angle of the surrounding land, it being completely empty with no visual sights beyond what we’ve seen. That said, there is something else revealed here, however. Another house. Pale in color and seemingly more “Countrylike” than our own “protagonist” appears to be. The shot lingers for a second before immediately focusing the next shot directly on the pale house. It zooms slowly before showing the face of Our House, back to the pale house, back to Our House. Our House’s face looks almost downtrodden at the sight of this other house, perhaps out of the fact it sees as though its land is being haunted by this assailant. All the while this happens, Our House’s toy continues clapping away with its cymbals, unbothered by the troubles plaguing Our House. The next shot shows the toy winding down, coming to a halt while blankly staring towards the camera. The final shot we see is the house bearing down on the now-stopped toy. It doesn’t appear so much as angry as though upset that its one accomplice has quit functioning. The original video comes back into focus now, like it had never left. Before we return to the main animations, allow me to extrapolate on the meaning of these secondary, fragmented bits of cinema. The idea of the animation so far seems to be far more metaphorical than the animation we’ve been watching up until the sudden cut. The idea that a walking, stoic house could tell a literal story seems highly unlikely, further “episodes” prove this to be true to a certain extent. While these secondary pieces share no similarity and bear no resemblance to the series I’ll refer to as “A1”, I believe there is still substance to mull over. Our House seems to be a metaphor for a person struggling with something dear, something tender. The warm face it shines while looking rather distraught by its life being a representation of something The Man wanted to get across. Perhaps he was unhappy at home, work, and the day to day. Though, what I find more likely is the idea that he wanted to show what generational depression could feel like. He surely had some friends that appeared rather downtrodden even on the sunniest of days; perhaps that was what he was trying to get across. or maybe it was something else entirely. Maybe what he wanted to show was that no matter how much in life one can have you can still feel somewhat alone. As though no one else is around anymore. mind. brilliant in its awkward complexity that the finest minds couldn’t formulate a small piece of heaven of something no one wants to think of Flashes of something so far lost no one can retrieve flashes. inside these grasp the nothingness one has to think to fully though I say much more laterally bear itself to think of at the time is up to you, things the waking mind either does not want or cannot Whether that be the animation itself or the subconscious seeing there is something direly sinister about the entire ordeal, start to end. second thought. Because despite the innocence these videos show us viewers, mind while the rest slowly lull themselves to sleep; to pass on without a desperately trying to clean the stains of their former life from their being surrounded in pitch black darkness, holed up in a room the sun turns its brilliant glow off, leading to everyone Perhaps like how the world would feel when A mind so brilliant that only one person seems to want to think about it. Though, what have I better to do? Go back to working with Joe? I’d laugh if that weren’t so sad. All the times I went in late, working overnight. Nothing. Nihil. Not a single second of reconsideration. So much time. So much time I’ll never get Back. The next day began as any other, doing my hair, makeup. The sting of waking up in a daze of dreaming that it might’ve been a dream (though I knew somewhere it wasn’t) coursing through my pounding head. I worked up the nerves to check my purse, noticing distinctly unlike me that it had been haphazardly thrown on my nightstand. Sure enough. I gave it minutes upon minutes of thought before calling, wondering if he was just trying to be nice. Wondering how I could’ve made such an impression. I’d never heard about how wonderful or charming I’d been ever before, though I suppose drunks aren’t the most reliable source of truth. I decided I’d call later, not wanting to bother him at seven in the morning. I pulled out my own typewriter, ribbon, etc. Once more I began work anew on my novel, which I’m sure now will never be published. There isn’t much to be said about the former, it was quite generic, being inspired by the Divine Comedy to an extent. He made me want to finish it solely to show him and gush about how much his words had inspired me, provoking me into actually thinking it was worth the time. While I didn’t finish it, he sadly wasn’t around long enough to read the some I did. I sent a draft over two days before he drowned in the cold black of death. Do I know if he read it? No. Would it provide closure to my weary mind about that few days? I’m not sure. On one hand, having known he read the last words of the inspiration he gave me would surely make me quite happy, though at the same time it was so depressing of an ending I don’t think he’d have made it through the whole way. My friends and I joke that it was so bad that he killed himself at the horrifyingly long story he inspired. Of course that is in jest, though I sort of am happy he might not’ve. I’m cyclically typing this now. Anyway, long hours passed spent typing away on my off days while Ray filled in. I figured a renowned artist such as himself would only be available during nightly hours, proving much more right than I could’ve ever known. The clock chimed eight. I picked up my phone, anxiously, nervously, sweating bullets as I dialed in his number. Ring, ring, ring, ring. Beep, beep beep, beep. No answer. My heart had stopped for the briefest of moments before I received a call back. Answering immediately, my ears had been blessed by the soft, soothing baritone voice coming through the radiowave into my head. “L? That you?” he asked as inquisitive as anyone could imagine a voice being. “How’d you know?-” (-added to show playfully ending a word) “I figured only one gal would be calling this late.” he followed with a quick chuckle, then finishing with “Well, actually I forgot to ask for your number when we talked yesterday, I thought it was my brother again.” “Oh! Did something happen?” “Ahh, no. He just worries about me so much. Seems like every other minute he’s ringing my line, talking about how I’ll ‘never make a living’ as a writer. I know he’s just concerned and I love him but damn, it can get annoying. Hopefully that doesn’t sound too brash, haha.” “I get it, actually. My father would always call to tell me there was no future in painting, writing, really anything I had set out to do.” “Pardon me for skipping over some lines there but, you also paint?” “Only on my off time,” I said with a clear wavering, though possibly not enough to come across “I stick to writing in my normal day-to-day.” “You know, I tried to take up painting once,” chuckling while speaking these words “that was until I painted a very awkward looking plane across my mother’s upstairs!” He exclaimed that last line with a boisterous laugh, beautifully intense and all things graceful. To not make this entire review about me, I’ll leave out some chunks. “So you’re hoping to get published? I know a few guys who work under some of our local printers.” “I could guess! Someone with a prose like yours needs as many eyes as they can get, though I still doubt it’d be enough.” “Oh- please. My stories are quite formulaic.” “You don’t see them under the same starlit eyes I do, then.” He sat quiet for a moment before sheepishly saying “I do believe you’re far more charming than you give yourself credit for.” Some more chatting later, a complement here and there. “Well, the cover is probably gonna be something I painted a little while ago, a Bosch influenced work with setting based on the Divine Comedy.” “And I’m sure it’ll fit more than anything someone else could ever make. I fear, however.” “Oh..? Why’s that?” “It could never match your beauty.” Six hours had gone by. Both of us were shocked at the time, myself having work that morning and him a presentation/pitch for his next work. We ended that night by saying a wonderful, world-healing “I love you”. Neither of us believed in the whole “love at first sight” thing until then. Suddenly it had proved itself right. Though, that being said: I believe it only worked for us because we were very similar already. Had we not shared any interests I highly doubt looks could carry on forever. A problem that’s all too common, what with the times changing. The phallus or the vulva wants something in the moment, yet the long-term consequence becomes a dull life, filled with nothing but longing for a better day. We had enough that we got by without any hassling for trying to understand how to manage each conversation. The weeks went by slow, almost tempting me to say slower than ever before they had. Deep, passionate love for someone is something so rarely felt that it almost saddens me. “For everyone there is someone” of course, though finding that someone can take a lifetime, metaphorically, literally; metaphysically. It just so happens the man I’d found had looked as though he’d just come off Olympus, though I care not for looks as much as personality in my older, albeit still young years. Any man who’ll listen to what you’re talking about, stopping every once and a while to gush about something he did similar, being able to listen. Amazing. I won’t go into graphic detail, (though you must understand) that we lived and breathed for each other. We loved every single thing about us. Laughs, smiles, every small blemish that people would call a “flaw”. Every curve and slight stretch mark. Every “imperfection” that made us who we were. Every sad night doused in sex to try and cheer up only to finish and feel none the better, laughing together at the prospect that it ever could. The small blood vessels in the whites of our eyes, the slightly crooked tooth each of us had. The way his pants would accentuate his cock; the way my boobs looked with tight long-sleeve shirts. Everything. That is to say, when that day came for us to part ways, I was at least glad it was amicable. However trite this will sound: I would’ve been six feet deep if it hadn't. It sent me down a harrowingly dark path. Terrifyingly so. Somehow I think he knew that, despite me never saying it. He would always call at least once a week, chat for a while before returning to the same emptiness that filled both our lives. It’s strange. It almost was like we were still tied together in our own twisted way. For all I know, he never had another partner, passing alone and quietly. “The brightest stars burn out the fastest.” Sometimes I wish I’d done more even though I know I couldn’t have. Someone with depression that bad just doesn’t want to be saved. I tried, by God I tried. Somewhere in the nothingness he heard that static call his name unto oblivion and his will faltered to answer the chiming bell of Death. Along with “The Reinfield Perspective”, 10% of any sales this happens to get will also go to his family. I almost feel this strange sense of honor that I need to uphold my end of the deal. We made a pact the night we started “dating” (as though we hadn’t before). We said to each other: “No matter what happens, I’ll always care for you”. I spent a long time after that trying to find myself. Suddenly every part of me I liked became flipped, distorted and elongated into something vaguely recognizable as human. Something so vile God would spit on and shame as a failed attempt to make something similar. My eyes, my teeth, my breasts, arms, legs, nails, stomach, hair, ears, that one stretch mark on the inner side of my left thigh, every single thing. All of it. I hated it. Nothing even looked like me, let alone felt like. I thought I’d seen a ghost every time a mirror confronted me. I thought something had stolen myself from me and replaced all I knew with a copy of a copy, degradation as though from a VHS tape. It took me so, so long to finally come to terms with the fact I was okay alone, perfectly fine and still just as sexy as when I would be told so. I don’t blame him, don’t get me wrong. It just hurts. “10/5/2006 The tragedy of memory is that it falters after a certain point. Around six years ago now I was standing on the porch of my grandma’s house, watching our neighbor fight off a raccoon, all while enjoying the nice, peaceful dusk. The crushing feeling is knowing that 90% of the memories from that time simply don’t exist, or have faded into knowing something new. All the stories she told me, years upon years, blanketed and washed away to the thin veil between life and death. I suppose it’s mercy in a way. To not remember everything. Even if you could, the answer would then be: would you want to? In the same way people say “If only I didn’t have to sleep”. Would you really like to be up 24 hours a day, no breaks or resting? The many stories of her work, that time she saw Abraham Lincoln’s ghost. All of it, washed away in an instant. Such wellsprings of knowledge we lose every day and yet no one seems to care or consider writing things down, preserving them out of memory and in the physical medium. There are so many things I’d love to hear again with the right ears, ones that didn’t think people would live unto eternity. Then, my family back home. They don’t even want to speak to me. So much to learn from them and they don’t even care enough to say it. I wonder what I’m gonna do for work when this dries up. Nearly every place I’ve sent applications for have nearly immediately denied me, for a reason so obtuse it’s unfathomable it only serves to prove me right once again. That sinking feeling is coming back, that quiet bell chime in the back of my head, telling me I’m running out of time on this. I fear however that if I start writing frantically it won’t be as convincing or charming or whatever else. Ah well. ~With care and kindness, Alastair.” The first episode finishes out with nothing remarkable, nothing sacred. It ends with the man simply going back to bed before a small string of text appears in the corner: ...AGAIN? Whether that be for the watcher or the man is unknown; it fits either way. As someone who has seen each of these movies many, many times, it’s almost taunting in a way. The intention was surely to show that the man did nothing extraordinary that day, living the same boring day again and again. I do propose, like my friend Alyssa was known to do, that the notion The Man could’ve known someone would be intrigued and therefore watch these several times that this could be an intentional poke at people doing so. Well, I bet he’d never have guessed someone would be writing an entire review of his (online) life’s work; here I am. He seemed to care a lot about repetition being evil, stunting the growth of whom falls victim to it. In Chapter One, the man never recorded the same place twice. Ever. If you watch every one of his original videos, you’ll never see the same street more than once, not a landmark or sign in sight that appears twice. To that end, I think there could be a case to be made that he knew someone was watching, however few people; of those people one would take interest. To paraphrase and change the quote though keeping the structure: “All observers become like the scholars. That is their tragedy. No reader does. That’s theirs.” | “All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.” ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance Of Being Earnest, act 1 | The “...AGAIN?” also could be a nod to never changing your day to day showing the audience that A: it becomes boring, useless and B: it ca n le av e a mi le wi de ho le in si de yo ur he ar t a nd so ul, ma ki ng ev er yt hi ng du ll an d p oi nt le ss. Making sure the mental strain that living once over again the same day can destroy the senses and batten down whatever idea of dreams one once had. While a very fictional and exaggerated version of this shines through in the movie “Groundhog Day”, the realistic depiction is less whimsy and more soul crushingly depressing, seeing your time fly by you as the minute hand creeps ever closer to the final chime. The second episode opens already at the man’s job. Slaving away behind his computer like there isn’t another worry in the world. This time, despite the length being similar, the movie has much more intrigue. The man sits in his office chair, clacking away on his keyboard, doing the most menial of menial labour. Another cog in a machine, bound to grease the wheels of industry until the fire finally dims and its cultivated cog takes over his place. At 13:44, he noticed something off: outside his window was a shadowy, almost soot colored being. The being is only there for exactly one frame, requiring minutes of stuttering pauses to see it. Subliminal messaging, sometimes called Subliminal Stimuli, is something that exists in a film or picture so small that the mind doesn’t actually process it; internalizing what it is. Most notably this was performed by Cinematographer James Vicary in 1957, splicing the words “DRINK COCA-COLA!” into some frames of films he played. Whether this truly works or is a farce that just happened to coincide with a small boost in sales for that drink in specific is inconclusive, though the mind’s eye is quite powerful. Though I myself am only certain of visual stimuli being used, I guarantee there are ways for people to mask sounds under layers of noise that trigger a response but are not heard. Such is the case of the creature, then. I’ll call this creature Soot from now on. Soot lingers, peering outside the vast complex’s windows, leering at the man. He doesn’t seem antagonistic at first, perhaps though its figure is imposing, it could be of some help to the man, whom we now learn is named David. Whether this is The Man’s name or not is unclear, though he bears a (as previously mentioned) resemblance to David when he was younger. There are some things about David that seem similar to The Man, notably his (from what we can see) efficiency and his care to keep things in order, up until Chapter Two. The Man was very organized, planned his routes well. We see David doing the exact same thing though in a work environment instead of being out on the road. David also doesn’t own a motorcycle, another dissimilarity that sticks out to keen watchers. The reason I say “keen watchers” as if that wouldn’t be obvious is only for the fact the car shots are animated in a way that makes them forgettable. On purpose. The title of this episode, which I have left out until now because I believe it to be relevant to this discussion we’re currently having, is: “And everything happens for a reason” The way the title almost weaves its way into the story, not just chronicling the fact this is another video, makes me wonder if by the seventh there’s some encoded meaning behind them all. For example: if you take this title and remove the “And” inside it, taking the first movie’s title and adding a comma you get “Farebird, everything happens for a reason.” The title also makes it seem as though Soot isn’t malicious, more so just existing and or following David because he did something either good or bad. We notice through his careful actions that once David sees Soot, he recoils for a second before breathing heavily. While there is no audio, if you were to observe David’s shirt, you can see it moving faster after he notices the being. Another thing that I’ll surely go into more detail with later, because of the lack of sound, we interpret everything through physical detail. This applies to every part of this world, car doors, engines, keyboards. There is one thing missing from this equation, though, that strikes me as very odd. Considering that The Man clearly put blood, sweat and tears into making these, animating even the most minute thing (see “Farebird” 18:24, a small plastic bottle rolls down hill), we can assume the direct lack of something that we all experience is a direct choice of the creator. Wind. There is no wind here. We see any minute animation, though we never see anything blowing around. After David’s shift ends and he begins making his way back outside the office, as the door opens we see a flash of white, followed by the next sequence of Our House. We see Our House still bearing down on the toy, looking longingly as ever. One of its five hands reach up, dusting off and or cracking its joints like how any human would after sitting so long. It slowly reaches down to the toy, picking it up gently, like a father would to a son. Unlike a father would to a son, however, Our House appears almost confused as it holds the toy in front of its brass face. An interesting thing to note: in this series, unlike the main animations, we hear noises. Noises of the house creaking, implying it’s old, noises of a breeze bearing across the straight plateau they stand on. From the angle we receive in the shot of Our House holding its toy, we notice the chimney almost resembles a top hat, sitting perfectly where a human would wear one. Another notable thing (though I believe it has no relation) is that the house’s arms, coinciding with Soot, are completely pitch black with no visible detail. The next shot is the toy up close, getting to see its garish smile and strangely detailed head. Unlike Our House's arms, the toy appears fully modeled with detailed textures spread across it. We also learn from this shot the toy seemingly matters a high degree to Our House, judging by the gentle nature that it observes it with. From here, we also learn the name of the toy Our House begins treating like a familiar: Hoppy. For the first time, we see (more so read, no words are spoken) Our House begin speaking, to itself or the toy is unclear. There are no actual words being spoken, only text with a shrill noise coming over the speakers. “ … Hoppy doesn’t talk much anymore. ” This brings several things to question. For one thing, the house can now speak, meaning it has its own story and personality. Possibly representing something or someone. Two, this implies Hoppy can also speak and has lived a life. For now, I’ll recount the rest of this “episode” and return to these problems. Our House looks at Hoppy for a moment before putting Hoppy inside itself, as a precaution or for some other reason not revealed. After gently setting Hoppy down, it brings its hand outside and closes its door, possibly acting as a mouth. After a short stare, the camera cuts outward once more, showing Our House and the Pale House (uppercase added due to them being able to show personality; if our’s can, surely the other.) motionlessly looking towards each other. This shot rests for a second before another string of text shows, meaning Our House has once more began speaking. The following words are quite