© 2014 u/ebonGavia

Love

Love's sweetly poisoned darts

Are wasted on this heart

Inerrant though they fly

My shielding gives them lie

These centuries-builded walls

The keenest edge forestall

Thus armored sit I here

At siren's call do sneer

By hours, years do toll

And cold becomes my soul

That blackguard, Love, I spurn

From treach'rous Hope I turn

At length my vigil wanes

Naught but ennui remains

With apathetic sigh

And dry, half-lidded eye

My senses, weak, are dulled

To fitful sleep are lulled

Thus primed for artifice

Undone by artlessness

A 'doring glance unlocks

My bitter heart. A shock —

A shining word, a koan —

The fatal shot is flown

Each quick'ning touch, now soft

Our scales, forgotten, doffed

Bewitched by winsome eyes

We don our honeyed ties

Yet venom's stings presage

Our bittersweet malaise

But how is it that we

Bemoan this malady?

In love — by Love, lovesick

Yet, healed, we poison pick

No Cupid bends a string

We prick ourselves, willing.

Born in the wrong family
It left me a gaping void
Stole from me my charity
Burdened me with worry

Born in the wrong district
It showed me the savagery
Darkness that lurks within men
To untrust the ones of normalcy

Born in the wrong city
Filled my soul with mundanity
The unbearable banale
Empty of all wonder and beauty

Born in the wrong culture
Learned to hide my reality
Lest I be killed or maimed
In the rein of traditionality

Born in the wrong country
Flayed from me my future
Gutted sense of commonality
It branded on me misery

Born in the wrong system
Chained me to slavery
Feeding some malevolence
Corrupted my destiny

Born in the wrong time
Hurled into moment of history
Trapped within rotting remnants
Couldn't do away with the elderly

Hereby I declare to all
I reject my humanity
For no matter the causality
But only in a handul few
I see nothing worthy

we recycle our emotions
the foundations

dread, despair, the nothing
the isolation of it all
these are all mine
and anger poured on top
disgust inbetween

told by soil to extinguish
sealed them all away
left adrift and devoid
unable to feel the whole
afraid that it would crush

despairing everything
i fed the void
it bloated and festered
putrid without a voice
it would swallow all
so i bestow it mouth

eight-pointed star
the father-mother
bear my witness
i am heartsore
and loathe the creators

we recycle our emotions
i accept it all, the

denied your own tragedy
fun and cheery
held back by ancient rites
good sport and jolly
these unspoken wounds
banter along all day
festered and putrid
dish it out and take it
marred by shallow's tyranny
here's to another round

In shadows cast, a serpent sleek,
With bands of black and white.
In self-encircling, fate draws near,
A moment tense, a future unclear.

Yet, ere the bite, a raptor bold,
Descends with grace, a tale unfolds.
Its talons clasp the serpent’s plight,
A dance of choices in the fading light.

Two paths converge, in present’s hold,
Humanity’s tale, a story bold.
Betwixt self-will and forces unseen,
The dance of fate, on history’s screen.

hey there folks!

a couple of friends have been encouraging me to share my music online. it’s hard for me to share things i’ve made because self-promotion mostly feels weird and out-of-place but tildes has felt like a welcoming environment, so i figured i would share it here.

i checked the code of conduct for tildes before making this post to make sure it was acceptable, so i hope this is alright

my music

i make slow, moody instrumental music and sometimes ambient music. no vocals but there are samples of dialogue from film and tv. it’s not “fun”/upbeat music, but i hope you enjoy some of it.

recent releases

mabry - vulnerary (a mixtape)

mabry - miles away (ep)

if possible, listen with headphones for the best experience.

share your music

i would love to hear what music other tildes folks make. also curious what software you like using (i use Logic).

I wrote this story yesterday. I translated to English with the help of Google Translate and added my own revisions and fixes.

Uneasy. The invite received days ago ye respond today.
Betraying your identity, self…
Click here, add this, add that, oh my, what have ye become?
Continue lurking.
Continue being who you are!
I miss my NSFW days. Never mind!
Hours turn to days, and days to weeks, what have ye become?
From the shadows thy step, and ye become, A POSTER!
Do not judge me.
Do not look upon me.
Do not think of me.
Do not. Do not!
And to the rest of you, a great day.

With thanks to @cfabbro, who kindly provided feedback on a previous version of this story.

Today is day three of my "war against writer's block"!
As I keep fighting with my proverbial pen, I hope that some day I'll be able to get out of my block and be able to write some real stuff like research paper or novel or story book.

What I realized today is that Word Power is a very important skill. A writer is essentially a Wordsmith or someone who carves and arranges the words and phrases into sentences, just as a sculptor or carpenter would do with wood or other raw materials. To be a better writer, you must learn to fall in love with words which is probably easier said than done - especially for us non-native speakers!

