The Children of Leviathan

Heavy breathing, her fists clenched behind her back against the door, her legs shaking.

Eyes still shut, she took a long deep breath.

Relief.

She had just marginally been salvaged from the double wrath of the strange limbo-like wilderness, in a two-folded manifestation of the imminent Electric storm and the pack of crones prowling outside. Yet somehow she did not feel entirely safe even behind the bolted door. A false sense of security grew in the pit of her stomach. She could not be sure whether the insides of this House on the Hill held no hostility, no grudges against her, and did not seek to harm her soul. In fact, she was more certain than not that the House was long awaiting her arrival in order to begin its foul play. However, she could not afford to be overcome with panic and so she tried to calm herself by thinking, “confront each fear as it comes, not before”.

But was it fear indeed? Fear of what? Of the unknown, fear of something real, tanglible or of something abstract, of an apparition alive only in her mind? Was it fear of feeling helpless and alone, fear of feeling powerless and lost? Fear of pain, of loss, of damnation? How deep did the rabbit hole go? How much worse could her world be?She still did not know which questions were right to ask, and this scared her more than any demons or traps Leviathan placed in her path.

As she stood with her back up against the door, she opened her eyes for the first time since being inside and tried to focus on the space surrounding her. It was of massive proportions compared to the size of the House from the outside. From the exterior the House appeared to be a worn cottage, yet its interior seemed like a lordly mansion that had once seen glorious days and joyous nights.
In any case, now it was predictably bare. It was as though a living soul had not set foot in that place for centuries. There was thick Gray dust covering every surface, almost every orifice, and the furniture was covered in white sheets that had gone mouldy from the frequent storming. The air was stale, and dense and cold. Very cold. Her breath left trails of warm smoke as she breathed out.

 In and out.   

There was a monumental marble staircase opposite the entrance where she stood. It had two sets of stairs, one on the right leading up, and one on the left, leading down, which encompassed the centre piece of the landing that proudly featured a grand floor clock. It was monstrously big and went all the way up to the top of the staircase with a proportionally large face with intricate numbers and cogs. In the silence that prevailed, she could hear its ticking: Tick. Tock. It echoed across the room steadily, yet the hands were not moving. They were positively static. How peculiar. Meekly she hoped this would be the least aberrant thing she would meet whilst being there, although she already knew that to believe it would be a comforting lie. 

To her right was a large drawing room, predominantly made of wood. The booming fireplace, large enough to walk into, was indubitably the pivotal piece of the room, surrounded by the most generous library she had ever seen, built into the walls. Above the lacquered mantelpiece hung, covered in cloth, only what she could assume to be a painting. Oh how she wished she could get a fire started and warm her bones! She had not got used to the temperature yet, and the sky rumbled loudly as she approached the room to examine it more closely. As she walked away from the marble floor and into the wooden flooring of the room to the right, it creaked under her foot and she instantly remained still, listening.

Nothing.

Relief.

Armchairs, table and sofa were all covered, or so she presumed that it was those that were hiding away under the dewy sheets. A bulky chandelier graced the high-pitched ceiling, with half melted candles around its circumference and brimming with cobwebs. Closer to the fireplace she went with determination, as if it were fully ablaze, in a futile attempt to feel the illusion of some warmth. She lifted the corner of the cloth that covered the painting above. She discovered it was not a painting. It was a mirror she saw, and without a second thought she threw the cloth down and revealed it. Thunder permeated the house and the windows shook in their cases and the mirror shone bright, a cold silver flash filling the space and she covered her eyes at the sting of the the sudden light.
Eventually she glanced up: there was no reflection of herself in the glass, yet, in the far right corner she could see the pack of crones dancing in the distance, in the outdoor setting, in a circle and the Gray Wolf in the middle. She turned, disregarding her dread and defying her dismay of the abhorrent flesh thirsty crones, in exchange for a glimpse of the him; but there was nothing and no one there. It had been a figment of her imagination, or the games of the House had already started.
Facing the mirror once again, she still saw no reflection of herself. She waved at it and swayed before it, but it did not respond by imitating her. Her eyes fell on the craftsmanship of the frame; it was made of metal, ornamented with curved lines and geometric shapes. She touched one shape that reminded her of a Fleur de Lis and then took a step back as the patterns began to move and take the form of many Fleurs strangling one another. She covered the mirror again and regretted having disturbed its slumber.