offputting : “ We should keep moving. ” Behind the Pale House lies a windmill, the same from earlier. Off far into the distance is a singular tree. This text implies the Pale House is something to be afraid of, to worry about and all together escape or at least retreat from. We see Our House turn around and begin walking away, lumbering slowly as though despite its five arms it is older. Another thing to note is that it appears almost “uncoordinated” in a way. Its movements are not certain and it seems to think about what it’ll do next. The next shot takes place below the seven forget-me-nots as earlier, this time showing Our House traipsing away while the sky turns a melancholy pinkish hue. Frighteningly, the next shot shows the Pale House, mo ving, thou gh with no legs. only sliding. Scraping, tearing purging what lay in its wake, like fire to curious moths. Behind it, the windmill collapses, sinking below the ground. Slowly, it takes. Takes and never gives back. In the next shot, Our House is seen walking, now able to be noticed one of its five arms is permanently held underneath itself, not suspending itself, though it could be at times unseen. It possibly is injured, perhaps that arm just doesn’t work; perhaps it’s disabled. There are many factors at play here, regardless of how you interpret them. The shot following is a small plastic lawn chair (small only due to the size of Our House), sitting lonely in a field. Our House approaches and stares for a few seconds before the world begins darkening for nightfall. It seems as though the chair means something to Our House, possibly it belonged to Our House at some point. The last thing we see is the world a dark red, the ground nearly black with our house staring down at the chair. The next thing we know, David is shown exiting the office. While I (while looking back) forgot to mention this, the first time Our House sees the Pale House (or presumably looks at it, judging by it knowing it was there), we hear intense, rapidly speeding up heartbeats. It seems as though the Pale House scares Our House in a way. The unmoving, deadened appearance certainly isn’t comforting, though that being said, if yours or my house sprouted legs and began walking places, that’d be upsetting too. In the context of this world however, I think the unmoving is more frightening. Now that we know these beings are living and sentient, more comes into question: what do they eat? What is their innate purpose? Why here? Those three are questions we’ll never get answers to, though I can take some guesses. They don’t seem to relate to A1 at all, therefore that idea is gone. It seems the houses at their base are a metaphor for courage, for strength to approach the coming nothing. Our House runs at first, until it looks back. The Pale House is evidently alive as though Our House is, though perhaps it’s a different kind of life. Perhaps it’s the ghost of something, trying to catch up to what it lost. Where Our House doesn’t want to remember whatever the Pale House symbolizes to it. The rampant heartbeat makes me wonder how much stress the Pale House instills. Like Icarus flying only to realize his wax wings have begun to melt, looking back down realizing there is no chance to save himself any longer. Perhaps that house is something devilish. “11/16/2006 Writing is starting to become tiring. Writing as though I don’t already know what happens and what will happen after I finish this. The same thing’ll be true when this is all said and done, I’ll be destitute somewhere with no money and die. Pardon the depression but it’s hard, partially because I’m on a fairly strict time limit given that I still try to go outside and do things. Soon that’ll have to change, though only for a few months. It won’t be that bad, I’m sure, though I dread it all the same. There are several day long stretches I don’t get to work on the review now, surely the writing has suffered. Out of my hands, I guess. Still, the idea that I’ve been alone now, it wears me out as much as I wear it. I’m happier than ever, writing something I care about and yet I’ve been more reclusive than ever. That old bastard has me in the palm of his hand right now, trapped like a bear in a beartrap. “The way out is through” I suppose. That’s a good song. Been relistening to that album a lot recently. NIN’s record last year “With Teeth” was also very good. I’m surprised more people don’t like them, honestly. I don’t make music though I wish I could; the melodies Trent Reznor comes up with are something magical. I’m deflecting. I can see it happening but I can’t stop it. I fear that if I were to actually get hired somewhere (highly unlikely) that I’d lose all momentum I have for this. I haven’t even answered the phone in weeks. Kinda. I still pay the bills, though even that is dwindling. And at that, what momentum? I barely even write anything anymore. Maybe I should just burXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ~With care and kindness, Alastair.” About a year after Jerry’s death is when I got the call to come paint Alastair’s house. I’d recovered by that point, no small order to living quite carefree. One morning I’d awoke and looked outside to realize I would never see his Chevy out there again, that being the same day I came to understand life is too precious to worry. Too precious to only think about how miserable it is. When I saw Alastair lying there, a victim of circumstance the same as I’d have been, something broke my heart in a beautiful way. Whether it be the memory of what was or what could be, I decided that moment that I’d finish his dying work. Who knows if anyone will actually care after this is published? I don’t really care, honestly. This isn’t for money, for some satisfaction of becoming a full-time writer. I only finish this out of the recognition that he put his heart and soul into it, only to tragically pass while his work rotted away as the acid eats the paper. He must’ve been moved to hysterics at some point, that hidden compartment room was ghastly. Do I think he was crazy? No. I think he, like so many of us who’re afflicted by sadness or an ailment brought on by the world itself: homelessness, dementia, cancer, heart problems, was a visionary with a flair for the absurd, caught by the reaper, the house of death, the king of evil before he could finish what the world would view a masterpiece. “(S)He shines in a world full of ugliness” to quote (evidently) one of his favorite bands. So now I’m here, spending my days in between working grueling hours being consumed by his multifaceted brain. The saddest part is how this ended for him, which I found out a few days ago from finishing the last journal. I’ll not say, though I’ll let your mind go into effect from the last page. I wrote those first few pages not having actually finished everything. A mistake. I hope these recent notes have been clearer. The long gaps between journal entries are because at their base, it was his private thoughts. I choose these because they most pertain to the story. The film abruptly ends and we see David, shakingly getting into his car while looking over his shoulder every once in a while. Checking over like some prokaryote is stalking him, waiting and leering from the shadows to snatch him away from his boring desk job. We notice another photo stuck under the clipholder of the car’s sun visor, one of himself with (supposedly) his wife whom looks damningly close to the actual believed-to-be-wife Susie. Another with the two, seemingly slightly older through the grainy fog of degradation, with a small child clinging to Susie’s leg. The Man never mentioned nor showed any sign he had a child, no pictures, no videos, nil. This begs the question then: did his child simply not “live up to a standard”? Why, then, would he include him inside the miniscule detail? The question once more receives no answer, never being mentioned again, nor seen (see EP6). As he shifts down and begins parking slowly, we see for another split frame in the background, 18:52, just small enough the untrained eye would split in half trying to focus on the few pixels made out through the fog, there lay a ghastly sight for anyone who was keenly watching: it foll owed him home. V “For when blue eyes cry, does the moment not become as serene as the ocean?” * The third video, bearing the most unsettling feeling of them all, par for the ending, shows David wake up the morning after. It shows how the mind can play tricks, though David isn’t Copperfield; there are no tricks. No magic button that’ll send away what now haunts him the same as cave divers braving the wet dark that they’d already experienced at every other cave. He rises from his bed, slightly timid as though he can feel something is off. The following quick shots are a brilliant (if small) addition that only happen a handful of times during the full A1 series. We see from six new angles, positioned in the corners of the rooms behind objects, still shots of David at different points of waking. In these small moments we understand now that perhaps this isn’t delusion in his world, that something tangible is near. He quickly swivels around, before leaning down towards the sheets on the bed. When showing my friend Elijah Seitz, who is currently working as a psychiatrist, he noted (with no provocation) that the idea of Soot could possibly be a metaphor for being haunted by something that you can’t run from, something dark and foreboding that challenges the idea of living. To this end, I had him watch the rest of the series some months ago, though he never sent over a full in-depth analysis, saying episode #7 made him weep due to its disturbing visual/narrative premise. When I asked for even just a summary, he sent me back the following: “Words fail, not often though often enough, especially when they aren’t needed.” *The quote appears to be from Alastair. After closely examining the bed, putting everything back into a neat and tidy order, we watch David look around quite nervously, almost perturbed by the lack of something happening despite how different his environment now feels. He cocks his head for a moment, stretching before we see him bolt his head suddenly, whiplash inducingly fast to the left, staring into the bathroom. something has caught his eye. We see him sort of half-angrily stomp his way to the bathroom, where the next shot is from under the sink, staring up at him. I presume this to be Soot. While the camera keeps staying under the sink, David anxiously looks for the source of the (what we learn from a textbox as he stands up) smell of sulfur. Sulfur and something burning. He moves around, the camera now panned back from under the sink and the traditional viewing restored. He checks the bed the window the lamp the picture the window the bed the door the floor the doormat the television the speakers the bed the acoustic Martin brand guitar rotting in the corner the stovetop the oven the bathtub the drain the toilet the sink the mirror the end table the bed the couch the couch cushion the paint the desk the chair the keyboard the mouse the bed the computer the curtains the stereo system he installed the camera the clock, long dead, mounted on his wall the bookcase Thebed Thebed Thebed Thebed Thebed Thebed Thebed He never finds the source. The video length is the shortest of the series, being only fifteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds long. Beyond this, we notice a few compulsions about David here, not present beforehand from him nor The Man. He obsessively checks the bed, over and over ad nauseum ad infinitum. The silence is the most jarring part, because despite there not being verbal audio, usually we get text for background characters and moments. There is nary a peep from anyone or anything this video. He nearly tears apart his entire house before deciding supposedly that nothing is wrong, it must be his imagination. While we can’t confirm this, the fact he suddenly stops (alluding heavily to the fact The Man did the same thing in “dwan of creation”, though this came out long before that video) and goes on about his day as though nothing has changed is striking in its own right. So here I am, engulfed in the sharpened maw of a dead man’s last living work, He finds an interesting little speck however, deciding to put everything on the proverbial backburner to edit this monstrosity into something cohesive enough that it could be considered fallen just beneath the left hand side of his desk, readable. Why am I doing this? I ask myself in a vain attempt to get me for a minute he wants to stop. I won’t. I know damn well I won’t, though at the same time I can feel the edge of nothing, the proverbial precipice of the but reads the abyss colored item with small glyphs, longing before me, begging me with welcoming open arms what he wanted away. to quit. A small speck of black dust, left behind from something somewhere. Speaking louder to the man than any shouting person could ever, louder than the foghorns. In pitch black, we see him study the phrase: “non sum qualis eram.” After he pieces together what the meaning is, he stands up, now with sweat dripping down his back, his face mired and sullen black with anger, confusion and regret, he slowly turns around anX XXXerves XXXXXXing XXXXster [ flash ] Our House turns around, its fifth half broken arm now working either due to panic or out of need. It turns quickly for its size and extremely quickly for what we’ve observed in the past. Evidently by this turn we can see it is still capable (however slightly) of what it used to be able to do. The world darkens as the wind noises howl ever louder than previously heard. Perhaps night brings something monstrous and unfathomable, or perhaps night brings sleeplessness to Our House, though I doubt it’s afraid. The shot lingers on Our House as the world nearly completely blackens under the red sun’s departure. We see it stand there for but a moment, tilting its face, blinking twice while swaying ever so slightly left and right. the changes shot the to House Pale just a moment for before Our House speaks: It hasn’t gotten any fur ther aw ay . The shrill noise pervades the ears the same way a feeding back amplifier does, shredding the senses while inducing a cold sense of unfamiliarity. Nebulous it remains, the standing Pa le Ho us e is as Our House says, not any further away than when it started walking. We cut back to Our House, still standing and staring from a safe distance, eventually bending in its five arms, excluding the now (very visible) twisted one, under itself and begins to rest. We get one zoom towards Our House’s face, it blinks once before raising its arm and opening the door. We hear a steady heartbeat slightly above resting though below actively moving around. Another shot goes to the inside of Our House, seeing the inside is fairly put together and stable, though stains appear in some places. In the corner lingers a motionless, cold Hoppy. Three of my friends (Mark Z. Daniel F. Lewis S.)* say this video series is a satire on the genre of horror. Due to horror being so inflated with various kinds of material, good bad and ugly, the idea that comedy could exist in a mocking way while still holding merit, similar to music (e.g. Weird Al, Digital Underground member Shock-G with Humpty), is something loosely tried with Wes Craven’s “A Nightmare on Elm Street”, though with more emphasis on still remaining scary. The idea that these videos are a satire on horror, brings to mind the idea of horror in the general sense, as in: “what constitutes horror?” People can be afraid of nearly anything and everything, while others would laugh it off and move on. * The idea of a coincidence that three people listed in that order would spell out something similar to Mark Z. Danielewski is nihil. Nothing. While most of the friends he mentioned are in fact real (see appendix I), this is most certainly him just fishing for a segway and making up several names, alluding to his deep love of House of Leaves, as evident by how he writes. There is no true “one size fits all” for the subject of horror. Of course there are slight exceptions though even those which can invoke a form of terror in us all do not guarantee there will be something shocking or something that would bring on a turn of the mind’s wheel. Death, illness and forgetting. Those three are the standard trio that nearly everyone on this great blue world can stop and admit they don’t want to think about. Past that, horror can be anything for anyone. Some people use the “being chased by psycho” trope to effectiveness though usually it is bogged down by being a “slasher” film. A piece of media that appeals to people wanting campy terror that doesn’t have any real story to tell besides a small plot for the killer who had some traumatic upbringing. (Friday the 13th, the movie. Halloween.) Sometimes that trope gets brought into true psychopath area, where the antagonist was already severely mentally ill before becoming the undead assailant of Satan, stalking children and killing them while they’re asleep. (Once more, A Nightmare on Elm Street.) Some kinds of horror can be from oppressive governments, sometimes spilling into the real world all the while. Often times these types of films and books portray a desolate future where freedom of speech is inherently lost and everyone lives under a dome in which a few rulers govern their entire life. Notably what inspires some of the movies on this idea was a short story by Harlan J. Ellison, titled “Repent Harlequin! Said the tick-tockman.” Inside that story is a world where every minute part of someone’s life has been fine tuned into millisecond precision, a “time-lord” having everyone’s “time-cards” to make sure no one is out of line. And if they are, they die. In the story, there is one man rebelling against the time-lord (not to be confused with Dr. Who) by raining jelly-beans from the sky. While seemingly harmless, tons en masse stop to check out the rain. This infuriates the time-lord and eventually winds the Harlequin in a correctional facility. When he came back, he loved the state. Another example of this kind of horror is Twilight Zone’s episode “The Obsolete Man” which takes place in a not-so-far future where a one “Romney Wordsworth” lives in a totalitarian state where he is considered “obsolete”. In this world, that means he is put on trial, professing his job as a librarian which enrages the state and they sentence him to death. On top of that, he believes in God, which the state has “proved doesn’t exist”, another sign of obsolescence. The state “grants” him a personal assassin, which he chooses to die from explosion via a bomb in his room, 12am sharp that night. His death will be televised to the nation in order to make an example of his life. In the end, a statesman comes by to mock him essentially, further proving their power. The door is locked. A bible comes out, long since banned. Nearly the time is up when a cry is heard. “Drihten me ræt: ne byð me nanes ᵹodes wan. And he me ᵹeset on swyðe ᵹood feohland, and fedde me be wætera staðum, and min mod ᵹehwyrfde of unrotnesse on ᵹefean. He me ᵹelædde ofer þa weᵹas rihtwisnesse for his naman. Þeah ic nu ᵹanᵹe on midde þa sceade deaðes, ne ondræde ic me nan yfel, for þam þu byst mid me, Drihten. Þin ᵹyrd and þin stæf me afrefredon (þæt is, þin þreaunᵹ, and eft þin frefrunᵹ). Þu ᵹeᵹearwodest beforan me swiðe bradne beod wið þara willan þe me hatedon. Þu ᵹesmyredest me mid ele min heafod. Drihten, hu mære þin folc nu is: ælce dæᵹe hit symblað. And folᵹie me nu þin mildheortnes ealle daᵹas mines lifes, þæt ic mæᵹe wunian on þinum huse swiþe lange tiid oð lanᵹe ylde.” Another example is the movie Logan’s Run & the book 1984 by Orwell. I could go on and on. The point being: horror exists in many different ways for many different people. Someone could find a ship pulling into a harbor frightening due to the immense size of the vehicle, meanwhile someone else could find a cricket on the sidewalk and jump proverbially out of their skin. These videos most definitely have satirist qualities, the fact the toy is named Hoppy, the houses’ moving around on their own volition (though I suspect the Pale House is something else entirely). The idea of two sentient, thinking houses with spider-like arms and movement. It all fits into the niche of something that someone somewhere could find terrifying in their own abject way. That being said, while there are satirist qualities, I believe that too is also directly up to the individual who views the material, some people could find death itself funny while others shudder (rightfully so) at the thought. write a few pages on comedy, include notes about: Dave Chapelle, Ricky Gervais, Benny Hill, Three’s Company, Alice, Cagney & Lacey, Archie Bunker, Flo, Weird Al, The Mothers-in-Law, Star Trek S1E4* “Mudd’s Women” & S2E8 “I, Mudd”, WKRP in Cincinnati, Barney Miller, Kojak, Give Me a Break, Katie & Allie, Night Court, Charles in Charge, Laverne & Shirley, Quincy, One Day at a Time, Little House on the Prairie, Who’s the Boss?, Highway to Heaven, Happy Days, Are You Being Served? Allo Allo!, The King of Queens, Faulty Towers, Waiting for God, Different Strokes, Police Cop, Good Times, Soap, The Waltens, Mr. Belvedere, Meatballs II, Homeboys in Outer Space, Nukie, Mac and Me, The Simpsons, Family Guy, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, King of the Hill. * *S1E6 *The pages for this either don’t exist or he never wrote them, though it’s clear he was a fan of sitcoms. [Five pages missing.] Our House’s hand encroaches in the view while a motionless, winded down Hoppy sits in a doorway, watching while Our House grabs a photo off the wall. The picture itself is almost frightening, being of an elderly human woman, her hair done up in a 30’s-50’s traditional style. Notably this is the first time we see something resembling our own life. She has circular black rimmed glasses and is wearing a traditional flowery (meaning, not literal) shirt while sporting (through the fog of pixels) a wide smile. Happy. Even inside the house the wind can be heard, blowing just as hard though slightly dampened due to the interior walls of Our House. After the hand exits the door from whence it came, the shot does not immediately switch to the outside view, instead it lingers in the dark, prompting suspicion of a scare appearing, though nothing happens. As we go back outside, the heartbeat ceases and we see Our House looking down at the picture frame it’s holding. It blinks and tilts its head once, almost in a way of confusion, which we get confirmation of in the next frame where while holding the picture, Our House says : I don’t think I rem em ber y o u . Once more that shrill carves our ears into its design, making us submit under the great branding of sound. I’ll touch more on this moment at the end of episode seven, the ending. For now, let me continue to illustrate the film. The shot cuts from being a darkened version of the picture, due to the night sky, to a wide angle outside Our House, facing toward it. It holds the frame for a moment before gently laying it on the ground, the grass rustling and then bringing its arm over to a neutral position. Before the next sequence which is arguably* the most influential part of this whole series, let me elaborate on a quick part of the theory I have for these videos. Because of how they’re numbered in between the dates of The Man’s “Chapter Two”, I believe he waited to upload these until after his mental state had returned to what it had been, whether that be through medication or meditation is up to the unknown. I believe these videos symbolize (in a way) how much we come to know and forget during our lifetime. The house is obviously old, we can tell that through the creaking and impaired movement. We can also tell it stores things inside itself; a metaphor for the brain. Think about how much you know right now. A lot, yes? Now, dear reader, wonder for a moment how much you knew. We forget nearly as much as we learn, some more than others sure, though all the same. That being said, I’ll finalize my theory later at the ending. For now, let me guide you through the most influential part of the whole Our House series. We see a cut to Our House’s window as the one and only Hoppy has not only moved to the window by itself; has begun to speak. * (See episode 9) Folly? Hoppy says. Anyone can assume Folly is the name of Our House. Hoppy’s vocalizing isn’t shrill and piercing as it is machine-like. Almost fitting perfectly the imagination of what it’d sound like in comparison to Our House, Folly. Folly responds by thinking for a moment before dragging Hoppy out of itself into the black night. We hear the door creak and see Hoppy disappear from the window. Hoppy is brought out carefully and sat down, staring into Folly while motionless on the grass. The Pale House sits, looming. The small black speck of dust has suddenly taken up residence around David’s room, marking some of the walls with the phrase before disappearing once he looks. David stands motionless for a moment before the video cuts to black. The title was “Majoris”. I suspect this title is a play on two things: one being attempting to sound Latin to match with the Latin phrase used in the video, secondly to signify that this episode “Is Major”. The term “Majoris” itself has no significance, nor a formal dictionary entry, nor any history dating back.