Having a regular habit or routine helps with this. Each time you come across a difficult word, you open the dictionary software or app and learn its meaning. It hardly takes a few minutes but it's a very useful skill as each new word you know of acts like a raw material or building block for your writing. Better still, develop linguistics as a hobby as mastery of grammar is equally important and so is learning about how languages, cultures and people basically work and interact at the core.

Apart from that, noting down right ideas as they come is also very important. For example, the idea about the Wordsmith thing occurred to me yesterday when I was having a cup of tea. I noted it on time (before it could vanish into the depths of that dark matter called subconscious mind and become irretrievable again!), and made a note of that on my computer so that I can write it in today's proverbial pen.

Even after having these basic tools and ingredients, you may not be able to write anything at all if you lack that focused energy or passion to write about a particular topic - be it a research paper, novel, story book or something else. You need to have that energy to write which I feel I'm lacking right now. I might be able to feel that energy some day as I continue with my battles, at least I hope so! Thanks for reading this and staying with me in these challenging times.

Recently I got for free an old Zeiss Super Ikonta 531/2, it's a medium format foldable camera from 1936. It was in decent shape but the lens was very foggy. Fungi can grow on lenses but I think it was just general dirt. Opening it was a bit tricky (I had to get watching-making tools, because the screws are very tiny) but I managed to clean the lenses quite well. I shot a first roll but the focus was off, so I had to make sure the front lens element was at the right distance, using some semi-transparent tape on the back of the camera to see the image.

Then I shot a second roll and developed it myself, which was also a first (it's not super hard though), I had no idea if the images would come out good, or even at all (wasn't even sure I loaded the developing tank correctly). Seeing the images come out of the tank for the first time is quite magical, and they came out great (some of them at least...) :

https://imgur.com/a/bF817x9

Even with my crappy development & scanning I can get high-res images that compete with my expensive digital camera. The lens (Tessar 105mm, f3.8) is quite sharp wide open (statue shot) and I even took a long exposure shot at night using a release cable. The process is very slow and focusing is hard, but it's quite fun and rewarding. These kind of cameras are very cheap but the rest (film, accessories, development, repairs, ...) not so much.

I sang her name in words forgotten
Rough bellows of lost yearning
A hurt hound without path
A sorrow meaning without an end

I heard the rain, heard the ocean
Lick the sand without defect
The water, where it falls
Is always beautiful all the same

I saw, my God, that you made her
Carefully crooked, imperfect
And inside her deep mournful eyes
The tears that I could never shed

What a magnificent purchase.

I fixed the saddle on my bike and now it’s less saddle than duct tape.

I was so mesmerized I took it cycling with me, and stopped near the road to put some tape on the handlebar.

It looked neat, sharp, complete.

When I got home I told my husband about my duct tape, and all the little things I could use it for.

He was not very enthusiastic, so I shut his mouth. With duct tape.

I then shut his nostrils and made his head into a cute little football.

It looked neat, sharp, complete.

He wiggled back and forth. It was adorable for a while. And then he stopped.

I need to buy some duct tape.

So we have all these people, and they all seem to be pissed.

So many people and they all seem to have... something amiss.

Many of these people, their concerns are just... entirely dismissed:

By other people with the same problems who somehow look at these perfectly normal people and react: "I have been nixed!"

These problems are pervasive in our memories and experiences and on a metaphorical wall they are fixed;

And yet the root causes are consistently misinterpreted, and ultimately missed.

And the result is we are betting everything for the sake of getting our cathartic and revengeful fix?

That is being delivered to us by people that if they were to meet us, would utterly reject us and loudly hiss?

And if that gamble fails I will be the one to pick up the scraps, and mop up the piss?

Man, I didn't want to grow up to this.

1. My Friend, the Moon

When Tom was younger, he went to buy fresh bread every evening with his mother, Alice. They always walked and the bakery was far from home, so it was not uncommon for the Moon to come out along the way. "Hello, Mister Moon! Do you wanna come with us?", he liked to say. When they arrived at the bakery, he looked to his mother, excited, and said "Look ma! The Moon came with us!", and did the same when they got home.

2. Fiction

"Did you know that The Hulk was a detective once?", says Alice. Tom is 4. He puts his hand in the forehead in a gesture of superb irritation. "No, mom, this is make-believe!".

3. Cookie Conundrum

According to Tom, a mysterious group of sinister chipmunks was eating the cookies in the jar. When Alice asked for proof, Tom replied that a secret group of chipmunks got rid of all the evidence.

4. Ice Cream Dilemma

"So, mom, you have two options" — said Tom, seriously. "There are only two ice-cream flavors: chocolate and vanilla. Any choice is fine by me".

