alright, so this band needs mentioning. i'll use math to make it as simple as possible. stay with me here, folks.
ISIS (epic, pretty post-metal) + LEVIATHAN (dark, horrifying solo black-metal) + LIVE DRUMMING - GENERIC LO-FI QUALITY ASSOCIATED WITH B/M + FORGIVABLE SNYTH LINES = TWILIGHT'S MONUMENT TO TIME END
these guys have been around for a while, but they haven't really mattered until the release of their most recent album, mainly because the line-up is fucking stellar with members from such fine acts as ISIS, LEVIATHAN, NACHTMYSTIUM, KRIEG, MINSK, THE ATLAS MOTH, AND XASTHUR. even if you aren't into black metal, you'll appreciate the production quality (layers, effects, etc) and sheer epicness that these dudes unload.
so download this. if the first track doesn't win you over, i'll stop posting music FOREVER.
this post is dedicated to the memory of andrew and mark's friendship.
lately andrew has been really distant from me. i try to talk to him, but he always shuts me out. now he won't even return my text messages. he has this impenetrable wall around him that keeps me out. how are we suppose to remain friends if he won't speak to me? i feel dead inside.
we have a lot of great memories together. this one time, andrew and i held hands and peed our pants together at the delaware water gap. now i wake up in the middle of the night crying, because i don't think well ever have another moment like that again.
official statements -
"i'll never understand why it had to happen the way it did between them. all i know is i'm stuck in the middle and i've never been this devestated." - Peter, Mark's brother and mutual friend.
"What's so odd is that I had never seen two people go from being so in love with each other, so in tune with one anothers feelings and wants and hopes, needs and dreams - to such hate. Such unadulterated bitterness and resentment. The animosity was palpable in the air whenever they were together. It makes me sick to think about such a beautiful friendship, lost." - Bill, mutual friend
"this is a tragedy. i really didn't see this coming." - Dan, mutual friend.
"confirm." - Andrew's older brother Pete.
i've tried all i could. let us now celebrate the friendship we once had. all that's left are the memories. and some really strange photographs.
(also, for fuck's sake, lets never use our full names on this blog. i'd like to have a future.)
Bernie Carbo was nearly a World Series hero. Facing elimination and a three-run deficit in the 8th inning of Game 6 of the 1975 World Series, the Red Sox outfielder slugged a pinch-hit home run to even the score at Fenway Park. Carlton Fisk went on to seal the victory in the 12th inning, but Boston would fall to the Cincinnati Reds in Game 7. What makes Carbo's feat even more impressive is his recent admission that he was on all sorts of drugs when he hit the three-run shot. "I probably smoked two joints, drank about three or four beers, got to the ballpark, took some [amphetamines], took a pain pill, drank a cup of coffee, chewed some tobacco, had a cigarette, and got up to the plate and hit,''
In the early months of '93, I had spent a substancial amount of time in the Canadian Rockies with my girlfriend at the time, Beatrice Toadhammer. We had met in a hostel earlier that year and took a keen liking to each other. Though she knew of the atrocities I had committed in my younger years, she was faithful and kind to me, just like the canadian geese that flew above us. (When a goose grows sick and weak, its family will land and take care of their fallen blood. Sort of like healthcare, except we can stick them in pillows when they die.) I'd had just finished my apprenticeship in whittling so our next move was to return to town and resupply. We never stayed too long in one place, Beatrice never believed in home. Like myself, her parents had died at a young age. She let the road take care of her.
We came across a small town in Saskatoon, population: 439. We entered the local saloon where we sat for a late lunch. We felt the eyes of the locals follow us across the room. We sat patiently until the bartender approached our table. He told us his name was Jasper, but his name tag read Lewis. I thought nothing of this and we placed our orders. He returned a moment later with drinks for us. I lift my glass to Beatrice. She raised hers, and we drank. The cold rush through her body cracked a smile across her beautiful face. I leaned forward and held it in my hands, as tired and worn as they were. And then the room began to spin.
I'd been drugged. with what exactly, I'll never be sure of. I awoke, bound in a freezer. What had happened to me? How long have I been in here? Nothing mattered; Beatrice was gone. I struggled to reach into my back pocket. The knife I used year after year in the mountains, crafting the small wooden bits of my soul, would free me from my binds. I stumbled from what was to be my frozen tomb and into the kitchen, Where I found my way to the streets. My legs felt like they were made of ash. I couldn't think straight. Where is my Beatrice? What did this town want with her? The street was filled with the local crowd; Their wretched faces swirling around me. I staggered and swung, but I felt nothing. I fell to my knees. Resting to my front, stood the neighborhood church. I felt my heart exploding and imploding with every hazey breath I took. Then, a familiar sound in my mind. Crashing wood. The church doors swung open. Standing in front of me was Hercules, son of Zeus. Standing 10 feet tall above me, he raised his arms in a threatening manner. I did not think. I only acted. I plunged my knife deep into his chest, twisting and turning the handle. I could feel the blade scraping every bone, digging deeper and deeper into his sternum. There I found his heart, the heart of a titan. I struck. The giant collapsed. I too fell to the ground. black was all I saw.
I came to, hunched over the giant's body. Only he wasn't a giant any longer. He was just a man like myself. I rubbed my eyes and looked closer at my victim. No, it wasn't Hercules, but the man who had played Hercules. Kevin Sorbo. I murdered an innocent man, hoping it would return Beatrice to my arms. I fled to the forest for protection. I spent the next month searching for my Beatrice. I never found her. It was as if she had disappeared into thin air, never to be seen again. My heart, or what was left of it, grew black. My existence was a curse. A walking plague, I hurt all those I has touched. I was a monster.
I laid my head upon a fallen tree. My body was numb. What was I to do? Where do i go? I had nothing. I closed my eyes. I slept. The earth over took me. The forest stretched out around me. I slept.
9 years later I would awake.
- excerpt, Tobeslerone - shut the fuck up when i'm talking to you, the memoirs of Tobeslerone.