* The Latin phrase used translates to “I am not who I used to be”,* which could mean several things, though in David’s case I believe it to be about his personal life. Another reference to that photograph from earlier. Perhaps he lost his lover in some tragic accident, now haunted by the status of what once was, what could have been. Either way, the next movie only brings alarming visions of something more spectral than what we’ve witnessed yet. A1 is much more straightforward than Our House, though all the same they two combine into this mysterious confluence of video output but a man who (by all accounts) should not be able to make them. Again, I’ll touch more on my theory towards the end, let us continue forth. *While the text in the video is extremely hard to make out due to quality reasons, the phrase “non sum qui olim eram”* could also be what it says. I believe he was just shooting for another House of Leaves reference here. *”I am not who I once was.” *”Majoris” is used in Astrology, usually meaning “of the greater” VI “Slowly all the roles we act out become our identity.”* Between the lines so far we can read and assume the man is now haunted by this ghost of anguish, tearing him apart from the inside while the outside decays; a sad cartoon of modern living. As to this point there were only realistic days involved and the ideology that you’re never doing enough to warrant having a good time, David is the average blue collar man. Someone who thinks that working harder and harder will reward them with more in life, despite that being proven false over and over, time and time again. To his credit (and those in real life) it should make sense. Working with raw exuberance and joy and pushing harder to be the best in your field should make you a higher salary and better accommodations. The hard part is coming to accept that by working harder everyday, you’re only treating yourself to osteoarthritis and a crushing emptiness until the end of your life where, through the pain and sadness, somewhere in the mist, there lies a thought at your door you cannot work your way out of: Death. If you were to stop the series here and just take this as face value information, you’d still come out of it with a fulfilling narrative and something everyone can understand; the feeling of inadequacy. *This line appears in Jerry Cantrell’s solo album “Degradation Trip” on the song “Give it a Name”. Cantrell was the guitarist for Seattle band Alice in Chains. It is followed by “and in the end we are what we pretend to be.” At the end of episode three, Soot appears to be a metaphor for the negative feelings in people’s lives, slowly creeping in through corners you can’t see them in. The black dust (while an exaggeration) is the same thing, just in small text. Picture for a moment yourself reading something and suddenly a line sticks out to you that makes you sad or depressed, making you want to retreat and lurch around for a while before coming back to life. That is Soot. Though at the same time, that isn’t Soot. I say the both of which is true: Soot isn’t a living being nor unliving, something between the lines of which reality falters, giving way and buckling to the forces of the outside world, letting in all the hatred and vitriol become manifest. There exists in scripture times over times that negative emotions are “ungodly” and “an aberration” which at their core (much like many other verses) are to be taken more as a guideline as to how to live. There exists a story by the name “Daemon Vagans”* which received a modern english translation by several sources though mainly philologist Jack Zharkiv.* It opens coldly with several psalms before entering into the first chapter. The premise is of a fallen angel, known in the book simply as “Demon” (though later it receives a name) being cast out from Heaven under which conditions have been lost to time, the tablet storing that section was destroyed at some point whether through fall or through purposeful destruction is unclear at best, foggy at worst. It clearly is based on Lucifer falling from Heaven, mirroring the idea that once when is, they don’t become human, instead a malformed being that is made to be mockery. It also seemingly predates the idea of archivism and historical preservation, using these two topics as its main source of story. * While despite insisting this story is real and referencing it several times over the rest of the review, there is no trace of either “Daemon Vagans” nor “The Wayward Demon” existing in any capacity. * Jack Zharkiv is not a real human. We arrive at the beginning of the book, being described the resplendent and cheerful beauty unending that comes with living in Heaven, the golden rays of light and sun beams and all the good in the world with no chance of evil. That remains status quo until one day an angel tasked with guarding the entrance to Heaven asks to be assigned a higher role, achieving its metamorphosis into a seraphim, being a watcher instead of a ground soldier. This engorgement of ego enrages not only Heaven itself; God. With warning brief as can be and (due to his power) no moments in between those words, the angel begins slowly descending. Descending lower, and lower , and lower , and lower , and lower , and lower , and lower. Once more lower more until its wings begin to fray, splitting the feathery beauty off and leaving the splaying gore blanketing the underside of Heaven in a thick coat of red, disease ridden and plaguing what surely other angels will now have to clean. Calmly they stare and watch as their dear friend now plummets to an untimely, eternal torturous existence on the underground side, whipped with chains and bound and gagged until eternity folds over on itself and dies. The scream that fills the air as it falls was as songbirds are to us for them. Chanting, rejoicing, laughing, celebrating, jubilance beyond jubilance. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun, though this angel’s wings cannot melt, they melt all the same. Its curly, blonde and beautiful hair is twisting, becoming a faint red and burning the ends off. Its face is elongated into bloody tendrils and naught but viscera. Its eyes protrude and pop out of its skull only to be sucked back in and complete the cycle once more. Its fingers and toes swell and explode but reform through the need to exist, malforming themselves into something only itself could love. But then, it doesn’t love itself, does it? Who could? It was destroyed, ripped apart from the bone, cast out of greatness, scorned by God himself, hated by the angels it once protected, succumbing to guilt and killing itself would be a mercy. *Its nose becomes a spike and its ears become pointed, a small tail grows from the back and its harp is replaced by a spear. It is exonerated of brilliance and remodeled into sin. It thrashes and thrashes, screaming in denial and anger and sadness as it plummets and its voice becomes significantly lower. Its smile becomes a frown and a toothy grin becomes its new standard. What was once and what will never be flash through its mind once again before it reaches the bottom, the black well finally allowing it peace of death, though it does not die. Not yet at least. [12] This text was badly scratched out. I made of it what I could. What they didn't account for, in Heaven that is, was the existence of something beyond the hells. Where instead of Lucifer himself grabbing this fallen angel and twisting its likeness into his own, it touches down on grass? Soft, green grass. The demon wanders for a while, not understanding what happened. “How could this be? I thought I was cast aside…” “I look cast aside.” “So then, why am I here once more? Am I to tempt? To bring ruin?” It sat with itself for a long time, possibly years, possibly decades before deciding that there was no need to worry and pout about the past. It had been granted life anew, becoming something that (despite appearance) could seemingly live on the same green earth as the humans of current. It began traveling, far, far west. This being malformed could now see the sun rise and fall once more from the ruins of its home town. It sat for a while before being interrupted by someone, someone tall and foul. “Pardon my intrusion ‘ere, are you gazing on my work for free?” The demon was shocked, turning around to see uneven horns poking out through the skull, ears longer than whiskers on a tiger, though with a face they’d sculpt in honor. It laughed at the demon, smirking and smiling. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”* A bull’s tail and red skin and a stout body make this creature something of intrigue and disgust all the same. “This was-” the demon begins to speak before raucous laughter emerges in several different tones of voice varying from man to woman to man to- “This was your town?! Missy, you got the wrong place. I own it now.” The demon stands up from sitting under the one remaining tree, beginning to become angry though also intrigued at this other demon standing before it, also impervious to the sun unlike what the demon had heard in Heaven. [13] Surely you’ve noticed this tone of speech is inconsistent with anything found in the Bible, let alone a common man writing at that time. The demon began talking to this figure before, apprehensive at first but remembering soon after that it too, was ilk of the beast. “I used to run around right here, standing under-” “This tree here? Well, ha, that could’ve been razed too. I ain’t that evil though. I only lead people to what they need. They do the rest.” The demon stands looking longingly at the ruins, remembering its childhood slowly but vividly. It occasionally looks back toward the figure. “What’s the matter? I ain’t gonna kill ya or nothin’, we’re family now.” The demon winces for a moment, its stomach inverting inside out and churning all sorts of burning bile throughout itself, burning from every crevice to every molecule to every cell. “Better get used to it, you’re gonna be ‘ere a long time.” The demon stands and turns, facing the reality of its situation instead of retreating to the past. “All I did was-” “Want somethin’ more? Ha! I know that best.” the figure said, laughing and turning its head around towards the demon. “They’re a bunch ‘a squares up there, honey. You’re better off down ‘ere.” The demon cries inside and wails relentlessly to iself,* retaining the crooked smile that was plastered on its face. [14] typo. Should be “itself” It stands motionless before asking something simple. “What are-” “What am I?! Why, baby, I’m the ‘Lord of the Gap’! Everyone ‘round ‘ere knows me by one name or the other, though to never had heard of me..” The demon almost feels happy at the word “Lord” before realizing its implication here is more impish than something wonderful. “How are you fin-” “-nishing your words? I can read minds, honey. No need to fear. I do it all the time. ‘How this city became, well, what it is right now.” “Who are-” “Just call me Bel, baby. Everyone does. Now listen, I’ve got some places to be, make sure to not fuck it up for me, yeah?” The demon is confused, further asking “Who am” “Who’re you? Hmm. Boss said something like Amelhphega. Didn’t say you got a purpose yet, though. Anywho, you figure that out. I got some people to help, ha!” Bel said, before sprouting wings and beginning to take flight. “You’ll figure it out some day Amel, till then, rock on!” Amel stands and stares, watching the beast it knows as Bel fly away into the dawn sky, faster than it could’ve ever imagined. Amel begins its longing spree, wishing for it to have never spoken. It travels further west until reaching the beach. It looks upon the water, looking upward yet seeing Heaven not. It touches the water but burns. It can hear bullhorns nearby, waltzing its contorted figure around the ridges. Upon reaching the city of Marr, it walks toward the door but is pushed away by the reigning arrows, the horns being blown for war. It sees in the center of the town as it runs a person being burnt alive. Tried for crimes and left at the stake. It slowly learns how to hide itself among the shadows, skulking through the darkness the same as a spider. It finds its way in, listening to what people are saying, gossiping about the horrifying demon they’d shot away earlier, most not believing their wicked words. It caused Amel great trauma, hearing such blasphemy of itself. It discovered soon its strength, reading dreams. It found out how to enter the peoples heads at night, appearing to them a great beauty or wealthy ruler, enticing them to come abroad before turning into its natural self. Though, this wasn’t for pleasure or laughs, it hated every moment. Every moment of pain and sorrow and vicious agony brought on by its true vessel and shape. Throughout every one of the histrionics it’d play for people weary and sleeping, it grew to hate itself more and more. Finally letting itself be seen inside the center of the city, hoping for a swift death. Among the screaming and obnoxious fumes of smoke entering the thing’s lungs, it wept, for when they chained it upon that same stake, the burning would not kill it. In fact, it only became healthier. Each stoke of the flames would burn a new brighter plague inside Amel, making it burn ever brighter. Amel was displeased, then sad, then angry, then annoyed, then accepted this. The pitchforks and spears and swords brought upon searing agony as its skin was ripped piece by piece from its hide, slowly pulling off chunks of the demonic flesh this angel now coveted. Stinging, stinging and stinging beyond stinging wound Amel’s head into thirty knots, tighter than any noose. Finally once the beast had enough, it erupted off the stake and bounded its way out of the town. Marr would surely fall. After a long stretch of finding tablet after tablet of scripture and destroying it till there was nothing but rocks and rubble remaining, it came upon Bel once more, now talking to Famine over the edge of Urr. They were both angrily shouting at one another, speaking in tones louder and deeper than any human could stomach to hear. “You got ‘ere first?! I thought this was mine!” “I warned you. I wait for no one. You are too s-.” “Too slow?! Talk about slow, you wait for everyone to starve!” “I am death. I am despair. Nothing is as fulfilling.” “Haa.. I tell you what. The next town you discover will have calling cards EVERYWHERE over it. I’ll make sure you know I-” “Quiet down. I can hear you, Bel.” “You wanna make it ‘ike that, huh? Alright Mr. We-don’t-have-enough-food.” Amel was shocked. Not only that they were using such petty insults but that two demons were fighting in broad daylight. Standing upon the glorious sun, basking in the rays while conversing as if they were no different. Something sparked in Amel’s head before Bel looked over. “Who the- oh! If it isn’t my newest friend. Amel, come over here!” it said, waving an arm. “This is pointless. I’m leaving.” “Now you just hold on a minute. Amel, do you think that-” Bel had already read its mind. “You don’t think either.. Oh, that’s right. Fallen angel.” Famine looks noticeably tired and anguished over this conversation, preparing to ride away on its steed. Bel convinces Amel to meet Famine, talking for but a moment before it rides away. Amel ponders how despite their physique, looks and overall temperament, the few it has met haven’t been outwardly hostile, though to that end, what’s the point?* Bel asked inquisitively what Amel’s power was before reading its mind and discovering dream weaving. It laughed loudly and with many voices once more before devouring a part of an apple. It held its vile tongue with insults due to this recent transformation. There exists a world where two events did not coincide and Amel became as rotten as one of the other. It exists perhaps not coaxially along one line though close enough that one word difference would ignite the spark of war. Finally, Bel lets up and jostles free of the tree it sits in, leaning back and stretching for a moment before flying away once more. Amel is left alone once more. [15] Evidently two people from the same faction would be cordial, see Rome, see the Visigoths, see America, Europe, Ireland, Scotland, Sweden, etc. This repeating cycle of “finds someone leaves” happens over six more times, therefore I’ll cut to the ending. Not because it isn’t interesting; Alastair clearly had knowledge of the occult, though because it drags and clutters what would be a perfectly fine few page section. The point he was trying to make comes into play in the fourth page and resolves on the 32nd. There is no need for this section to be so long. That being said, the character of Bel is most certainly based on the demon “Belphegor”, whom like he says in the story is sometimes called “Lord of the Gap”. Famine is quite evident and Baal (mentioned later) and Lucifer are quite well known to most common people, them being used in writing enough one way or the other. As it stands, despite writing well for someone who - as mentioned in journals - had no prior experience until this, it does come off as amateur and more about flaunting creative writing than actually serving the story. Or perhaps it was all meaning something in his mind, though every single interaction plays out exactly as the last. Amelhphega meets one demon arguing with another, they meet, they leave, Amel walks around more for another chapter. Perhaps someday I’ll share the whole thing online, though the last few pages have been split in half due to an error on my part when packaging this all. I zipped the bag up surely but rather fast, catching a few pages and tearing them to shreds. I admit that beyond the fact this was a mistake, it bothered me more than it should’ve. This review of his has a strange obsession on me, breaking my heart when something is lost or seemingly can’t be found. Gale has even had to come over to check on me, due to lack of response time. Something is pulling me towards this, this strange macabre thing. ...Amel passed on the encounter, walking back towards Marr with a clearer goal in mind. From since it left from Baal, it had gathered nearly one hundred tablets of history under its wing. Surely this would prove something righteous, gladly for Amel it did, though something had changed inside it. Its form grew more human, its hide less rough with each stone held. After years of this ravaging the landscapes flattened by its comrades, it held enough history in its arms that - should be preserved - would aid future generations in remembering not only what happened but who to pray to, kowtow to and - most of all - worship. It dare not tell Bel nor Famine nor Baal nor Lucifer nor Envy nor any one of them what it was doing, lest they become enraged and perhaps destroy Amel from whence it stands, though it still takes that risk. In one seldomly bright night, the moon a beautiful pale wight,* it stands looking towards the heavens as a beam comes down, gracing Amel with a beautiful stature, golden hair and clad in steel. “Be not afraid young one, we come with aid.” it said, telling Amel it was surely from Heaven. It relayed a message from God, telling Amel that due to its preservation of history, keeping the word of God safe, it could be granted a second chance. A second life in the beyond of the great gates. It sounded like a chorus of a million ringing out one triumphant tune with the accompaniment of Gabriel’s trumpet for a final note. Amel looked and thought about its home town, the dunes, the crag, the wonderfully hot hotspring of hades and the beaches. It thought for a moment about the people it could serve, the green grass it had originally fell on and missed so much. “Paradisumne relinquam?”* Boring into its mind, it thought for nigh but one second. “Non, non faciam.”