5. Tom and the Rats

Tom's house used to be infested with large disgusting rats. One day, he shouted: "Rats are the worse! No wonder we call them rats!

6. Dream Logic

Tom dreamed that his forehead could fly without him, leaving a hole in his head. When he woke up in the morning, there was a deer on the porch eating a hot-dog.

— Are we dreaming? — She asked.

— I don't know, my dear. I really don’t know. — He answered.

— It feels real.

— Yeah, it does.

— Look how old we are! Isn't that crazy?

— Not really. — He says while putting his arm on her shoulder. She calms down for a moment.

— Yeah, but I thought... Well, I thought something, but everyone probably thinks the same. It’s silly.

— What did you think?

— I thought we’d be different. Old, sure, but perky, wise, matured from adventure. Something noble like that. But no. We’re the same, but older. — She shakes her flaccid arms and looks both marveled and terrified by the loose skin wiggling back and forth.

He adjusts his glasses.

— Sometimes, when I remain silent to appear profound, I’m surprised by the indigence of my thoughts. I may look like Aristotle himself while I try to remember what I ate for lunch. It’s hard to make inwards the theater we make for others.

— But, after all, when have you become so old?

— To tell you the truth, I don’t even know how we got here.

— It’s weird: despite the complete darkness, we can see everything clearly. And there’s no place to rest my legs.

— Sit here on the ground. Beside me. Put your head on my lap. — He gently caresses her head, trying to ignore his surprise with her white hairs.

— I’d be nothing without you. But I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember your name.

— I might be offended, but I don’t remember yours either. — He smiles.

— Are we close to wake up? This old body is getting on my nerves.

— Of course, my love. This is a dream, but no more than everything else. Time is a nightmare from which we never wake up, and old age is punishment for those that refuse to die.

— Don’t talk nonsense. This will go away in a minute. We’ll wake up young and beautiful, as always. As I remember you, and as you remember me. Everything will be fine. — She says that with forced certainty as if trying to convince herself.

— You’re right. The nightmare will end soon, and we’ll be back to our bodies.

— ... This conversation tired me. Good night, my love. — She pushes her head against his thigh.

— Good night, my angel.

And they wished to never wake up.

Every day I wake up thinking that The Horde is not there anymore. The dreams are good but few, and only make everything worse. I usually dream about The Horde. During sleep, my breathing is improved and more relaxed. I dream of a calendar without symbols.

When there's an inspiration, so I write. Delete everything afterward. A professional told me that's is a compulsion. The compulsion for the perfect word removes me from language itself. The enjoyment comes from excising something from myself, which makes me feel a bit closer to perfection.

Every once in awhile I forget The Horde is there. The writing becomes looser, I sip my coffee and take the lunch out of the freezer. The Horde is still there. The whistle makes my blood run cold.

I forgot when The Horde arrived, but since then my days are covered of night and dust. To me, The Horde has no color, they're covered in filth and dark cloth. They get a bit closer by dawn. But The Horde never comes.

They seem to enjoy tormenting me. Twice a crow's carcass hit my window. At least we were communicating. I had to open the window to clean the blood. The Horde did nothing. There's courtesy between me and The Horde. I never complain of their tiny advances, they never impale me alive and eat my viscera.

The worst consequence of The Horde was to remove my visitors. I had friends and a girlfriend, before The Horde. They came here regularly. On the other hand, there's something cozy about being surrounded by The Horde. I'm never alone.

I talked to them on a few occasions but never got an answer. I invited them to lunch and asked what they like The Walking Dead (seems like a relevant question for The Horde). Because, you see, The Horde may be savage, but they did not cut my internet. I keep telling everyone about The Horde, but no one believes me. They think I'm some internet phenomenon, an internal joke from a group they don't know about. They don't believe The Horde can come for them too, knocking on their armor of bronze and recycled aluminum.

Sometimes The Horde's shrieks seem to gain shape and order as if they obeyed a hidden commander. But this doesn't last, and they soon resume their lurid racket.

I don't know for how long I've lived with The Horde, nor for how long they'll stay. I'm afraid of waking up someday to find them gone. Because, in a certain way, I learned to love The Horde. I feel safe in their post-apocalyptic embrace.

This morning they got closer than normal. I can see it better now. They all have the same face, they're both one and The Horde. Their mouths are frozen in a permanent smile, salivating like rabid animals. One more step. They look like neanderthals. The Horde approaches slowly, with steady paces, and arrive with the furor of the sound of metal and drums. The house is hit by numerous rocks — the roof is about to give in. My crumbled body will soon become an ensign for their future marches. Or maybe become mush after being punctured by one thousand spears.

I'm only sure that this is going to end soon. Their petite steps, the threats, crows in the window. Everything is ending — finally, everything is ending. I'll never be again and so will The Horde. Nevermore.