Suddenly, she heard the pitter-patter of footsteps coming from the floor above; and laughter, of children, innocent giggles and playful shouting. It made her feel incredibly uneasy as she imagined a group of children sharing moments of merriment in this strange house. It cannot be true or genuine, it cannot be real. There must be a catch, there must be a reason why the House played such charades on her, and she was bound to find out.
Up the right staircase she strode, and as her left hand touched the black marble bannister, she felt the sensation on her fingers changing, from dry to wet, from smooth to scaly, but always cold; cold as stone. Looking down at it was no longer cold stone but cold flesh instead, black scaly snake flesh that squirmed and wriggled under her touch. She gasped as her eyes followed the body of the Basilisk up to its raised head, a triangular source of lethal venom. His eye were slits of fiery orange, and his gaze mesmerized her as she continued to go up the marble steps slowly, coaxed by the soft hissing of the King of Serpents. As she reached the top, he snapped his slithering tail like a whip and her consciousness returned to the cold reality that she had momentarily lapsed from.

Without looking back at him, she entered a dark corridor that had wooden doors on either side. The series of doors seemed unending and she walked without purpose, gradually getting used to the dim light, until she felt a strong sense of destination to approach a specific one. "29" was the number on the door in intricate metal design, similar to the Fleur de Lis' on the mirror in the drawing room. It clicked open before her hand touched the door knob, and kept opening as she moved forward to reveal a classroom. Desks, chairs, and school bags were all in place, as if the children had just gone out to the playground at break time. On the blackboard "A a, B b, C c..." and on the teacher's desk a bell and a bitten apple; a sweet sticky taste filled her mouth.  

The classroom joined the room next door with an internal door, yet in contrast to the one before this one was fully made of metal. It was marked "Exams in Progress" and the lettering on it were not curved, but jagged. She heard the laughter again, coming from beyond the door. This time the door did no magically open telepathically, she had to push hard as the children's laughter grew louder. She managed to get it open although snagging her left wrist at the steel latch in her effort, and bright blood trickled down her hand and onto her gown.
Entering, she was faced with a sight that turned her blood so thick, she thought the cut would not drip anymore. Rows of children lying on examination tables, wired up to measuring devices, in a comatose condition, yet breathing. No laughter, no giggles.

Tick. Tock: The heartbeats of the Children of Leviathan echoed in harmony.

Tick. Tock: They all lay motionless and still, feeding the Beast their dreams.

Tick. Tock: Ticking away to the rhythm of the great big clock downstairs...

She could not bear this any longer; acid tears burned her eyes but as she was about to turn and exit, she heard a screech like nails scraping the blackboard. She shuddered. She left the exam room in a state of shock and horror. "A a, B b, C c..." had been erased from the board. In its place was written in child-like handwriting "Lux ex Tenebris" (1). She ran out into the dark corridor.
The Basilisk had not moved, and was still where she had left him, looking wickedly smug and disdainfully pleased with himself. He started to hiss euphorically as she approached and she avoided his stare as she felt more and more vulnerable drawing closer to him. Her soul felt utterly exposed reaching the top to the stairs and she heard his evil whisper "Facilis descensus Averni" (2), ordering her to descend. She then remembered that there was a second part to the staircase, this time leading down.


(1) Light through Darkness
(2) The descent to Hell is easy
 

The last of the 20’s.

The 20's are for gaining experiences, says I.

A most curious transitional period beginning as an awkward young adult with an appetite to see the world and get a taste of life, until you actually do and then when it bites back you feel disillusioned, lost and shaky.

Looking back 9 years, I would describe the 20’s decade as follows:

Someone (Randomness) throws you into the Sea of Life when you only barely know how to swim, and have very little sense of direction. You have an imaginary first aid kit, complete with arm floats, a measly compass, a whistle, a couple of band aids and the advice of elders. If you are lucky, the current will be gentle and your arms will not tire. You hope the current is gentle. No, no, you almost believe it. You have to because you see no rescue boat or cruise ship in sight. So, there you are, amidst the waves, wandering and wondering, trying to figure out whether you spend your energy trying to become an expert swimmer, or searching for nearest land instead. And there in that moment of dilemma, does the fear start to sink in and the horrible question burns your mind: what about sea monsters lurking beneath the surface? What about hybrid shark-serpent creatures, and Moby Dick and Nessie prowling in the depths below? Panic attack, muscle cramp. Breathe. Close your eyes, recuperate your troops.