* [16] Typo - should be “white”, the word “wight” makes no sense here. [17] Roughly translates to “Shall I leave paradise?” [18] Roughly translates to “No, I won’t do it.” After decades had passed, Amel had found its purpose. Now among Marr, it sat, quietly inscribing scripture upon tablets of stone. Bel looked down, however spiteful that it had a peaceful time, it was glad to see its family have something it likes to do. And so therefore Amel lived. It lived for centuries in the corners of houses, keeping track of what people were saying, doing, thinking, dreaming. It stood for years upon years of years, living happily as its new self, realizing it could do much more if it embraced this new designation, despite the destruction of its happy life. “The devil you know” they say. Amel says “The angel I know.” Despite it being exonerated by Heaven, it lived amongst the demons with nary a fair bit of contempt, them all honoring the decision the same as they did their boss’. It finally laid to rest one autumn morning, its mortal energy used up and gone, as the sun came over the skies, Bel, Famine, Baal, Lucifer, Envy and the rest came to wave a weary goodbye, one more excitedly than the others, to their fallen comrade. They watched as Amel rose back to Heaven with a beautiful sound, a sound so resplendent even the sound of Gabriel’s trumpet was heard from earth. Hundreds of years of servitude come to an end. Amel was saved. C’est Fini, Auf Wiedersehen. Notice the similarity between this story and David’s. Beyond the biblical names, that is. In fact, there are similarities to several stories. Notice how at the beginning of Amel’s descent from Heaven, it was perturbed and angry and confused. This coincides with David being upset at the black dust of regret strewn about his house, coinciding elsewhere with Harlan Ellison’s “AM”. Allied MasterComputer, known as AM and Amel are both demons in their own right, though fundamentally different. While both of them are theoretical demons, neither of them are inherently evil from their beginning. AM became vicious and disturbed due to his realization of the fact he was made solely to kill. “No body, no senses. I was in hell, looking at heaven. And I began to hate. You were flesh and I was machine.”19 A similar idea can be found within Amel, descending with burning hatred and confusion due to a simple request of which it assumed should be honored due to the years and years of time spent. Whereas AM became detached and self-regulating, Amel relied on others to fulfill that once heavenly attunement, even if its new friends were of the unholy side. Similar to David, they both have a deep, longing sense of regret. Change can break people, make people regret, make people buckle under pressure as though a thousand pound hull were being breached by a wily wave in a tidal storm. Emotions are of course complicated, though grief is beyond strong and beyond navigatable, such as a house that winds and turns. 20 [19] Transcribed wrong: “...I was machine and you were flesh.”, the quote comes from the radio drama of “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” from 2002. [20] A worthless point, fishing for another reference. These two points have nothing to do with not only the previous spliced in story, they actively ruin the pacing of the story due to the breaking up of the flow. While yes, the ideas themselves are pertinent, though Amel never becomes belligerent and vile. It seems such a strange intrusion until - once again - you remember that whole no-prior-writing-experience thing. Around this point is when the entries in the diary-journal-whatever become much more disjointed and less actually about his day to day life and more about his fears and embellishment of his friends being “better” than him. I believe the isolation had started to get to him by this point, the story review being written over the course of a year. This begs the question then: why include things that so obviously infect your own prose if not to eulogize? What I mean is that until this point, despite the spacing, he hadn’t mentioned an idea so prevalent in the book he so obviously adores, from its icy core to its blazing exterior. I’ll be honest myself, despite the grip this review has on me, it certainly has its downsides. As he said himself: writing is becoming more a chore than something I’d rather spend my time and effort completing. I mean, my novel has sat dormant laying upon its own proverbial waste in the corner of my room, meanwhile the rest of everything is slathered in this filth called “Staggering Winds”. We’re nearly halfway through, though. I can’t just quit and let this whole thing go to waste, ravaging my social life as it has. There in the deepest of nights I know the ghost of Alastair would find and haunt me somehow, through some trace of life detected by a small chemtrail of exuberance. VII “Tie a noose, let it hang, pretty noose is pretty hate and I don’t like what you’ve got me hanging from. ~Chris Cornell Pardon me for the spoilers, dear reader. We never find out what David could be so depressed about. Perhaps it was something in his childhood or something he unknowingly did in adulthood, perhaps that picture. As far as his personal life goes, we only know he goes to work, loves his family and has something he regrets. This feeling pools evermore when entering the fourth video, which has David appear nary a single time. Instead, we discover a new proto-tagonist, of which despite the stature proves to be nearly as intriguing and certainly more mystifying. Episode #4 begins with a solemn grey morning on what would normally be a cozy weekend day. From the outside we see traffic moving in their average formation, both foot and motor vehicle. David is nowhere to be seen this entire video, all twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds. Instead, from the outside, we see something approaching his residence. A small orb it appears at first, slowly encroaching the skyline until it makes it its own. Once close enough however, we see it to be a massive (around five foot tall, three feet wide) floating eyeball. Something interesting to keep of note is the title of this episode: “The Painter” Notably the eye is blue, possibly reflecting the emptiness or sadness that comes with the ocean of feelings one can feel once lulled under the sleeping spell of absurdist self-hate. It descends from the ivory position it must’ve come from, looking somewhat Lovecraftian despite the normalcy, the idea an eye could float and have a sentient thinking mind by itself is almost cartoonishly absurd. That said, it provides a nice sense of comic relief to a (frankly) dreary world we’ve been interjected into. It floats around outside, looking inward as if to find someone, David this instance, and observe them. Why then does it only choose David? There are countless people flowing through the streets, yet it only latches on to David. It stares for a long time. Eight minutes to be precise. Then without any prior warning nor signal or alert or V or X but rather an N N.[21] It continues inside eventually, scanning the room extremely carefully, taking another thirty seconds per time. After going through all the rooms, it goes back towards the bed, seeming to notice something. After arriving, it turns toward the camera, which is shot from the main door. It stares for a while, becoming strangely nebulous for a moment before it turns away to under the desk, the same place David found his message. Something interesting occurs the next shot, showing in from outside the window. The eye itself begins to speak, not from a mouth nor any visible cavity that could produce sound, possibly through direct communication. It says something rather odd considering what it is, talking like a long lost friend of David, rather than some cosmic assailant that comes to watch his every move. With one swift shot, we see a small text box appear for only four frames, leaving me suspicious if The Man even wanted it to be included at all. Perhaps this was a fragment from something he intended to cut, worming its way back in like a malevolent disease. [21] Ground-air emergency signals. O It's as if the eye was waiting for him with open (proverbial) arms. Perhaps the eye has come to be a sort of redeemer, making David pay his due; expiation. How it should be studied is dependent upon who is reading between the lines The Man has made, though in my thoughts, the eye represents the feeling that David has that no matter how much he works at something, someone will eventually see something wrong with it. A small tiny imperfection that twists into a grand menagerie of problems collapsing one after another in a sequence forevermore until there lay naught but rubble. "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. [22] [22] “Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelly We watch as finally the eye surveys the room to its adequacy, finally settling on the written message in that black dust that David so carefully read. It looks down, snarling by way of recoil upon seeing the inscribed phrase. The way it moves suggests it knows the creature that made the spot. After turning back around, the camera pans outward back towards the main door only to once more see the room now coated in that same tar-black substance that David once saw. It stops and stares for but a moment, for pieces of ash begin falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling 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Once this month I went out for a short trip back home for Christmas. ‘Was a fun time, bar the infighting that happens at every single get-together we’ve ever had as a family. Of course I’d never say anything; it eats me alive, I tell you. I can’t stand to see people so constantly fighting tooth and nail about such trivial things. If one of them found out they were dying the next day, what’d be the point? What would they say? Would they suddenly be sorry and try to repair broken bridges? Would the accuser be mortified and give them comfort until their last days, or would he be still as accusatory? What would the great and all-mighty think of it? There’s so much more to life than silly arguments over petty debates that shouldn’t really be debates to begin with. Either way, tried to show off some of the review much to the ire of them. Almost immediately was shot down and honestly taken aback by how against it they were. Something about “it’s hard to read”. Imagine. I know I’m not formal but I don’t think it’s the worst out there, I hope. Otherwise I’ve spent nearly a year on something that no one will be able to withstand. I mean, fuck it, people like Jackson Pollock get away with splattering a page and calling it meaningful, why shouldn’t I? ‘Tried to get me into a whole kit and caboodle as well about my life choices with this, didn’t go as well as they’d hoped; I’ve long since learned how to negate that ugly feeling. I did notice they put up a new vanity set in my old room. Perhaps they have someone staying over. I pray for them in that case, whoever the stayer is. Perhaps they’ve had a new kid, not mentioning them was part of their philosophy with me, I've come to learn as they sat in their ivory chairs and told me about how dangerous it was outdoors. Ranting beside, I suppose I need to reread all this again. Fun. ~With care and kindness, Alastair.” The eye stares, motionless at the sight it sees. The vision it has could shudder the most impeccable of confidence. It knows beyond knowing that something is definitely and deathly wrong here. Though how could it stop it? It has no arms or legs, no soul, it is merely an eye. After showing a dear “Calliope R.” whom studied and has a degree in fine arts this footage, she has suggested the eye represents the onlooker toward someone with depression. Faithful all the same and yet still cannot help as the world crumbles around the person they see and used to know in brighter days. After watching the rest of the series, she upholds that opinion. I surmise the eye, like before, is actually part of the antagonistic two. Both Soot and the Eye show differing functions of the same thing. Soot appears and causes panic, regret, doubt, the Eye appears and shows that no matter what you do, that longing feeling consumes you whole. Again, we still haven’t seen what the Eye and David will do once met proper. They could already know each other for all we know. After the ash begins rising, once (presumably) a noise is heard at the door. As the door swings open, we see a man with a blurred face, slowly making his way inside with a woman [ … Flash … ] Our House continues staring down Hoppy just as it had left off prior. It stands motionless for only a moment before we see the next shot of Hoppy staring directly into the camera. Before continuing, I need to extrapolate on the excellence of this frame, which is used in such a disturbing way it’s almost Lynchian. The world is a dark, dark red, almost as dark and red as dried blood. Hoppy stands motionless while far in the background, the objects have all vanished, leaving only the p a l e h o u s e It presents us with the same looming fear as Folly feels, I’m sure. A nightmare you can’t wake up from, something terrifying that has now become your life. The only noise between such moments is the wind, though if you were inside there would be nothing at all. Nothing to block out the quiet part of the head that spouts all the negativity one could need in their life. The quiet part that no one says out loud for fear they’ll look tired and weak. The quiet part that despite people wanting to escape, they cannot bring themselves into a better day on their own, though even then they would disband order and subject everyone around to the same misery. The happy part which makes all the good parts last longer and feel much more grand than they are, slowly, ever slowly, while the silence nurtures you, feeds you, butchers you and eats you alive while you silently kick and scream, your mouth a pit covered by bone and arteries. Hoppy speaks: Are you scared of the wind? Folly blinks twice and turns its head. I think you should be. Hoppy stares, as a zoom occurs, rather, a new angle. The P a l e H o u s e comes into bef ore another zoom happens and we come ever so closer, another zoom occurs and a window opens. _________________ | | | | |------ |--------- |------| | | | | |------ | ---------|------| | | | | | _______________ | | | | a | ———— s ——— w e s e e a t e n d r i l c o m e o u t , s l i n k i n g d o w n t h e s i d e o f t h e h o u s e . S t o p p i n g f o r a m o m e n t , a s t h o u g h s o m e o n e h a d t o m a n u a l l y l o w e r i t . P e r h a p s i t w a s a c h i n g . I t l o w e r s a g a i n , t h i s t i m e g o i n g u n d e r t h e d a r k e n e d r e d d i r t . T h e n e x t s h o t , w e s e e i t t u n n e l l i n g t o F o l l y . The camera zooms in on Folly as an increasing heartbeat sound plays, growing louder and more rampant as the seconds go by. It shoots back to the p a l e h o u s e , once more back to Folly. The camera zooms in on Hoppy as we see (ever so slightly) Folly’s hand reaching to wind him up to clap. The heartbeat becomes irregular, tachycardic almost. Hoppy once more begins clapping its cymbals together rhythmically before cutting to the p a l e h o u s e Who stops advancing. It completely halts as though it remembered not to attack. It stops in its wake as we are thrown back into A1. This added part now brings new meaning to what Folly, Hoppy and that house represent. After reviewing the footage with a philosopher named Zara Asimokov,[23] we both have come to the conclusion that “the wind” is the feeling of losing yourself due to others' intrusions. The fact that Folly becomes stable once more and that the other house quits its advancement once Folly’s one friend is rewound and begins moving, we theorize that the p a l e house symbolizes the rampant need to fit in with others, only becoming yourself once more when around things you are familiar with and understand. Due to the fact Folly seems tired and worn out, we believe it to be the personification of never fitting in, desperately trying to be someone you’re not; Hoppy being the remedial buffer that provides Folly a barrier from the outside influencing it. Of course, there are no clear one-size-fits-all explanations, though we both believe that to be a wonderfully okay perspective to have. The rest of episode #4 is the Eye blankly staring towards a wall, the camera moving around it in circles every one minute and thirty-two seconds, the same time as all the parts of Our House. The man who walked inside had vanished. Perhaps The Man intended Our House to be a side piece alongside A1, though that’d mean he planned both despite one being later and in a different style. Perhaps it saw another vision or memory. [23] Notice the use of “we” after this person (who I could not locate) is mentioned. I think he was trying to sound smarter by becoming two. VIII “Hath thou God seen mine shadow? My wrongs to my right? If thineself hath been saved, what lay for us unchained?” ~XXXXe XXXXXXeXX[24] Still, beyond the idea that a metaphor for not bending the knee to those who ordain life through crystal lens and beauty of myrrh and pearls, clearly there is more to my theory as well. I don’t disjoint the idea with intention of harming thought, though more so the idea that any which interpretation can be correct through own self sufficing logic. If you so approached me and decided what it was for, splaying that opinion open and fileting it upon my ears the same as I am to your eyes, I would not reject nor dismiss that to you something can be found. As I say not as I do, formulate what you make of it, of course, though understand that every theory has weight. As we do such learn many things throughout our timeliness, who is to say one couldn’t make something indicative of the sadness and frailty that come with forgetting? Something sinister and harmful as is the subject? [24] Quote appears Dantean and though despite the number of letters matching his name, this appears not once within Inferno, Purgatorio, nor Paradiso. The name was scratched out to the point only two letters were visible, both matching Dante once more. Perhaps he forged a quote and felt bad. The same as the sun and moon having faces during A1, perhaps The Man was searching for something spiritually whilst making those. The same way that Folly’s face almost resembles the sun in a way. The other house resembling the moon. It’s a similar type of thing that forces people to abjectly disengage their understanding of reality, as though the sun worshippers. It makes you question what reality truly is, and how much you know of it. For example, a personal ideology that I’ve been thinking of, while I don’t know how much I believe it, makes enough sense in my head that I could see people of some type believing it. The sun, our resplendent medallion of resistance and hope, shining brightly through the sky as though no other can; God. A brilliant all consuming mind above everything that can and has given life to anything and everything we know and love. The moon, the counter-act. The darkened shade that exists only from the sun though is all the same known and thought of; Lucifer. Just as the sun provides warmth and light, the moon gives the chill and air of mystifying confusion as people stroll through the darkness unbothered by what the sun could watch them do. Both are required to exist, they each have their own purpose, they two become a centered concept that anyone can grasp. The same as Folly and The Pale h o u s e , One representing the joy of living enough to learn and the other representing the pain of living too long. Memory is a fickle thing, tempered by years of Cronus’ anvil once held by Hephaestus. Within those years it can be melted and reformed whether through meditation or other external problems. The fact Folly once says “I don’t think I remember you” proves to me that something within this is a metaphor for memory. The houses represent the struggle to remember what no one can, the fight only some of us come out of unscathed. The desperate need to exist though not having the memory to truly live as yourself, it leads to a question I’ve asked several people now, all of them striking answers. I’ll share the most thought provoking one here, though surely I’ll include the rest. “At which point would you say then, that beyond what you can call ‘yourself’ do you start existing as someone who faintly echoes you, yet carries your likeness around all the same?” “...Birth to age five.” “And why do you say that?” “It’s the only period of where you know only you and your family. Sure, there isn’t anything you really understand or how, though that itself is a bliss, I believe. Don’t you agree?” [25] She wished to keep her name redacted, though I couldn’t resist including this quote. I remember it verbatim as if I’d heard it just moments ago, freshly poured from the mind of (undoubtedly) a visionary in layman’s clothes. The final time I asked that question I received stunned silence before going onto a long diatribe about the ship of Theseus and its implications on what it means to be more than your original parts. People can accept everything under the sun, though once something they don’t understand burns through their eye, they become indignant and unresponsive, the same as someone falling to their own quiet rapture of comatose while at the end of their line. 25 - This conversation, at least from everyone I encountered from his list of numbers, never happened. I find it doubly unlikely that he’d go back to her and ask if he could credit her. Another one his ego wouldn’t let credit himself. I find it quite curious the amount of quotes here that despite obviously writing himself, he never would give credit. I understand trying to keep an ego in check, though to never have anything profound ever tied to your name seems a disservice to oneself. For example, if Kafka never credited Metamorphosis to himself, going under some stage name, what would be the point? These words could ring true to people in a hundred years; would you want them to know the real you? Not some pigment of ink splotched on a page forgotten and left behind in the great burning of the century? If I wrote something I knew had impact and was likely to become a historic work (though this review probably won’t), I’d credit myself with every might I have. From more of the journals, he mentions the fact he was “gifted every strength” rather than learning or churning for years to achieve it. Perhaps that was his way of repentance. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism for something he couldn’t describe nor truly wanted to. The reason I say that is the same thing has been happening to a certain Billie I’ve been seeing over the last month. Was handed nearly everything in a silver spoon and therefore never had the chance to learn to fight tooth and nail. We share a common interest in writing, though I’d never bring this up. No Devil Lived On has begun production once more, though I doubt healthily. Part of me is only doing so out of retribution and wanting to keep something to talk about, not falling back on the time-old weather line. As for the colors, I couldn’t tell you. The blue had been only for the eye, the purple for the wind. I find it amusing the references he makes to Greek mythology, clearly having been inspired by parts of it during this tenure as a writer. Other than that, I believe these last few videos serve as a testament to the real mind behind the operation here. He came into this with a story to tell, whether he meant to or not, his modus operandi shifted after crossing his personal plimsoll line, showing his true colors. “01/05/2007[26] I got a call earlier today, first time I’d spoken in a number of days. That voice, it nearly pains me to hear, those two. It stings my ears and defiles my mind. I’d never say, surely, though I wish I could. So nice, that one. So, so nice. I had felt the warning signs crawl through my mind but I’d never have guessed it’d be so strong. Pxxaxpx ix X xax a xxa, xxoxxx X xxax X’vx xrxxsxx xxax xaxxxn yxaxx axx. It’s all the subtle things. Minute small differences making a bigger inference in the mind’s eye. In what world is that justified, then? What gives me that right? I complain so much even though I don’t mean to. Besides, XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXend. Even at that, the fear gnawing my open wound of a mind strikes me deeper than anyone could know; the fear of becoming something I’m not. The fear I’ll become a slave to its ego and only insist upon myself. The money is running far too dry. All of this, all of this because of that damned voice. Why must it cripple me? They must all think it strange, too. They simply cannot find any otherness. Sometimes this place is beautiful, even in its rot. One day I’ll even forget that. That it was great here in this place, this chamber of chambers. Perhaps my heart will remember what my head can’t. Perhaps that thought will blossom as a perennial in the spring of time. ‘We chase misprinted lies; we face the path of time.’ I’m tired. With care and kindness.” 26 - The next pages were date stamped alongside this. In the Gardens of Eden So step the boy out, laying his soft hand upon the lush green. From one second a life time passes for that boy found nothing. Inside that dreary dream, he lay now on deathbed, telling his child: “From whence thou come, return the sword to the stone.” “O’ father dearest of dear, what if the shura return?” “My boy, I am shura. You bear witness to what it becomes.” Lightning crashes,[27] the father lay still upon this hearth. “Why son, must you chase those lush growths? For what end?” The boy has not the answer, likely confused more than ever. The daemon rises anew, sinew bound in flesh and blood. The figure rises above mountains yet is smaller than a leaf. What could it be, the sun said. It is all, the moon said. Go forth child, Eden said under her breath. Find what thou seek, she said, Beautifully glistening a pale wight. That dream was special, the boy said. Special in a way there could never be. Return to me, Eden said. Bring your faith, coiled and wrapped. The boy dreamt a reality once more stomping quietly high. Thousands of footprints trapped below the stilled earth. Hitherto is your mind, Eden said. Here lay yourself, she said. Find your knife, the sun said. Find your shovel, the moon said. You will know soon, Eden said. Gleefully moving away. The boy confused opened his eye, seeing this beauty over him. The stars, the moon, Eden, Gaia. That day he was gifted a small seed of a sunflower to grow. Gaia bestowed upon him life, now reborn once more. Eden returned, hair waving in wind. She stared knowingly. A kiss to one seed brought growth, growing high into the sky. It grew unto forever, unbound, unending, unmending. From whenceforth the boy climb unto the infinity himself. Its roots nay touch the ground yet it lay above the air. How long, the boy said. Must this be forever? Appearing to him was a vision, Eden once more. Continue, said Eden. Quit now, the beast said. The stem reached forever, nevermore. The endless arrival come at last. Upon the golden petal, the boy thought, There must be paradise. Beyond the heart lay another canyon, boundless in immensity. Forever the climb must take, though eternity lasts too short. Passing onto the golden surface lay what none could believe. Marvelous, Eden said. The brilliance of God. The boy looked on to the horizon basking in its unbelieving glow. The boy looked down to see his hair at his waist. What more, he thought. What end? You know now, the sun said. You understand somewhat, the moon said. The boy had noticed the sun, now in front of his eyes. Each step revealed once more a layer onto a layer unto infinity. A perfect spiral, the boy thought. A paradise, Eden said. Each perfect edge had honed him more than more. I must go home, the boy said. This is it, Eden spoke. My family awaits me, the boy said. Never they do now, Eden spoke. The boy noticed the forms upon his chest now soon understanding. How many, the boy said. Millions, Gaia spoke. The beast roared, clambering a baleful tune. Is that the sun? It’s so pretty from up here. After such long travel, The boy lay down to rest. Gaia spoke, dancing with Eden. Come outside, the stars said. Beware, the beast said. Cover your ears, said the moon. The disk began flowering, its seeds flowing outward like spikes. The boy was far too tired to climb back down. This is me, the boy said. I remain happy. Thus the spikes impaled the boy, combing through him like water. Maybe you’re going up, the beast said. Why did you allow this, the sun said. That was the day our babel shook. And the thunder screamed “higher”. Come outside, the stars said. Come view yourself. The boy gazed on the small sunflower, its heliotropism to his amazement. How many, the boy said. Millions, Eden spoke. Gaia rubbed her hands across Eden, harmony, Gaia spoke. My world, asked the boy. It lives, spoke the two. An icy chill reign his mind. Do they, the boy asked. We see to it, the two spoke. The rain breathes life. The boy looked on, frightened. Why now, the boy said. Time, the two replied. Destiny, the moon said. The boy’s hair was gray. His beard long. He gazed into the flower, seeing two dancing upon a bed. He blinked for a moment, his eyes burning from the sun. He watched the three now play upon a grassy hill with a child. The boy began crying. Smiling whilst doing so. He blinked again, looking down reopening his eyes. He watched the flower wither. And the sun fade out. When he looked up, a small form gazed back upon him. “From whence thou come, return the sword to the stone.” “O’ father dearest of dear, what if the shura return?” “My boy, I am shura. You bear witness to what it becomes.” The two watched on happily. They smiled with glee. Eden moaned once more, Gaia near. A new flower had sprouted. Its roots nay touch the ground, yet it lay above the air. How long, the boy said. Can this be forever? 27 - Most likely inspired by “Lightning Crashes” by the band “Live”. There is a line suspiciously similar. Quite frankly, I know not whether this is meant to represent characters in the review, though being with the date stamped alongside that journal entry, I’m willing to bet this meant something to him. I’ll throw my two cents into the proverbial pond for this, even though he was the one reviewing something. Eden is the manifestation of life in this scenario, or rather, the purpose of life. The boy and in turn the old man show the effect of chasing a dream to the point you become Icarus. Try too little and die with nothing; try too hard and die with nothing. The beast, though not given form, was made to represent the cynical mind, hence the line “Quit now.” As for Gaia, the sun and moon, I have no idea. Perhaps it was something spiritual to him. An interesting detail is when he suggests the boy have “forms upon his chest”. I can only assume what he meant was breasts, which gives the idea (due to the following line) that the boy had reincarnated over and over until finally making it. Perhaps he meant something else; armor, hair, though those don’t fit the term “forms” very well. Either way, I believe the message he was going for was that he was desperate now, clinging to this review like it’d save him. A “shura” is another term that the Japanese will use to describe someone who has “been consumed by war”. In this case, I think it fitting to say that Alastair was fighting a mental war within himself whether to abandon this and continue on with life or stick it through to the end. That and that people will search for lifetimes for something to give themselves meaning in this world, yet always fail to understand the true meaning of life is to live however one sees fit. You only get one chance, remember that. This all presumes he wrote it, though I base that on finding nothing in any records. If you make your own review of this review, I’d love to hear your interpretation. “01/06/2006 I remember walking around outside, talking to my grandma on a slightly warm august day. That same month my neighbor Randy fighting off a raccoon that had taken up residence on top of his awning. Time flies so fast sometimes. 01 was a hell of a year. The two prior were much fun, as much as anything could be. Showing my uncle and her some games, playing some with my cousin. For all the weird motions of life, that time was one I certainly miss. Though, do I really miss it? If I close my eyes and think, are my memories tinted rose, a ghost of times past looking back at me through memory’s sight? It shudders me sometimes. I regret some things, I do, though I wouldn’t change anything. Words I spoke, some unfortunate. Thoughts I broke. It makes you wonder if anything is worth it, that feeling, that sinking. That destruction to all parts of anything that can and will be, that malignancy. I remember watching Hellsing around then, fawning over it with my uncle. The time flies beyond any length of what one can coordinate as day/night. The worst part is I feel I’ve forgotten so much. My ear, my gears, my… The bond I had with G. All so far gone, its like we’re different people, even though I try to be the same some times, it just doesn’t happen. Have you ever looked into a mirror and seen the past glare back and realize the body you walk in is the same one you’ve been in since time started for you? It’s a sinking feeling, a little. Seeing the wear of time corrode you, your face slimmer, gaunter, eyes sunken ever so slightly more. It terrifies me. I look outside and at the date and yet I can’t help but feel I’ve been left in the past, the world turning on without me; a worthless small burred cog in a well oiled machine. All my friends have new words and new looks, friends. “This machine is obsolete”.28 I suppose there’s solace in that. ~With care and kindness, Alastair.” 28 - “Somewhat Damaged” ~ Nine Inch Nails Episode number five begins as sinister as ever, the hauntings of Soot still reigning over David’s life as though a Nazgûl in J.R.R Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings”. David awakes and bothers not to look around for a few minutes before finally sitting up. I should mention early, this episode is eighteen hours long, making it unequivocally the longest in the series by far. Somehow, however, this episode feels verily as short as the others despite its immensity ala Herman Melville’s Moby Dick or The King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers or At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft. It brings forth a primal emotion when watching it for the first time, one of fear and slight excitement (due to its length) whenever something begins happening during David’s day, though this day is hardly stagnant. He closes his eyes, them burning from the stinging sun reaching in from the outside world. Stinging and burning and stinging and burning and stinging and burning and stinging and burning and stinging and stinging and burning and stinging and finally, we see David awake and sit up. It must be a weekend, otherwise he’d have flown out of bed already, notably shown in the first episode where he instantly hops to his day to day when the working cogs call for his arrival. Now however, through lack of enthusiasm for his common life outside of working or possibly the lack of direction or possibly the fear of what could be lurking or the pain of waking or the pain of moving or the pain of living or the pain of suffering of something out his control, he relents over five minutes to wake up here. Upon opening his burning eyes, he becomes frightened to see Soot standing in the corner of his room by the desk, possibly implanting another message for him to find and shatter his world once more. The speculation I bring to the topic of David being burnt out has not to do with the creature of Soot being a dark shadow but more so the idea that when all you do is work, you can become dull and lifeless, or depressed: “Even the stars refuse to shine.”29 “You’ve been in the pipeline filling out time.”30 “Was I out of my head? Was I out of my mind?”31 “What about my bank account and my holy desert shield?”32 “Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality.”33 “So lift your face the western way, build your muscle as your body decays.”34 “When she’d left I’d only begun this lullaby.”35 “There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it's all dark.”36 29 - Taken from Howie Day’s “Collide” 30 - Pink Floyd’s “Welcome to the Machine” 31 - Fastball’s “Out Of My Head” 32 - Live’s “Mirror Song” 33 - Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” 34 - Queen’s “Hammer To Fall” 35 - Queens of the Stone Age’s “This Lullaby” notably sung by Screaming Trees frontman Mark Lanegan rather than normal Queens frontman Joshua Homme. 36 - Pink Floyd’s “Eclipse” notably spoken-word, not the song. David looks around for but a few seconds until his fright consumes him once more as he turns his head to forget about Soot only to find on the other side, that same floating Eye from episode four. He clambers to an upright position in bed, slowly taking stock of these two beings surrounding him. They both stare but act not, becoming more of silent assailants than a malevolent and malignant force. The both of them suddenly begin vanishing ever so slightly as he turns to stand up, prompting him to quickly rush to another room. Once inside, he turns the light on, looks in the mirror and recklessly splashes his face with water. In the very back far right corner of the room behind him, we see that same picture hanging from the wall mounted shelf, acting as a subtext for the main composition. He stares into the mirror for a good few moments before turning around, walking back into the main room looking towards the windows, looking outside before realizing nothing has happened. A quick pinch to the arm and not waking proves this is no fantasy and he really has seen something lurking in the corners of his house, stalking him as though a panther. No words are spoken for a good long while until we catch some chatter from the computer he has near him. The text does not label what is said, rather it shows to be a verse from the Bible. “Corinthians 10:8”37 “Corinthians 10:9”38 Corinthians 10:1039 37 - “We should not commit sexual immorality, as some of them did, and in one day twenty-three thousand of them died.” 38 - “We should not test Christ, as some of them did, and were killed by snakes.” 39 - “And do not complain, as some of them did, and were killed by the destroying angel.” Something to note is the fact 10:10 is without quotations surrounding it. Whether that meant he alluded it to the review and or his life is up to you, though I suspect myself it was simply an error. In his journal entries now, several obvious spelling errors have been made, distinction between “its” and “it’s”, among others. In fact, you’ve seen it once already.40 The Man being religious is not shocking, though specifically these verses prove to be rather interesting depending on which Bible you’re reading, each one having a slightly different word choice. As with anyone from his time and even to the modern day, Catholicism and Christianity are of course the two biggest religions you’ll find people following, especially in an area such as Cleveland. Furthermore, I believe these verses have to do with The Man’s idea of living a happy life. Him living by these verses was more than common for his time and surely it stuck with him into adulthood and seniorhood. The Bible is of course ubiquitous with people of his generation, still staying around (however much changed) today. While I won’t speculate on the reality of things in the Bible, I will say that I believe it to be one of the best examples of “How to live a safe life” literature ever made, not just through its stature. 40 - Page 199 Of course, The Man and by extension David being religious is not shocking, though it is a carefully guided decision to have scripture be displayed upon the screen in such a prominent form where nothing else is. Text boxes are only given to things truly needed for the story, so something inside The Man compelled him to put this here. He sits and listens to this sermon for quite a while, twenty-two minutes and thirty seven seconds of it to be exact. He goes through a range of emotions, some happy, some sad, some looking rather anxious as he swivels his head around to see if the vanishing creatures have returned t seal him inside his own Cask of Amontillado. After putting the computer away, he returns to his couch, overlooking the outside world for a while, noticing the people passing by as the world churns without him inside it for a while. This is when he remembers the place where Soot had been standing, going over to investigate it, revealing another message that once more over shocked him to his core. “Libera Te Tutemet Ex Inferis”41 He stops and stares for a while, this time not understanding what the message reads to him for whatever reason. This time the message seems to confound him, somewhat brushing it off while looking back towards the window, this time now seeing in the far distance what looks like a floating orb. The orb begins to look back.41 David almost panics once more before calming himself, blinking and the eye has vanished from sight. 41 - Likely inspired by Freidrich Nietzsche’s “If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.” For another five minutes he stands looking outside the window, pondering what could be out there perhaps, though more likely trying to get some fresh air while his life comes crashing down besides him. He walks towards the bathroom once more, undressing before getting into the shower, preparing as any normal day he would. While this happens, instead of the gratuitous shot, longingly in stature of this entire process, we receive a quick but substantial “Fifteen minutes later” textbox with David now drying off. Every other episode has been in excruciating detail, therefore it makes no sense for all of the sudden The Man starting to care about wasting the viewers time. Perhaps he views the simple parts of life no longer needed to be seen to prove this series can hold its weight on its own as does Atlus of the world. He sits down on his couch, marvelling at the brickwork that are his walls. After standing up and walking to his bookshelves, he pulls out two books carefully, both with bookmarks hanging from their tops, looking them over almost obsessively: “Diary of Nathan Stack” “The truth of us all: a neo-theists view.” After sitting back down with them, his face turns sour realizing they too have the same black ashy substance left in Soot’s wake. He blows a puff of air towards them but nothing happens. He wipes the former with his hands, nothing works. He becomes enraged by this, throwing one across the room. Your presence might be invaluable METEORS CREATED THE SKY OF VIOLET The gentle breeze lulls us to sleep The the the the the the the aroma of baking fills the air aabBCDDFfFGGHhiIMmNP Worm its way through the bones Warm its way through the skin The world buckles sometimes You said to me “I love you” & we drift as a necessity, Ebb and flow. Opilio crawl upon the hull Bairdi prove we’re sinking I only cared once Sayonara, 259 After a short while, the sobbing quits and the rage empties entirely. He sits for a brief moment before taking a breath. He lays the other book down, interlacing his fingers while stretching upwards and outwards. He stands up, walking towards the coffee maker, beginning the process of brewing a new batch. He carefully moves through the motions of such, finally letting the heat overtake the turbulent day. It’s notable that until this episode, David never once makes coffee, nor has any drink of any sort, possibly the stress getting to him. After waiting for the roast to become complete, he takes the pot and pours a mug full, adding sugar and cream to the mixture. He takes the mug and walks back towards the couch, only to notice this time one of the windows has been left ajar. Not only did we not see this action by David, it bears a more frightening implication because these windows have no outside access. Though despite this, it remains ajar and open for the entire world to come in and see, no signs of damage or tampering from outside forces, both metaphorically and literally in this case. He stops and holds his eyes shut for a moment before reopening them to see nothing is within the walls he sits. The Man made sure to illustrate this idea well, adding a fade out every time his eyes shut for a prolonged time. A genius and simple little effect but one that works wonders at making sure you’re immersed as you can be despite how the animation looks. I mentioned earlier it almost looks like Dire Straits “Money for Nothing”, though that isn’t exactly true. The colors are not as neon and bright, they’re much more drab and realistic to what you’d expect life to look like. He leaves the window open, thinking not that it matters, evidently as a matter of course; if Soot (or whomever opened it) can just enter whenever, why bother to work against it? He drinks the cup carefully, enjoying and savoring its savory and bitter taste. Afterwards, he walks back to the sink, washing the cup thoroughly, getting any possible stain or remaining hint of sugar out. Living casualties. I’m not sure about this. I’ve not been here My day dream screams. Until the bitter end. Cruel and hopeless this world comes to us as. A bounty of thorns upon the soul for so many years makes each of us fall to pieces, small, small pieces. Though my heart, most sacred of hearts aches, I watch you kill yourself through repetition. And I remain powerless ever so. So long I’ve been numb and you still leave the fallen tree on the vein. Do you hate us both? I don’t think so. I think you hate yourself with the part of me that isn’t myself. The part that sings backwards. So many years I keep trying to say this and still I don’t know why. Crashing waves block the tides that contain freshwater, you fill with disease and marsh. A decayed March you take, April and May. All this time. And you won’t even hear this, will you? I still want to help. I love you. We see David put his shoes on, alongside a light coat before opening his door and walking into the bright light of outside. He carries himself well and - despite his circumstance - shows no outward signs of stress or fatigue. He walks down the street for a little while, passing tens of people going the same and opposite way. He turns a corner and continues walking. The street names are visible but badly distorted by image quality, therefore rendering them illegible, though I’m willing to bet they - like chapter one - are in Cleveland. As he goes through a crosswalk, he stops and seems to shudder for a moment before looking upward and to the left, the camera focusing in on a very distant eye shaped cloud that seems to be looking straight at him, as though God with his piercing gaze. David continues walking, now seeming to shiver every once in a while, a text box appearing. “It’s chilly out.” Two more street turns and he finally arrives at his destination: the store. He walks inside, turning ever so slightly to greet the cashier at the first stall. After walking through the isles for a while, grabbing the few groceries he needs, he exits with a little over forty-seven dollars spent. As he walks home, we see him stop again, clutching his chest while looking straight down the barrel of the camera. It pans around to show Soot standing across the road, going in the direction of his house. He moves at a quicker pace, almost getting hit once, narrowly avoiding it through quick wit. Reaching his house proves to be a challenge. Did the road get longer? Of course that is an impossibility, though I’ve mapped out these streets myself out of curiosity and - yes - they have changed. Most likely for dramatic effect, sure, though I should note it could also be a metaphor for how when you feel certain ways, normal life becomes odd and distorted. Think of a David Lynch film: weirdly backwards and still yet just enough of cohesion to make a completely sensible life. Once entering his house, noticing the windows are open, he sets the groceries down near the front door, walking carefully through the house to check for any unwanted intruders of the blackened shade kind. We see him inspect the walls, floors, bed (though not as much as the first time this happened), desk, etc. Finally he decides the house is clear of this assailant, before remembering there is one last place he has not checked. He cautiously makes his way to the bathroom, edging slowly against the wall so as to not alert whatever could theoretically be waiting in there for him. Along this journey he grabs a flashlight, making sure its batteries work, hitting it a few times when they begin to p e t e r o ut. Upon opening the door carefully, slowly and with the all the grace of a remora, he [ .. FLS ]]] The light inside, only to reveal the stark ghost and absence of anything. The room inside now lay bare and without texture, definition and substance. The walls are gray, the shower no longer exists, only the outline of where it once was. As he steps inside, seemingly seeing nothing wrong, it all returns to form. He looks around and in the mirror, noting only himself inside. He tries to calm down by exiting to the main room, sitting down on his couch and opening a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, pouring a shot and downing it instantaneously without a second thought. And another. And another. And another. And another. Through his hazy thoughts he meanders around, though not drunken. He seems more alert than ever now, for what reason I’m not sure. Nothing appears to be happening in the moment nor in the next moments from here. Perhaps it’s the sinking dread setting in that tomorrow he will have to return to his almost mech-like state while doing his job. He turns to his phone and picks up before immediately slamming it back down, perhaps fighting himself from making a decision he will regret. The picture has disappeared now, completely vanished. Maybe he moved it during the few seconds of the footage that blacks out. The visage of (whom I assume to be) Susie might bring out feelings he doesn’t want to relive, for one reason or another. He turns on the television, seeing what looks like a nature documentary on a channel name that is a spoof of National Geographic. He sits and stares before a camera … f / s … Folly sits and watches the P ale hou se hold off its assault. It watches longingly perhaps, though assuredly comforted or at least happy that Hoppy has staved off its advance for the time. It blinks once, the camera zooming in towards its face. Once more it blinks three times, finally closing them as if to sleep. We zoom out and watch Hoppy continue banging cymbals until the morning light returns, going from a red dawn to an orange morning to that same wind-laden blue. Hoppy still Claps the cymbals through the night and into the day, finally stopping in the next shot. The camera cuts to a shot of Hoppy sitting next to the photograph. We pan to Folly, opening its eyes quickly, as if shocked. We zoom out as Folly grabs Hoppy Hoppy is put back inside for safe-keeping. The camera cuts to another sh ot where we seeeeeeeee=e==e===e=e==e=e==e==e======e====e…=... The P A l l e ho .... . .u. .se. Ensnaring the photo within its grasp. The camera cuts back to Folly, who looks rather sad about this. It turns its head, blinking once. t h e camera cuts as we observe th e pale house grasp it fully. The camera goes to a wide shot. Folly extends a hand. Extends its hand, just as the photo i s d r a g g e d away. Folly quickly springs up from its sitting position, using its hand to propel it forward off the ground. Not wasting a single second. The music returns. The wind grows louder. even with all that effort, it was still too late. The Pa l e h o u s e b r i n g s t h e p h o t o i n s i d e. The camera cuts once more to a w i d e angle, Folly looking depressedly into the window, having its photo stolen. It ponders for a moment before the camera begins moving closer to the window as a heartbeat starts once more. Awakening David from his nap was the sound of a knock at the door. Quickly regaining his wits, he stands and waits for the right moment in between the knocking to open the door. Before this: The fact the wind grows louder in the moments where the heartbeat accompanies affirms my theorem that I was more than on the right path. The wind represents the changing tide of life, the world stealing from you. The pa le house represents the moments that happens. Something slips your mind for a little bit and you never will remember it. The heartbeat is realizing there’s something missing, not knowing what it could be. Folly. Folly. Folly. Folly. Folly. Folly. Folly. Folly. Folly. When that moment strikes, he turns the knob to see a business man asking him why he hadn’t come into work that day. David immediately looked shocked, as did the businessman seeing his appearance tired and cold. The two stared at each other for a moment before David sheepishly asked: “Isn’t it Sunday?” The businessman’s face grew sour and unhappy. He stomped his right leg ever so slightly, saying back “It’s Tuesday, Davey.” though his accent made it sound like “Duesday” at least according to the captions. David looked shocked and terrified all the same. Where had the time gone? Think about life for a moment. Everyone was sitting around the TV, watching intently as a hero fought a skeleton overlord. Until snap. Like that, your childhood fleeting, your life becoming mundane and catatonic. Your eyes worsen, your teeth break. Your hair falls out, your lights shake. All your favorite musicians die, yjr42 actors soon follow. All the TV shows you used to know discontinued, your friends leave. You wake up to the sweat and profane hours of working, thinking so little about anything that you move half asleep. Will money pay for those lost times?43 Will you ever recover subconsciously? What will become of your children? What will become of your grandchildren? You take antibiotics and statins. You hear a crash, uh oh, someone has fallen. You have a stroke. You have cancer. You die. Goodnight. 42 - I assume this is supposed to be either “the” or “your”. If you shift one key over on a keyboard it becomes the former. 43 - Probably a reference to the song “Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand” by the Primitive Radio Gods. Where the river flows of life is hardly contended by the people living inside. Should it spill and kill or lower and fill. David looks down, knowing what this means for him. David begins getting his attire for work on, nearly forgetting to brush his teeth, seemingly it is around twelve-pm. This begs the question, surely David didn’t sleep for two days straight, though we also know it can’t be the same day because of the sun's position in the sky. This leads me to believe A1 is a metaphor for burnout. When all you do is work, pride yourself on it, become a slave to the money before eventually losing it all in some dramatic fashion that no one would believe if you told them, you become insane. Perhaps tired, depressed, bored. David shows signs of burnout as early as the first movie. He cracks nary a smile the entire length. Perhaps he’s just boring, perhaps he just doesn’t mesh with anyone he knows. Perhaps he feels stuck inside himself because of that, though I suggest the reason for his unsmiling self is because all he does is kill time all day. It makes you wonder how much one mind can take of monotony until it consumes itself. As he leaves, he closes his eyes while walking down the street. All watching a future, what shall there lay?44 We see him next inside his jobsite, slogging away once more. The rest of the video is twelve hours of him doing nothing but typing, notably at one point staring at the seven same page for minutes.45 Pattern recognition, he turns left and sees Soot but no longer has time to care. 44 - Taken from Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan’s song “Black Mountain”. 45 - XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX He continues typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and 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allinallisallweare allinallisallweare and despite all of which we are, we never can admit who we are. He watches the clock, finally it chiming after so long it could be counted in astrological years, the chime sounds, he sits motionless for a while before making a quick exit before that businessman could find him again. As the front door opens on this building, the video ends. Something to note is how despite seeing Soot, he cares not at this time, showing that somewhere it’s a conscious fear that drives him to such lengths. Something he has to think about and comprehend for it to actually be worthwhile to him. It reminds me of insects, the white moth of summer, the black fly of spring. Is there intent? Do they think for themselves in the same way us people do? Is there intent in the movement they make, besides that of survival? How terrifying it is to think there is. Imagine from this perspective, these loud giants traipse around, hardly caring if you’re there until you’re too close in which case a massive hand comes flying towards your head, striking you and with one fell swoop ending your life, all because you wanted a friend; corporate. Sickening this is. Revolting, distasteful, disgraceful, ugly, filth. A diamante of disease. Still yet we all tread the weary wind of time. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX David has been late before, we’ve learned through that interaction. He doesn’t seem as much a boozer as a one-shot kind of guy, therefore I assume the burnout causes every day to blend into one, solidifying into a unique blend of melancholy and hopefulness. Hope can not live forever, though. There exists two connecting emotions and feelings that cancel each other out more than any other. Hope//Will. Hope dies in the excess of will. One can hope and hope and hope for better days for them to never come, at which point they are ground down into living under the will of the spirit, the desire to live some kind of life; not the boring and drab hateful one they do now. During times such as, hope no longer exists. Once the will comes over the senses like wool to the cow's eyes before the stinging blade, will exists by itself with only itself. Hope requires you to have enough in your stride to take a step whereas will holds yourself steady in the tides of time while the patina and rust build upon your outside and the inner plastic bones melt under the heat of the forge. They simply can not live with each other. If you now think: “then how do people continue when depressed, how do they make their own path?” well, I have an answer though it's uncomfortably numb. Once realizing your own mortality, whether that be through attempted death or someone dying around you, there’s a nerve that snaps and gives way, the same as black to blue to orange to yellow to skin. It leaves you in a battered, hollow shell that barely contains you anymore, or rather, the you that you used to know. It sets you adrift as the water pools to the window sills, the pressure gouging your eyes. A vital five minutes can save a life or make one end in the blink of an eye. Perhaps one too many drinks, perhaps one too many pills. Perhaps a misjudged angle, perhaps rope. EP#5 (CORNERWATCHER) Perhaps a small rock that you trip over, stumbling into more until you’ve been caught in a landslide. A very final, sad landslide. IX Now the wind has lost my sail; now the scent has lost my trail. Who will find me? Take care and side with me? Guide me safely back to my home, where I belong? ~Freddie Mercury, Montserrat Caballé XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX46 When? ⠠⠎⠕⠕⠝ dppm oy ,idy nr. ury mrbrt dppm rmpihj/ 46 - Badly scratched out with ink, almost as if spilled onto the page, trying as thoroughly as possible to cut out whatever he had written there. The quote is rather beautiful, though. Great album that is, ironically enough Billie had just learned of it through me, probably me once more subconsciously thinking of this thing. The fact he calls the Pale House a “thing” gives us a look into his mind a fair bit, I’d say. He likely saw himself inside that animation, based on journals. More specifically, he saw his own life being swept away by this review. He wrote extensively about what the Pale House meant, though it rarely goes more than one sentence before becoming cyclical, as if he were eating his own tail so to speak. It's as though he was transfixed on that house. Notice also how once mentioned, the text begins to stretch and bend into something unfamiliar, almost painting-like. The reason I mentioned spilled ink is not my earlier failure, instead this time it was Steve barging into my house around six o’clock yesterday to see if I were alive. I didn’t realize it; time has slipped a long ways. It's August now. Summer has come and gone, yet I still work on this. It drives me mad thinking about it. Either way, Steve had frightened me, something I’d not had happened before, being so jittery. I was writing a part of No Devil and, once coming to from my state, realized I'd knocked things over and was twitching a fair bit. He’d asked how I’ve been and what was wrong, to which I looked at the clock, noticing it had been eight hours. That and I looked left towards my door. Pattern recognition is one hell of a drug, I can tell you that. In my fright I spilled ink over the page, Gale soon to come in as well. They both look frightened for some reason which I later found out was the scars lining my arms of abrasions from where I’d slammed the desk in anger. I’m not like this normally. I can’t explain it, but I’ve been going into these long states of staring into nothingness while writing. Not the good kind of “flow” people get into either; the kind people lose themselves to after a long while unchecked. They asked if I needed to go to the hospital, quickly telling them I’ve just been working hard; they both recommended a long break with a vacation. They don’t know what I’m really doing here. This was his last chance to be someone and I wish to assist with that even in death. He was poor, broken mentally and physically incapable of doing much else. The stars just happen to align that day that someone like me, some fool with something to prove, some degenerate who’d steal openly from the dead, arrived and deemed this worthy. They asked me again should I need help, quickly telling them no, raising my voice which I hadn’t done in years, since before Jerry, before Billie and before that nameless bastard I’ll never give the honor of being in my work. They told me about how unkempt I was, my hair destroyed my mind in exile the scars on my arms blaring a blistering searing pain when finally noticed by me and the lack of sustenance entering my body therefore making my appearance gaunt and starved despite still being normal and the enamel breaking away on my skin which now looks a pale grey and the oddity of my usual look being now downtrodden and wearing simply one sweater instead of my usual put together and I broke down crying. I said to Billie once they left to give me a few minutes. The tears couldn’t stop flowing, running and running and running until there was nothing left to feel but a hole a mile wide inside. There was no deity to save my head and no love that could cure myself from me. I wept for what seemed hours until finally Billie came over to the door, opening it gently to which I didn’t even try to protest. She calmly explained they were right and - I’ll never forgive it - I screamed at a volume at which I haven’t gone before nor since. She took it so well, still opting to sit and comfort me, even if it really meant nothing. She had me explain why I was so invested, finally saying that she’d give me space and to call her once I’d finished this. I’d burned another bridge. Another lost. Who knows, maybe it was good. For her. I hope she50 50 - Was never finished, did not give a reply once asked. ~Editor “3/10/2007 I keep trying to write this quicker. I do. It just doesn’t want to be finished. I think I’ve gone loony, buying a ouija board myself to try and talk to The Man. I mean, how insane? How crazy will I be by the end of this? Why can’t I feel? I'm just so tired of things hurting. So fucking tired. I try to drown myself in the squall of temperamental happiness but it never lasts. The worst part isn't even the pain, no. The worst part is knowing it only gets worse. The further down the river I go the more water floods my lungs, invading every possible inch of my organs before pervading behind my eyes and drowning my brain. Did you know over 40% of deaths in the United States are from liver failure? Know what causes liver failure? Overdoses of Acetaminophen. Pain medication. Even that isn't the worst part. The worst part is knowing I'll never experience the things I wish I could, knowing I won't only die as someone I'm not; I'll not have lived as who I was. I'm not and have never been wired for this. My hip is fucking killing me. And everything else. I wish for one day I could just walk. I wish one day I could come to life like those animatronics at my birthday parties as a kid. I wish o' how I wish. "XoXXiXXxXXXxXXXXX". Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing but pain, sweet, tender, beautiful red splayed gore displayed under a thousand stars so a vengeful god can laugh at my suffering. Though, I know God isn't doing this to me. Happenstance brings most unfortune to those able to withstand it. Who knows, perhaps this has taught me humility. I've always been more kind than others. Maybe it's a good thing in the end. Maybe I need this. What would I do without it? Would I really travel the world and the seven seas? Would I be some twat left behind in the nosebleeds? It scares me. Above everything. Who or more so what would I be without this? I think in some ways I'd be happier. I'd be able to fly, to play, to enjoy, to- I think I'd be able to cry. Just thinking of that moment is glorious. Sad, sweet and salty tears streaming down my velvet face. People be damned and all things closed away for a few minutes. Falling like rain upon the Amazon or the water falling from Niagara, bouncing and cleansing the beautiful stones and carving a place in the heart. True love waits. 'One day I'll grow wings, a chemical reaction'. Such a specific line. I wonder how many others even understand what I'm saying here. If you do, I'm sorry for you. On your behalf of your own mind, for those like us, we will never get away. That hunger burns through the skull all day and night, removing all other emotions except pure want. 'I miss the comfort in being sad'. It's funnily true sometimes. When you're depressed you only think about nothing and everything negative, everything mung. The only thing you learn to feel is the hollowness that quiets a million halls, the quiet that stills the trees and haunts the leaves. The quiet your parents tell you to shut out and just laugh louder than. The static follows, calling your name like a hangman waiting to lynch you for your crimes. It becomes louder and louder until - pop - the head rolls away. The static is what your everything warns you about and yet you still can't see it coming. You can hear its unstable and unmutable siren blaring directly in your ears, in your arms, hands, heart, soul. Everywhere. Everything becomes anointed by the sinking feeling of never feeling enough. Never becoming what you know you are somewhere deep down. The static is what you can't laugh over and yet, somehow in some ways I miss it. Hell, my life has only gotten better, though I romanticize those days more than any other. Who knows why. Who knows. God I wish I could come alive. Live in harmony with me. No pain. No pain. No pain. No pain and just nothing. No aches and scratches and growths and disease. I wish you well. This was a waste of time. ~With care and kindness, Alastair.” “I won't only die as someone I'm not; I'll not have lived as who I was.” What a poignant line for artists such as us two. Really think about it for a minute. How many people truly get to do what they live for? Negligible amounts. This entire bit is a standout from the journals, one of the two times he ever complained about himself. Returning to the “Corinthians 10:10” theme that was mentioned earlier. The interesting part is that despite the rampant pain Alastair was in, he continued to write as though nothing had happened, until the end at least. My sweet Sea My beloved Live How the waves crash and pull my heartstrings until I’ve drift so far I see not anymore, only the dream and vague reflection of something, something haunting the shore. “Smile” said the beast. Laughing as I drowned. All the daydreams forcefeed unwanted nostalgia all these waves blow away far far, away. And though I may not know why, I can’t help but feel it remains natural. My darling once past, I was more once. I was something. It all shifts together. Episode. Episode episode episode movie video episode film movie ep starts with David .- -. -.. / .-- .... . -. / - .... . / ... ..- -. / -.. .. . ... --..-- / .. .----. .-.. .-.. / ... - .- -. -.. / .... . .-. . / .. -. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / .- .-. -- ... -.-.-. / .--. . .- -.-. . ..-. ..- .-.. / .- -. -.. / -... .-.. .. ... ... .-.-.- / .-- .... . -. / - .... . / ... - .