University, 2 degrees:  Skill set acquired.
3 jobs, 7 years away from home: Skill set enhanced.
Journeys to unknown lands, exposure to new cultures, meeting people of great value. Choices equates to Freedom. Making decisions. Right ones. Wrong ones. Receiving Love. Learning lessons.
Take another deep breath:  Life enriched.

And you still don’t know the answer to the dilemma. But at least in a flash of the 9 years past, you’ve gathered the wood-work needed to make an imaginary boat to get you cruising the big blue. And then, when you jump back it the depths, it will be willingly, and the dilemma of swim or shore will cease to exist.

So I have one year to build my imaginary boat.

Will it be all ‘smooth-sailing’ from then on? And if, for the sake of argument (and optimism) it is, will I not get bored? I guess I can always take a plunge in the monster-infested waters and curse the day I realize the monsters were only in my head.

Time Machine

I want the key to the time machine,

The one you won’t let me use.

I want to be shaken sideways in time,

Until my body can no longer bruise.

I want to show you how to be free, like me,

In an instant, that I could do.

I want to soar above our worlds' woes,

Until my wings get heavy from carrying you.

I need to hear your voice in my dreams,

The one that used to soothe my fears.

I need to hold your hand in mine,

When my face is drenched in tears.

Tell me how to right a wrong,

How to undo the damage done,

Tell me it was not your Achilles heel,
Swear to me that what we had was real.
More real than pain, than loss, or my heart I will kill.

The House on the Hill.

Voltaire - To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.

Her hands dug deep into the moist and dense soil. It had only just stopped raining, and the ground was so wet, she could feel the water drench her clothes at her knees as she sat on all fours at the base of the hill. The great tree that she had taken refuge under, to sit out yet another Electric Storm, had wept; its old bark had cracked and tears of resin had trickled down to its base. She had an awkward sense that it was tears of resentment, and rushed to her feet. She touched its resentful resin, and it burned to her touch. Sucking on her sore finger she thought she heard a voice: a child’s voice, coming from the base of the tree, no, from beneath the roots, rising up and reverberating through the bark's cracks and resin pus.

“Hurry”.

The old voices had stopped since she had crossed the river. This voice was of a new order, sounding innocent yet compelling enough for her to pay serious heed. She knew she had no place there, amidst the strange nature, the twisted nature of past, of longing, of yearning, there, deep in the Forest of Forever. She knew it even before she decided to cross beyond the silver river and penetrate the unknown North, but the Gray Wolf left her little choice. He had seized her thoughts, entering her mind at his will, during the dead of the night, and she often could see through his auric eyes, images of frustration, of chase, of want, of desire. She would wake each time thirsty and hungry to venture into the Forest to seek the questions, to which she already knew the answers.

“Hurry, follow the Moon”.

She was still under the weeping tree, lost in thought, remembering the eyes, the golden blazing eyes, and her legs felt like lead. Heavy and almost comatose.

“Hurry, follow the Moon to the House”.

She looked up, between the tree’s thick canopy. She could not see the Moon. She needed to see its command, through its celestial smirk, its behest. With great effort, she took three steps forward placing herself barely into the clearing. The familiar moon shone down on her in all its lunar glory and showed her the path that started at the bottom of the hill.
She felt the bell of urgency ringing through her body and so started to trek up the slope. In some un-human way, she had reached the top with astonishing speed. She did not even need to catch her breath, and she realized to her surprise that at the top of that hill there was no breeze, not even the slightest sensation of wind, she could hardly feel the air around her. It was as if she was in a vacuum and nothing moved. Feeling queasy, she looked down from the precipice at which she stood; she could see no ground, no weeping tree, only a most peculiar thick fog that made her shiver as she could see eerie dark figures dancing in it, hissing and whispering. She did not recall any fog when she was at the bottom of the hill. In fact the air was perfectly clear as she had looked up at the Moon only a little while ago.
The nature around her at the top of the hill was dead; lifeless, livid and diseased. She looked up at the Moon again for council to see that its shade had darkened into a silvery crimson, and she felt uneasy. She must hurry.

She turned and faced away from the foggy abyss below, and in her sight lay what she could gather as being the back of the House on the Hill.
Unlike the contrasting state of the nature in the scenery before her, the House was very much alive. The walls shook and the windows fell into a sudden tremor at each step she took closer to it. She lay still for a while, completely uncertain as to what she was to do. Where was the Gray Wolf? Why was the Moon testing her? What was the Question? The Question now was whether she would approach with boldness in her heart or face the Crimson Moon’s wrath. The Electric Storm would soon come and there was no weeping tree to protect her from its strike. She dared not plunge into the fathomless forlorn nothingness that took the place of what was the bottom of the Hill. Now it appeared that she had no choice.
Biting her lip she took forceful strides towards the House, and as she drew nearer, its image swayed and evaporated at every orifice as vicious vines strangled it from every angle. And so it shook and shuddered, window panes clashing and tiles from the roof tumbling down. Yet she held her pace with tears in her throat and walked round its eastern wing to get a better look for the entrance. On the eastern side, the House seemed to have changed. It was steady, unmoving, and clean. Still old but clean and it reminded her of a time when houses like that were the norm to be surrounding her, and the people she once knew having made their homes and lives therein. She felt wistful and the sentiment built up inside her choking in her throat once again. She kept going until she could see the other face of the House that boasted the main entrance.
 
The sky started to scorch. The lighting started to well up in the clouds. The Moon’s veins pulsated bloody red and its previous silver glow had paled and waned as the impending Electric Storm was imminent. A chant; a deep trance-like chant filled her ears in a tongue she did not recognize, in voices she could not discern and immediately her mind raced back to the torment of nightfall, again and again when the voices came to taunt her, to drive her insane. Amidst the shrewd dry shrubbery in front of the House there appeared silhouettes that slowly took form. For a second she cringed at the idea that these were none other than the eerie figures of the fog below. Then she saw clearly. She saw women, old, wild, weathered women, about half-a-dozen, some scantily clad, others stark naked in a revelry of deep mantra, moving in a wide circle, holding hands. She watched them as they chanted louder and louder until her ears bled at the abominations being uttered. Though she could not comprehend, her guts quivered at the waking of something evil. Something she should not become witness to. With her back against the wall of the House, she moved sideways, quickly and silently, closer to the main door. Her feet were still on the barren ground and she dreaded the moment she had to step onto the old wooden floorboards of the porch. Would they crack under her tread? Would it break their wicked transfixion, and if it did, would they swoop like a flock of rabid harpies on her, under the auspices of the Blood Moon? And the question that burned her skull time and time again: where was the Gray Wolf?

She must take the chance, the Storm was upon them, and she begged in her heart of hearts that the door to the House would open at first attempt. It must! Two steps on the crackling floorboards, she closed her eyes shut and twisted the door knob. It latched open at once and she pushed her weight against its dated resistance to leverage its alliance. Chilling shrieks and resonating thunder belted as she slammed it shut behind her, her eyes still tightly closed. She was inside.

DEFCON 4: The annual metal/rock Fest

Λοιπόν, έχουμε και λέμε: Defcon 4: The annual metal/rock fest, orchestrated by Trailblazer Records για 4η φορά.
Ή αλλιώς De(a)fcon, που νομίζω αρμόζει καλύτερα έτσι όπως το βίωσα εγώ, αφού κράτησε γύρω στις 5 ώρες με πολύ υψηλά decibel.

Έχοντας γίνει σχεδόν «δήμαρχος» του AN Club μέσα στις τελευταίες εβδομάδες, με live όπως Maybeshewill & Orange Goblin, επέλεξα να παρευρεθώ στο Defcon 4 την βραδιά του Σαββάτου 6 Οκτωβρίου. Ένα live το οποίο βιντεοσκοπούταν, με line-up που είχε άκρως heavy ακούσματα, και ήταν ως εξής:
                                                  DREAMLONGDEAD
                                                            AMNIAC
                                                            ASPEN
                                                       MAHAKALA
                                                    SUN OF NOTHING
Το «ψήσιμο» το δικό μου ήταν κυρίως για τους  MAHAKALA τους οποίους είχα να δώ από πέρυσι στο ΚΥΤΤΑΡΟ, και είναι από τις μπάντες που κάνουν κατά βάση καλές εμφανίσεις, χωρίς δυσάρεστες εκπλήξεις. Σίγουρα πράγματα. Επίσης είχα περιέργεια για τους AMNIAC για τους οποίους είχα κάνει ένα μικρό sampling πριν πάω.

Έφτασα κατά τις 9.30μ.μ, προλαβαίνοντας περίπου 3 κομμάτια των DREAMLONGDEAD. Μπαίνοντας και ανοίγοντας τις γυάλινες πόρτες συνειδητοποιώ ότι έχω κάνει την μέγα μαλακία και δεν έχω πάρει ωτοασπίδες. O ήχος τους ήταν βαρύς, ασήκωτος και επιβλητικός, η απόλυτη Sludge-ιά με Stoner riffs και με φωνητικά που ξυπνάνε πεθαμένους. Ένα δυνατό set, αν και λίγο στατικό για τα γούστα μου. Οι DREAMLONGDEAD είναι μία σχετικά νέα μπάντα αλλά η οποία έκανε ένα θορυβώδες άνοιγμα στο Fest και δεν θα την κατέτασσα σε warm-up μπάντα σε καμία περίπτωση.