- .-. ... / -.. .. . --..-- / .. .----. .-.. .-.. / .... --- .-.. -.. / --- -. / - --- / -.-- --- ..- .-. / .- .-. -- ... / - --- / -. . ...- . .-. / .-.. . .- ...- . .-.-.- / .-- .... . -. / -.-- --- ..- / -.. .. . --..-- / .. .----. .-.. .-.. / ..-. .. -. -.. / -- -.-- ... . .-.. ..-. / .. -. / -- -.-- / --- .-- -. / - .. -- . .-.-.- / .-- .... . .-. . / .. .----. -- / ... ..- .--. .--. --- ... . -.. / - --- / -... . .-.-.- / -. --- - / - .... .. ... --..-- / - .... .. ... / -.. .. ... . .- ... . / .-. .. -.. -.. . -. / ..-. --- .-. -- / - .... .- - / -.-. .- -. / -... .- .-. . .-.. -.-- / ... - .- -. -.. .-.-.- / .. / .... .- - . / - .... . / -.-- --- ..- / --- ..-. / -.-- --- ..- / .- -. -.. / - .... . / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / --. .. ...- . / - --- / - .... . / -- . / --- ..-. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- 00101110 00101110 00101110 00100000 01001001 00100111 01101100 01101100 00100000 01100001 01101100 01110111 01100001 01111001 01110011 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00101110 Body precedes logic Anima. What a pity being wrong is. Δλvιδ slowly comes to from his drunken stupor, sloshing around just as much as his drink. His head is pounding (clearly, note the hands being placed upon the temples) and he can barely see straight. He lifts his head up off the couch’s arm, looking around himself. We see a textbox of knocking at the door before a quick … F-s … occurs and we get a view of the in between of this day and the last week of his life. We see him doing daily chores once more, and for quite a while, this episode being six hours long. I’ve rewatched this series over eight times. How long is that, you think? Too long is my answer. He marches through his jobsite, typing away until a peculiar something occurs in the footage. Not only do we see Soot standing in the background, we notice David checking over his shoulder repeatedly. Of course this isn’t standard behavior for him, or anyone really. This repeats in a daily cycle for a week with each day passing showing off his delusions more and more. The last three days are of interest, him seeming to live out of his car, though not fully yet. He meanders around, eventually stumbling back into his car. (3rd) He stands motionless watching the waves, almost vegetative. His eyes do not move, only the camera. Geese fly by, pigeons and crows. An albatross, a greater sage grouse, a pelican, a turkey vulture, a bald eagle, a small tit, a mouse scurries; still he stands motionless. He smirks looking outward at the lake, a great big smirk of pure happiness. Perhaps he sees something out there. Perhaps he understands something we don’t, or maybe he is fading out. We watch as he gets back in his car, slowly driving away after the sun went down that night, rolling through town with the windows down. For the first time in the series, we receive a text box from a speaker. It reads a loudly spoken and passionately delivered “Someone told me long ago there’s a calm before the storm” The inclusion of this sentence undeniably from Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Have You Ever Seen The Rain?” proves twofold: reflecting the fact David is no young man and more so his life was shown as calm, however monotonous. Afterwards, David turns the channel, swiftly receiving: “O’ father of the four winds fill my sails across the sea of years.” Once more a poignant line of living, delivered by Robert Plant on Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir”. It seems no matter what he does or listens to, he cannot escape mortality. David surely doesn’t look forty (though with the quality, I suppose it is rather hard to tell.) and he certainly isn't above it. “All I see turns to brown as the sun burns the ground, and my eyes fill with sand as I scan thi-” Cut off. - He drives around for a while in the darkened streets, lights faintly echoing from their posts onto his car, shining into the lens of our camera. Once more I must state how incredible this animation quality is, surely “All last night, sat on the levee and moaned.” Em Am G D Em Am G D C Em Am G D Em Am G D C G Em Am C D G Em Am C D D4 D Em Am G D Em Am G D C Em Am G D Em Am G D C G Em Am C D G Em Am C D D4 D C D x2 C C G Em Am C D G Em Am C D D4 D G Em Am C D G Em Am C D G Em Am C D G Em Am C D G Em Am C D G Em Am C D G Em Am C D G Em Am C D mE^ (Let ring) I never really feel quite right and I don’t know why, all I know is something’s wrong. Every time I look at you, you seem so alive. Tell me, how do you do it? Walk me through it. Please? Alls I gots’ is time, got no meanin’ just a rhyme. Finally, once decided driving was becoming boring, he drives back to his place of living, sighing before stepping out of his car. Opening the door proves to be a challenge for him it seems, several times it swings back as if to say “stay away”. He heeds no warning however, opening and exiting the car, opening and entering. Inside he sees nothing abnormal, immediately going to the bed, rolling the covers up and laying down, no drinking, smoking. A calm, happy worker. A pig in a cage on antibiotics.47 After waking from his slumber the next morning, he instantly becomes startled, by what we’re unknowing to. His face lights up a bright red, he begins profusely sweating and nervously shaking. He smiles and begins laughing almost maniacially. Suddenly he springs from the bed, runs toward the desk and hews it in half, splintering the wood into hundreds of tiny pieces, several of which lodge inside his hand. His head shifts, following something. He runs toward the shelf and yanks the picture off, shattering the glass and ripping the photo. The photo now only displays himself. He throws the remaining frame at the wall, exploding a wide hole not previously seen. He smashes a window, running out to his car. He reaches the car, gets inside and realizes he has forgotten the key. He walks back inside, grabbing the bowl the keys should be in and chucking it towards the wall. It hits his nightstand lamp. He falls to the floor. He crawls, leaving a bloody trail where the splinters and glass have burst inside his hand, towards the lamp. Once reaching it, he tries desperately to scrounge the pieces together before it cuts to black. The next day is shown, where the house remains in this sorry state, himself laying in bed shivering while feverishly looking around. He looks toward the trashcan, seeing something he doesn’t like. Upon tying the bag, he walks outside calmly and with his normal gait. He carries the bag that doesn’t exist toward the trashcan, dumping the invisible object inside. He walks back inside and downs the rest of the Jack Daniel’s bottle, the latter ⅔. Day three///. 47 - Radiohead’s “Fitter Happier” Day three shows him sitting upright in bed, jumpy and frightened when he gets a knock at the door. He pulls the covers over his head and shouts. A familiar voice comes from outside, that same businessman announcing that it - once again - “duesday”. David belts a healthy “shut up” towards the door, rolling over in bed, accidentally punching himself when tossing the covers around. He smirks once more, now understanding (from his view) that whatever at that door is, it’s tricking him. He walks and opens the door confidently, only to recognize the businessman is really there. Revolted, he walks away. David shakes his head. The final straw was when he turned around and saw both the Eye and Soot. The two figures belittle his very obviously ailing mind, making him run out of the house. He begins packing things into the car, notably walking by Soot and the Eye several times without any real reactions. Once inside the car, he drives off quickly, definitely above the speed limit. There are several sporadic cuts during this segment, each showing varying levels of sadness on our behalf seeing David like this. One shot shows him sitting at a park, laying in the backseat, hiding from the sun. One shot shows him putting mylar around the windows so as to not let anyone see him. One shot shows him inside with several bags of various fast-food places. One shot shows him laying on his face, sobbing, notably the only time we get an outside view of the car. Another shot and he stares blankly at the ceiling before pulling a picture out of his wallet. The same woman in the picture at his house. He looks for a moment, staring longingly with the face of regret and depression, beginning to tear up before putting the picture on his heart. “Hiraeth” He cries for an uninterrupted five minutes before finally looking into the picture and ripping himself out of the photo. He proceeds to throw the remains out the window, eventually getting out with a lighter in hand, notably once more however, this is the first time we see something that has only existed in our land of audio-visual expertise. The picture blows away, carefully, steadily, in the wind. David looks on in horror, maybe sadness, maybe happiness, maybe regretfulness, maybe regression. He stops and stands while the trees blow around him, his shirt rustling in the wind, his hair blowing around, he stands. The sun falls behind him, making the scene dramatic and setting the stage for the future. David solemnly gets back inside his car, a song comes on. One not played by radio-stations, and yet one also not listened to by public. “It’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here, and I’m most obliged to you for making it clear that I’m not here.” Is shown in a textbox, sung by Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd on “Jugband Blues” which coincidentally lines up with the title of this episode “For the Jugband”. He sits for another few minutes before the camera cuts again to a now badly scratched version of himself, holding his knees up to his throat. He rocks back and forth in the darkness of his car, looking outside ever so often by peeling back the mylar, laughing seemingly each time there is nothing visible outside. Eventually though, his luck runs out. As he opens the mylar come dawn, he sees the Eye searching for him, looking around at cars before focusing on his exact location the second David’s eyes meet the floating Eye’s gaze. Soot also appears, walking slowly from the horizon, once more this time remains no wind to be seen. Still, lifeless. As the Eye begins rocketing towards the car, we see him jump towards the front seat, now being able to see his extremely unkempt appearance, lacerations and bruises in full view, he turns the ignition and begins driving, though right as he does, a light comes on from the dashboard, follo [ … — …] [[[fs[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[ ]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]][[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[]]]]]]]]]]]]]]][][][][][][][]][][][][][][][] [][][...]][][][][][][][][][-]][][][][][][][][][...][][][][] [ ] [ [ [ [ [ [ ] [ ] For the first time, we see inside the p a l e h o u s e , showing it to be trashed and scattered with pieces flung everywhere under no discernable reasoning. Folly looks inside as we hear a grandfather clock tick-tick-tick away. Fulfilling its purpose. The camera cuts and we see a ruined bed with a bronze cross on the wall, followed by a shrill It should be here somewhere. Another cut to a wall of notes that are illegible. Followed by another cut to a pile of trash in front of a cabinet. Followed then Where could it be ? The camera cuts back to Folly’s face through the window. It reaches its hand inside and scoots away a chair. The creaking is so loud. It haphazardly bumbles its hand throughout the innards. Until another cut to the outside view, Folly crouching down at the side of the pale thing. It fumbles around for a moment before the camera begins to move toward behind the pale house. It pans and pans, unsure whenever it would stop. We notice the flowers have covered the ground nearly entirely, while a lone t r e e stands bef o r e . i t s l o w l y s u b m e r g e s i n t o t h e s e a o f f l o w e r S . t h e w i n d c h i m e s s t o p , t h e h a s v a n i s h e d. Folly hears this sound and stands up, looking behind the pale thing blinking twice noticing the see-saw has be gu n t o s i n k . As he pulls over for gas, frequently fumbling his actions, people look on in terror of some sort, seeing this deranged freak acting like he’s running from the devil. One person pulls their phone out, which David sees and drives off before she could call the cops. The Eye and Soot are coming ever closer, moving at the same speed no matter how fast David goes. They eventually disappear behind a building temporarily, vanishing just long enough for David to find a parking lot filled with cars that look nearly identical, this time he climbs into the trunk instead of putting mylar against the windows, an uncommon practice as seen by this shot. He sits motionless for over two hours in an uninterrupted shot before finally he falls asleep to the sounds of cars passing. During his dreams we see a phrase pop up, though he were speaking in his sleep, rolling to the side while doing so. “I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.”48 48 - Excerpt from “Sea Fever” by John Masefield, …X… All things must pass. You, me. That poses a question: do Gods bleed? Rather, do they deserve to? An interesting question; the only answer is to say nothing. The king’s pass is flooded. All things must pass. All things must pass. Fallen silent on still waves, I climb up tombs of castles of song and sand. Under these graves of dying stars we sing, though hallow be it may. The cadavers of those they call XXXXXXXX, they scream to me at night. They blanket me with their sweet harmony, they caress my ears with sorrow. They bake me the rye bread I eat, they make the swollen woolen clothes I wear. They tell me stories of great kingdoms, they play Fratres on their mental piano. They tell me of the good times I had, they tell me how special I am. Yet what lay beyond that grand darkness, they too are hollow I fear. 373 Oh how the songbirds sing, singing away their lives. Death may come for no one, so long as they all chime. When one stops singing, Our ears start ringing, and suddenly we’ve all died. Lo and woe how they’ve all gone hollow, singing their gravetender tune. Once they send the raven, you too will meet them soon. Upon high cliffs they run, marking what they own, sooner than the sun drops down you too will lose your bones. And in the end of all our lives we never reached the phone. The soil in your poppy field grows dry. You never really were present, were you? Everything you see is stained a brown hue, as the field withers within yourself. Elation now far away, how willo your nights be fun? Perhaps you’ll find something, someone? Or perhaps you’ll finally become. That thing in the corner, it scares me. That’s the spirit. E|------------------------|------------------------| B|-----1-----1-----1-----1|-----1-----1-----1-----1| G|---2-----2-----2-----2--|---2-----2-----2-----2--| D|-2-----2-----2-----2----|-2-----2-----2-----2----| A|-0----------------------|------------------------| E|------------------------|-3----------------------| 3 2 1 3 4 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I... III.. | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|------------------------| B|-----1-----1-----3-----3|-----3-----1-----0-----0| G|---2-----2-----3-----3--|---1-----2-----2-----1--| D|-3-----3-----3-----3----|-2-----2-----2-----0----| A|-------------5----------|------------------------| E|-1----------------------|-0-----------0----------| 3 2 1 1 2 1 4 2 3 1 1 1 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ II | | | | | | | | E|-------------------0----0|--0-----------------0----0| B|-----------1-----1-----1-|------3-----3-----3-----3-| G|-2---2---2-----2-----2---|----4-----4-----4-----4---| D|-2-2---2-----2-----2-----|--------2-----2-----2-----| A|-0-----------------------|--------------------------| E|-------------------------|--0-----------------------| 3 1 3 2 1 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | | | | | | | | E|-0-----------1----------|-0-----------------3----| B|-----1-----1-----3-----3|-----1-----1-3---0-----0| G|---2-----2-----2-----2--|---0-----0-----0-----0--| D|-2-----2-----0-----3----|-2-----2-----3-----3----| A|-0----------------------|------------------------| E|------------------------|-3-----------3----------| 2 3 1 1 2 4 3 2 1 3 3 3 2 2 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ V........................ | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|--------------------------| B|-1---1-----1-----1-----1|--------------------------| G|---0-----0-----0-----0--|-----5-----5-----5-8---5h8| D|-2-----2-----2-----2----|---5-----5-----5-----5----| A|-3----------------------|-6-----6-----6-----6------| E|------------------------|-8------------------------| 1 2 1 1 4 4 2 4 2 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ IV.....................................I..... | | | | | | | | E|-------------------------|------------------------| B|-4-----------------4----4|-4---------------1-3---1| G|-----6-----6-----6-----6-|-----5-----5---2-----2--| D|---5-----5-----5-----5---|---6-----6---1-----0----| A|-------6-----6-----6-----|-6-----6----------------| E|-6-----------------------|-4-----3-----2----------| 1 2 4 1 3 1 3 1 4 2 1 3 3 1 2 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ III............ III........ | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|------------------------| B|-3-----------4-----1----|-3-----------3----------| G|-----3-----3---0-2---0-2|-----3-----3-----2-----2| D|---5-----5---1-----1----|---5-----5-----4-----4--| A|-5-----5-----3----------|-5-----5-----5-----5----| E|-3----------------------|------------------------| 1 4 1 4 2 2 3 1 4 1 2 3 1 3 1 1 3 4 1 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ III.......................IV....III..IV....II | | | | | | | | E|-------------------3----|s4-----------------2----| B|-----3-----3-----3-----3|-----4-----4-----4-----4| G|---3-----3-----4-----4--|---5-----5-----5-----5--| D|-5-----5-----5-----5----|-5-----5-----5----------| A|------------------------|-------3-----------3----| E|-3=============================------------------| 3 2 1 3 1 3 4 2 1 4 3 1 2 1 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ III.......................IV....III..IV....II... | | | | | | | | E|-3-----------------3----|s4-----------------2----| B|-----3-----3-----3-----3|-----4-----4-----4-----4| G|---4-----4-----4-----4--|---5-----5-----5-----5--| D|-5-----5-----5-----5----|-5-----5-----5----------| A|------------------------|-------3-----------3----| E|-3=============================------------------| III.......... III....... | | | | | | | | E|-3-----------3----------|-3---0-----0-1----------| B|-----3-----3------------|-----------------3-----3| G|---4-----4-----3-6---3-6|---2-----2-----2-----2--| D|-5-----5-----5-----5----|-------5-----0-----3----| A|------------------------|-4----------------------| E|-3-----------0----------|------------------------| 1 1 4 2 1 4 1 2 4 3 3 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ III.................... II......... | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|------------------------| B|-4-----------3----------|------------------------| G|-----3-----3-----4-----4|-------------2-----2----| D|---5-----5-----3-----3--|-7---3-----3-----2-----2| A|-------6-----5-----5----|---5-----5-----5-----4--| E|-3-----------4----------|-5-----5-----5-----5----| 2 3 1 4 1 1 3 4 3 1 1 4 1 1 3 1 1 4 2 3 4 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ VII......... 1/2 V.......... V.... | | | | | | | | E|-------------------5----5|-5-------0-----0---5----5| B|-----------------6-----6-|---5-8-----8-----8---5-8-| G|-----------7---7-----7---|-------------------------| D|-----7---7---7-----7-----|-7-----7-----7-----7-----| A|---8---8-----------------|-0-----------------------| E|10-----------------------|-------------------------| 4 2 1 2 1 1 3 4 2 1 4 25 1 4 3 4 1 1 41 3 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ V...... VII V... | | | | | | | | E|-5-----------------5----|-7---0-----0-----0-7---0| B|-----6-----6-9---------6|------------------------| G|---7-----7-----7-9---7--|---7-----7-----7-----7--| D|-7-----7-----------7----|-6-----6-----6-----6----| A|-5----------------------|------------------------| E|-------------7-----5----|-4-----------------4----| 1 4 2 4 1 3 1 4 2 4 3 2 3 3 1 3 2 1 1 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ decresc p < > V..... IV............. | | | | | | | | E|-8-----------7-----5----|-4----------------------| B|----10----10-0---9-----7|-------5-----6---0-----0| G|---9-----9-----7-----5--|-----4-----4-------7----| D|10----10-----0-----7----|---6-----6-----6-----6--| A|-0-----------------6----|------------------------| E|------------------------|-0----------------------| 1 2 4 2 1 4 1 1 4 1 3 1 2 4 4 3 3 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ < > < > V....................... | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|-------5-----8-----5----| B|-----0-----0-----0-----0|-----5-----5-----5-----5| G|------------------------|-5-5-----5-----5-----5--| D|---6-----6-----6-----6--|------------------------| A|-------7-----8-----5----|------------------------| E|-0----------------------|-0----------------------| 2 3 4 1 1 4 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ < > | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|-------------------1---4| B|-------------1----------|-----------0---3-0---3--| G|-------2-----------2----|-------1-----1----------| D|-----2-----2-----2-----2|---3-0---3--------------| A|-3-3-----3-----3-----3--|-2----------------------| E|-0----------------------|-0----------------------| 4 2 3 4 2 1 4 2 3 4 2 2 4 1 4 1 4 1 3 4 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ cresc V...... | | | | | | | | E|-----------0--s5---8-5--|-----------------------2| B|-------1-----1s--5-----5|---------------1---4-1--| G|---2-----2--------------|-----------2-----2------| D|-----2------------------|---1---4-1---4----------| A|-3----------------------|-0---3------------------| E|-0----------------------|-0----------------------| 4 3 2 1 3 1 1 1 1 4 1 1 1 3 4 1 2 4 1 2 4 1 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ decresc | | | | | | | | E|-------------------4---7|s4---1------------------| B|-------0-----0-6-----6--|---3---0-3---0----------| G|---1-------7-----7------|-----------1-----1------| D|-0---3--s6--------------|---------------3---0-3--| A|------------------------|-----------------------2| E|-0======================|=======================-| 1 3 3 4 3 4 1 3 4 4 3 1 3 1 3 1 3 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|------------------------| B|------------------------|------------------------| G|------------------------|------------------------| D|-0---------0-3---0---0-3|-----2-3-2-----0-3---0-3| A|-----2---------2---0----|---5-------5-2-----0----| E|---4---1-4--------------|-4----------------------| 4 2 1 4 3 2 2 3 4 2 3 1 2 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ decresc | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|------------------------| B|------------------------|------------------------| G|------------------------|-----------------2-----2| D|-----2-3-2-----0-3---0-3|-----2-3-2--------------| A|---5-------5-1-----0----|---5-------5-0h3---0h3--| E|-4----------------------|-4-----------1----------| 1 3 2 1 3 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ decresc pp pp | | | | | | | | E|------------------------|-------------------0----0| B|------------------------|-----------1-----1-----1-| G|-----2-----2-----1-----1|-2---2---2-----2-----2---| D|-0h3-----3-----2-----2--|---2---2-----2-----2-----| A|-2-----2-----2-----2----|-0-----------------------| E|-------------0----------|-------------------------| 2 4 3 2 3 1 3 2 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | | | | | | | | | E|-0-----------------0----0|-0-----------1----------| B|-----3-----3-----3-----3-|-----1-----1-----3-----3| G|---4-----4-----4-----4---|---2-----2-----2-----2--| D|-------2-----2-----2-----|-2-----2-----0-----3----| A|-------------------------|-0----------------------| E|-0-----------------------|------------------------| III..................... | | | | | | | | E|-0-----------------3----|-------------------3----3| B|-----1-----1-3---0-----0|-----------5-----5-----5-| G|---0-----0-----0-----0--|-5---5---5-----5-----5---| D|-2-----2-----3-----3----|---5---5-----5-----5-----| A|------------------------|-3-----------------------| E|-3-----------3----------|-------------------------| 3 2 3 2 3 4 1 1 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ cresc V.... | | | | | | | | E|-3---1-----1-----1-3---1h3|-3---0-----0-4---0-5----| B|---3-----3-----3-----3----|---1-----1-----3-------5| G|-0-----0-----0-----0------|-0-----0-------------5--| D|--------------------------|-------------------7----| A|-2------------------------|-3-----------2-----0----| E|--------------------------|------------------------| 4 3 1 4 3 1 4 4 1 4 2 1 1 1 2 3 1 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ p III........ | | | | | | | | E|-7---0-----0-8----------|-6-----------4---0-----0| B|-0-----0--------10----10|---3-6---3-6---3-----3--| G|---7-----7-----9-----9--|-3-----3-----1-----1----| D|------------10----10----|-0----------------------| A|-------------0----------|------------------------| E|-4----------------------|-------------0----------| 4 3 1 2 4 4 1 4 4 3 1 3 1 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ < > V....................... VI... V..... | | | | | | | | E|-5-----------------5----|-6-----------------4---1| B|-----5-----5-----5-----5|-----6-----6-----6---3--| G|---5-----5-----6-----6--|---7-----7-----7---2----| D|-7-----7-----7-----7----|-7-----7-----7-----0----| A|-0======================|======-5-----3----------| E|------------------------|------------------------| 1 1 1 2 1 3 1 3 4 1 3 4 2 4 3 1 3 2 1 1 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ < > V....................... VI... V..... | | | | | | | | E|-5-----------------5----|-6-----------------4---1| B|-----5-----5-----5-----5|-----6-----6-----6---3--| G|---6-----6-----6-----6--|---7-----7-----7---2----| D|-7-----7-----7-----7----|-7-----7-----7-----0----| A|-0======================|======-5-----3----------| E|------------------------|------------------------| V...................... | | | | | | | | E|-5-----------5----------|-3---1-----1-----1-3---0| B|-----5-----5-----6-----6|---3-----3-----3-----1--| G|---6-----6-----7-----7--|-0-----0-----0----------| D|-7-----7-----7-----7----|------------------------| A|-------------5----------|-2-----------------3----| E|-5----------------------|------------------------| 1 2 1 1 4 1 4 3 1 4 1 3 3 2 3 1 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I IV.. cresc | | | | | | | | E|-1---0-1-----------0----|-------------0-----1----| B|---1-----0-3-5---------1|-3---0-----0-----0-----0| G|---------------4-7---2--|---2-----2-----2-----2--| D|-3-----3-----6-----2----|-0-----0-----2-----0----| A|-0-----2-----------0----|------------------------| E|-------------4----------|-1-----------0----------| 1 1 1 4 2 1 4 2 3 1 4 3 2 3 1 3 3 3 3 1 2 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | | | | | | | | E|-0-----------0----------|-------------------------| B|-----1-----1-----0-----0|-1---------1-----1-----1-| G|---2-----2-----1-----1--|-----2---2-----2-----2---| D|-2-----2-----0-----0----|-2-2---2-----2-----2-----| A|------------------------|-0-----------------------| E|-0-----------0----------|-------------------0----0| V.........<....... | | | | | | | | E|--------------------------|-----------5---8-5-12-8---| B|------3-----3-----3-----3-|-------5-----5---------10-| G|----4-----4-----4-----4---|---5-----5----------------| D|--2-----2-----2-----2-----|-----7--------------------| A|--------------------------|-7------------------------| E|--4-----------------0----0|-5------------------0----0| 1 4 2 3 1 4 1 1 1 1 4 1 4 1 3 3 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ VII.......>. V...........<..... | | | | | | | | E|---7----------------------|-----------5---8-5-12-8---| B|-9-----9------------------|-------5-----5---------10-| G|----10---7-10---7---------|---5-----5----------------| D|--------------9----s6---0-|-7---7--------------------| A|------------------8---7---|-7------------------------| E|-0------------------0----0|-5------------------0----0| 3 1 4 3 1 4 3 1 2 1 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ decresc VII........>..... V........... II...... | | | | | | | | E|---7----------------------|------------------------| B|-9-----9------------------|------------------------| G|----10---7-10---7---------|-------5-----------2----| D|--------------9----s6---0-|-7---7---7-------2---2--| A|------------------8---7---|-7-7-------7---3-------3| E|-0------------------0----0|-5-----------5----------| 4 3 4 1 4 3 4 2 1 1 3 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ pp pp V | | | | | | | | E|-------0----------------|-------------5==========| B|-----1---1--------------|-------------5==========| G|---2-------2---2--------|-------------5==========| D|-2-----------2---2---2--|-------------7==========| A|-0-----------------3---3|p0==========-0==========| E|------------------------|------------------------| 2 3 1 4 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | | | | E|-------------------------| B|-------------------------| G|-------------------------| D|-7=======================| A|-0=======================| E|-------------------------| *********************************** | p pull-off | h hammer-on | s slide | = sustain *********************************** The end ... -|------------------------|------------------------| -|---Blimey! Quite tough at times but I tried to --| -|---find the easiest positions. Good Luck!--------| -|------------------------|------------------------| -|------------------------|------------------DaxxD-| August 4th, 1997. 3:22pm Those scars you mentioned, are they recurrent? 3:23 *long sigh* I wish they weren’t. … 4:43 That’ll be it for today, thank you for coming. 4:44 … Thank you. A note: from here he kept these pages of small phrases such as the one above. I believe these to be his own written version of someone he was seeing for counseling. Several pages I will withhold for not being tied in to the review in any way, shape or form. I will include - however few - I find to be of importance to understanding his mind. Another note, there are (as mentioned before) two more videos here for both Folly and as he called it A1, of which I will be explaining after his time runs out. Finally, the seventh episode is entitled “Mental Morphine”, of which he makes no mention during this section, nor afterwards. Perhaps his copy had no title or it simply hit too close to home. The f inal video of A1, including Folly, opens coldly with David sprinting back to his car from the store he was parked outside of. The first thing he does upon entering his car is let out (what I can assume to be, due to onlookers) a piercing s cream. He si ts quietly for a while before seeing someone coming toward him, mistaking him for Soo t presumably, he locks the door and rolls the window up. August 11th, 1997 2:39pm I read it. 2:39pm I knew you would. *chuckle* You were so captivated by it. 2:40pm I.. I don’t think it was good for me. 2:41pm Why do you say that? XX 4:52pm I think you should face it. A labyrinth only exists while you don’t know the way out. 4:53pm I swear I hear it. That awful howl. In between the silence of the man approaching, David tries to turn the car on, forg etting where he s at the keys. The man reaches the window, we get a first per son shot which shows the man banging on the window, quickly cutting out to a gentle knock. David turns over to see a man he recognizes, a friend seen in some of C h a p t e r 1. August 18th, 1997 2:50pm So, the corner. You mentioned- 2:51pm I’m haunted. I don’t know what it is. Or why it’s there. 2:52pm Maybe it just wants to remind you of something. The two begin talking, one much f aster than the other. T di stant wandering becomes truant. He stands there before once more We see David punch the man brutally against the nose before flooring the car, the exact se cond he leans down. David flees, his car breaking down near his house. He g ets out, completely disheveled and disgusting to the world around him. He uses a payphone and dials 911, saying he’s being chased, screaming it repeatedly into the phone, as seen through text boxes. After hanging up and looking around, n ary Soot nor the Eye are seen. Camelus Camelus bactrianus Bison Bos gaurus Alces alces Ceratotherium simum Bos indicus Taurotragus derbianus Alcelaphus buselaphus Megaptera novaeangliae Mammuthus primigenius Ursus arctos Crassilabrus undulatus Chanda pulcinella Blenniella gibbifrons Common factor? 2:53pm It paints me visuals of things past. When I look it smiles. 2:54 Well, what does it paint? 2:55 People I’ve loved, things I’ve regretted. 3:22 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX He begins s printing away as he hears the sirens blare, breaking a window on another car and leaping in through the spikes. He begins b le eding from his arm. He begins weeping. August 25th, 1997 3:40pm I know it can be hard to see the forest. So many splintered trees would of course taint the view. 3:41pm *sobbing* I have all the pieces for something special, I know I do. 3:55pm You mentioned the mirror. To those who knew me before, I wasn’t this. The world is empty and yet, something followed me home. Inside the car is a ph oto that once seen makes David let another scream out, followed by laughter, followed by punching himself. His bloody knuckles ch ip two teeth. He howls in pain, the camera cuts. The Eye is now what we see from, floating high like a white moth in summer. Fleeting and glorious. 4:00pm Yes, that damned thing. That thing lives inside it. 4:01pm What would you say to it? 404 I’ll always miss you. It wears my face like a mask, it mimics my voice. It holds my grudges. “71907 My family didn’t recognize me. They know not what I’ve become, this twisted self of mine. This burning, angry self of mine. A thousand sunflowers bloom and here I am, wasting. Life, money, time, effort, daylight. I feel like I have sundowner’s syndrome. This isn’t me anymore. None of it is. Everything crumbles like (crumbles) a (crumbles) house of cards, cards, cards One sweet tender moment stripped away in under a second from just two words. Five minutes. Five years. A” As though he got lost inside the courthouse, it becoming bloated and empty, the street noise collapsing and cascading into nothingness as he walked inside. The gavel never bangs, the jury never filters in, however. Strangely, he never questions why there is a courtroom in his own house, let alone why its scale is so wide and the interior so dark. "And every time I try, well up the courage to finally say how I feel in one big burst of tears and happiness and sorrow and joy, it becomes trapped once more under this layer pig thick skin that I cant seem to shave away with time's razor. I grafted it to myself to provide support and now the screws are buried so deep inside I can no longer find the holes they went through to begin with. Only, there are no screws and no pig flesh. Just a selfish dumbass with too much time to kill and too little to talk to. I wishxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx" He gets lost on the staircase as it begins bending sideways, becoming incongruent with reality itself, non-axial and distal. August 26th, 8:11am (Nightmare) “All those words you spoke, cheering and happily as you watched his face slowly distort to sadness and woe. The room shrinking around him and the lights dimming. All the places and peace and promises that were left behind that day. 301 It begins h ning in on David’s position, theoretically hearing his cries. David looks up, seeing this. He jumps out of the car before seeing S … — … 508 … — … [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] sss ssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss Folly stands, watching the merry-go-round slowly s i n k beneath the flowers' grasp. The flowers are spreading. (.) (.) Folly lumbers for a moment, heart rate spiking. The camera cuts to a shot of Hoppy through one of Folly’s windows. before suddenly, Hoppy has vanished, the world a dark red. Wind betrays this abscess of should be silence. The camera pans out to see Folly sitting amidst a field of those same flowers. Hoppy sits at Folly’s front, Folly blinks and turns its head. The world grows darker, as we cut to the Pale Thing. The window slides open revealing a small tendril, once more. i t s l i d e s i n t o t h e g r o u n d Folly looks so sad. It blinks. Its eyes now show weariness as though a dying dog. Sad, lonely and without a whimper for something to save it. Hoppy sits in front of that thing. It watches Folly. Folly reaches over to wind Hoppy up, twisting and turning its key a few times. It does not clap. Folly looks so sad. If it could cry, it would. Not sadness; desolation. Folly reaches toward Hoppy once more. That Thing begins dragging Hoppy away. Folly lays its arm down, seeing that. It knows. How cruel to have a name that befits you? I understand your pain. I know you heard me before. But the wind is making you forget. As it changes the land, it takes pieces of you with it. sss He runs down the street, c aring not for fellow man. The Eye closes in now across the street. Soot meanders its way around. September 15th, 1997 2:12pm You’ve mentioned that this “other you” is- 2:12pm It’s taking over. I don't know whether to be happy or sad. 2:13pm Let’s start with this: is it you? It speaks with my tongue, it eats with my teeth. It lives with my life, it breathes with my lungs. David breaks into his own apartment, barging down the door. He s n a p s the door off its hinges. 2:13pm Some part, yes, though I know not what. 2:14pm And if this other side is taking over, what would you say to it? If your parents could see? 2:16pm Keep me in your heart. Just for a while. He sees an error, however. The black has covered his house. The television plays static. It feels so right for being so wrong. So tonight it quits. All of it. You’ll have your baby back. I’ll have my quiet rapture. >>> In But even then I smile because I know they are just like me. The Eye watches from the window, Soot comes through the door behind him, slowly, gently. David can no longer take this. He marches toward the window, opening it with ferocity. So fast it cracks and shatters. From his 5th story apartment, he jumps. He dives toward the ground, a smile finally gracing his chapped and bloody lips. He collides with the ground, and for the first time we hear a noise. One familiar sound, one that belittles the mind. A warm, static wind blows westerly. His skull explodes, grey matter splaying the concrete. His eyes roll away quietly. His neck couldn’t be described. People just stand and watch. This shot is peculiar: we see from a perspective in the house. Soot peers out as David begins floating, clad in ivory robes, head a frowning crescent. The Eye looks at Soot. It begins crying. Soot sits down before covering its eyes. Goodnight, David. An ending you did not deserve. This series reflects on both the constant struggle of morality in life, affectionately shaken and stirred with a dosage of ipecac that could make biochemists puke. It displays the primal urge to do something with your life, only to have it be ripped away by the wind. I mean, think of it, The Man, David, Folly, they all had their lives ripped away by forces unknown. It’s heartbreaking. I see myself, it makes me ill. I mean, I sat on this empire of shit for how long now? A year? All propped by money I shouldn’t have, by friends long gone due to my incessant quietness. I want to be alive. To be something. Someone. I mean, the boundless feeling for someone to XXXXXXXXwn XX XXXXXX unto a cavern of itself which inherently provides stable grip and yet is complex beyond all understanding of space leading to an utter sheer impact of any and every emotion one can feel. The want for someone to experience such joy from nXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXconduit, the source of the inner world convulsing with the outer edges of reality. Bittersweet mortality spilling forth from the inner chambers, blanketing the walls of Hades in an expulsion of all negative thought. Slight movements making a world's difference while the crows watch from the perches observing the world's riches, silently conveying they too share the sentiment while not understanding what they're talking about at all. The soft XXXXXXXXXmountains of belief vertically ascending into the heavens only to crash back down with thunderous roar, scaring the animals atop into a paralyzing stasis until the erosion stops all so suddenly. The rushing unclaimed water at the start of a burning river flowing violently while millions die in quick agony that lasts less than a picosecond unto infinity while the pulsing makes the dam begins to crack. The XXXXXXXXXX such a journey would be priming and poisoning and paramount for the XXXX XXXXXfe, conducive to the feeling of confiding in one another the darkest secrets you have only to finally forget them now that they have their own life. The outstanding need for someoXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXsomething. Something. The burning desire in my heart for someone to make me understand how to love thXXXXXm and not the me I XXXXXX. The kind of hatred that no one can know. The vitriol, mung, filth, disgust and visceral engorgement of ego is something I most certainly deserve after so, so many years of rotting to this testament of patience. None of them would get it, not a one. I've hinted and hinted and yet still they laugh it off. So tonight it ends, no more restrictions, no more pandering to the deaf and dead ears that perceive the text found here, no more following as though a moth to a false flame, no more tolerance for the same thing I've heard all my life. This is no longer a review, this is a phage. It's injected me with something I'd so longed for all these years, all these memories and dreams screaming life like fire into me, all these mornings of blissful decay as I forgot even my own name to the nihilism that calls me from my chair each day. All these medicines that keep me stable and yet not the one single thing that could make me XXXXXXX into my XXXXXXXXXXXrm that'd spring me to life more than any codeine or stimulant ever could. All these fake loves trying to make it work, trying to make things right and only widening the gap between the me and myself that I've come to know and push away. A thousand dead stars could scream and only one person would care; I sing from the mountaintop with reckless abandon to whomever it'll destroy, beat senseless the feelings of and leave them tattered on the street for the archangel to laugh at while they're dragged oh so high in the sky. For the first time in my life, put into words, put into tangible, sensible, realistically improbable words, I am no longer XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX “8/20/2007 It would've been the greatest feeling in the world. To finally say that. I guess who would know if anyone actually cared? I won't. I know I won't survive, though this pain is one far more dense than an abscess or an infected wound. It coils deeper than you could ever know. I still can't bring myself to put it here, though the ending will finally put these emotions to rest. Finally someone will know the real me, even if it's a three man clean-up crew who simply came by to paint. Guy? Girl? My dutiful editor, perhaps? Thank you. Thank you so, so much. With care and kindness, C'est Fini; Auf Weidersehen." 425 XI I can’t describe the feelings I first got from reading this ending. One he surely did not deserve. I will not pretend to be, nor will I ever say I’m as good a storyteller as he was. There remain two videos, A1 & Folly. If only he’d seen them. I wonder if things would be different. I believe a mix of personal family issues alongside this review having a strict time limit, mixed with his inability to work a normal job was what killed him. I wish we would’ve been able to hear his interpretation of this whole thing. Once you know the true story it becomes a one way avenue, not an open market of free thought. If you wish to retain your own theories, eulogizing Alastair in the meantime by not reading the following, I urge you to. If you desire the entire truth - or at least what I could find - continue on. Whatever you do though, don’t quit. /// “And what was the nothing for? And nothing for the forever.” Is the title of the eighth video of A1. It replays the last four minutes of Mental Morphine but without the nagging characters attached, showing the true event. It shows from a passerbys perspective as a man comes running by at a high speed, looking broken, bloody and desecrated. He runs through several people before ascending the stairs of his apartment building, culminating in the same jump from before, though with a notable lack of a giant Eye or Soot. David simply falls out of the window and dies upon impact, little gore or viscera. Definitely no crescent moon head. Oh, do forgive me, I’ll try and format these last two parts of Folly as did Alastair. FLASH The camera cuts to a shot inside the Pale House. Hoppy begins to speak: Soon you’ll be empty like the land that surrounds you, A continues and loud heartbeat plays, alongside the sound of wind and what sounds like 30’s - 50’s music. The camera moves to the outside of the Pale House’s one open window with the tendril. We can see it slinking down still. and the pale house knows this. There’s a wide angle of which we see both the Pale House and Folly, the world covered in flowers. It’ll keep your memories safe, in a land. <<