Επόμενοι ήταν οι AMNIAC οι οποίοι, πέρα από κάποια τεχνικά θεματάκια, δεν με κούρασαν αλλα ούτε με αιφνιδίασαν κι' όλας. Άλλη μία Sludge μπάντα, τα post στοιχεία της οποίας έδιναν μια πιο ελαφριά & ευχάριστη αίσθηση στο set, με Groove-ιές που πλέκονταν νόστιμα με τα κατεξοχήν heavy riffs που τους χαρακτηρίζουν. Γενικά όμορφα και χλιαρά. Ίσως θα έπρεπε να είχαν ανοίξει εκείνοι αντί των DREAMLONGDEAD.

Το stage παρέλαβαν οι ASPEN αντικαθιστώντας τους ROUTES. Οι 3 παλαβοί Πορτογάλοι, οι οποίοι έκαναν support στους Orange Goblin την Πέμπτη που πέρασε, ομολογώ πως τότε δεν μου είχαν αρέσει και πολύ. Ίσως δεν μου ταίριαζαν για προλαλήσαντες των Goblin και μου είχαν φανεί λίγο σε μία ψυχεδέλεια που την θεώρησα άτοπη. Κ' όμως κάτι μαγικό συνέβη το Σάββατο, έγινε ή ανατροπή και τους απόλαυσα στο έπακρο. Μελετημένα κομμάτια, ένα εκ' των οποίων που μέτρησα ήταν σπασμένο σε 5 σημεία, που εναλλασόταν και πάλι επέστρεφε στις αρχικές μελωδίες, συνδυάζοντας Groove ύφος με έντονα Sludge στοιχεία. Πείστηκα να ακούσω το "Winds of Revenge",  για να αποφασίσω τελικά αν όντως μου αρέσουν με κριτήριο την στουντιακή ποιότητα ενός Εxtended Play.

Οι MAHAKALA δεν χρειάζονται συστάσεις. Μetal με κλασσικές ρίζες, πάντα heavy, με Occult αντικείμενο, και θεματολογία περί θεών και δαιμόνων. Ανέβηκαν με υπόκρουση από κραυγές καθώς είχαν δικό τους κοινό από κάτω. Με ένα δυνατό και απόλυτα συντονισμένο ξεκίνημα μας πήγαν ένα ταξίδι χώρο-χρόνου, στην κόλαση των 70's. Αρκετά επικοινωνιακοί οι MAHAKALA έπαιξαν κομμάτια από τον επικείμενο δίσκο τους «Devil's Music», εκτός από 2 που τα είχαμε ξανά ακούσει στο ΕΡ του 09. Καλή σκηνική παρουσία και αψεγάδιαστα φωνητικά, μέτρησα δε 6 από τους θεατές μάλιστα, να επιδίδονται συγχρονισμένοι σε air-guitar ρεσιτάλ σε ένα ημικύκλιο μπροστά στο stage. Μας ζήτησαν να είμαστε λιγότερο «ξενέρωτοι» καθώς όντος το κοινό δεν έκανε φασαρία στις παύσεις ανάμεσα στα κομμάτια παρόλο το head-banging, το air-guitar ρεσιτάλ, αλλά και τα circle pits. Τι να πεις, τόσο καμένοι ήμασταν.

Τους SUN OF NOTHING τους παρακολούθησα λίγο, ιδού η αμαρτία μου. Από τους λάτρεις του είδους όμως άκουσα ότι ήταν «ισοπεδωτικοί». Περί ορέξεως...σαπιλόπιτα. Πολύ σκοτεινιά, παράτολμοι και απόκρυφοι ήχοι, σε συνδυασμό με ψυχρό φωτισμό και τα air condition του AN να βαράν, δημιούργησαν μία άκρως ατμοσφαιρική εμφάνιση. Η σχεδόν θεατρική παρουσία του frontman κέρδισε εντυπώσεις καθώς ταίριαζε γάντι με το Drone/Doom στυλ της μπάντας.

Stay tuned για το επόμενο.

http://www.crackhitler.com/v3/09/defcon-4/