Darkness

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires - and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings, the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forest were set on fire but hour by hour
They fell and faded and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremolous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless, they were slain for food:
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again; a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corpse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress, he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies;
They met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Wich was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and
Each other's aspects. saw, and shriek'd, and died, beheld
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless,
A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expired before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them. She was the universe.

-- a poem by Lord Byron

For more enjoyment, play a Monster Magnet cd while reading.

Feeling Hoth Hoth Hoth: The Word of Star Wars

You may, or you may not, have heard about this new blog challenge, which promises to be a hot(h)shot performance yet again. That's right: it's the word of Star Wars, and the word is Hoth.

Well, in my case, the word is Hoth; in other cases, they can be such simple or unimaginable words like clones or rebreather or datapad. I am the lucky guy, getting "Hoth" instead of other, more complicated words.

The point of this blog about Hoth, is to make a blog in which a given word (i.e. "Hoth") is used, in any way, in every sentence of said blog. You may have noticed I have used the word "Hoth" in every sentence up till now. And I'm going to put Hoth in every sentence still to come. If Hoth is not your thing, you'd better stop reading now -- seriously.

What, you may or may not ask, is Hoth again? Within the Star Wars universe ("In a galaxy far, far away...") Hoth is the sixth planet of the distant Hoth system. It's the planet where the aptly named Battle of Hoth raged, when the fearsome AT-AT walkers attacked the Rebels' Echo Base (pictured). The Battle of Hoth was portrayed to near-perfection in the now classic film The Empire Strikes Back. Of course, Luke Skywalker saved the day (along with some major and minor characters) and the Rebels, having found their base under attack by the very Empire they were plotting to undermine, evacuated from Hoth to find solace elsewhere.

Hoth, despite the sound of its name, is a cold and forever snow-covered planet, which seems mostly lifeless. Looks are deceptive, though, since Hoth was also the place where Luke was attacked by a huge wampa creature. This great predator, which kind of looks like an angry white Bigfoot, fed on large animals like tauntauns, and basically everything else they encountered on the icy planes of Hoth. Despite its ferociousness -- and exactly because of it -- powerful and rich criminals paid large sums to take one of the legendary wampas from Hoth to illegal arenas of bloodshed and personal vendettas, and so spreading the reputation of one of the most aggressive creatures in the galaxy.

Anything else on Hoth? Not much -- and I'm not sure if Hoth, or variations of it, is interesting enough to fill a blog longer than this. Therefore I will say adieu and end this pitiful little attempt at blogging about a pretty dull place like Hoth.

Some like it hoth -- but I prefer Naboo in summertime.

Click it, dammit

Pong: The true story behind a classic videogame

Yes, it's worth clicking. Do it now. Otherwise, what's the point in reading this? That's it. Thank me later.

My name's Bond. Benny H Bond.

Woohoo. We won.

The Dutch national football team, that is. Our first match in the European Cup, and we beat the reigning world champion, Italy, with 3-0.

Now that's unexpected. That wasn't part of my predictions. I'll have to buy some orange outfits, then.

...on a steek

Star Spam

Aerosmith

What he was really thinking

Waves are calling

Today, I took a walk on the beach.

Since a few months I live quite near the sea and for some reason I hadn't gone there yet. I thought about doing so quite a few times, but it wasn't until today I really went.

I've always loved the beach and, more so, the sea. Since ancient times, the sea has meant freedom to many people. Some of the first human societies were sea-faring peoples. The sea brings food, prosperity and adventures.

Mankind's fascination with the sea is understandable. Weathering its many dangers, people can gain so much from the sea, despite the costs. She gives and she takes.

Some societies thought the sea was a godlike person. A god with a fish tail and a trident, or a powerful goddess. Perhaps that is why the sea attracts so many -- and also attracts me.

I am no sailer, no fisherman, and I don't think I ever will be. However, the sea is inviting and mesmerizing to me. I don't find her fair (not the North Sea, anyway) and she's often cold to me, but for some reason I feel a strong pull towards her. She's calling me, but I know not for what purpose.

Perhaps it is my sense of adventure, my need for freedom. When I am at the beach, all I want is the sound of crashing waves, the wind through my hair, and my eyes on the horizon. Moments like these, nothing else matters. A sense of the divine, perhaps -- or some form of "zen". Leave all earthly matters behind.

Eventually, of course, I must go back home. But always there remains a sense of wonder. Wondering at what the sea wants from me -- or perhaps wondering why I left her again. In my mind, her promise that she'll be waiting forever.

Every day, she sends her sea gulls to remind me of her.

Just a shame I don't like fish.

Over the border line

Borderline. A nice song by Madonna; a serious and tiring disorder for some people.

The sad part is that this "personality disorder" is not a grotesque, absurd thing that is entirely beyond other people's understanding; no, it is a disorder in which normal human emotions are magnified out of proportion. Everyone feels extreme emotions sometimes -- love, fear, anger -- but people with borderline do so every single waking moment. And they switch between the emotions instantly.

One moment a person is everything they've always wanted and more, and the next moment that same person is the devil incarnate and can't do anything right. This, of course, exhausts borderliners themselves, as well as their surroundings.

I feel great sympathy for people with borderline. Despite the fact that they sometimes drive me mad -- or, perhaps, because of it.

Right now, I am going through many emotions. Much like a borderliner, my emotions can change rapidly and are intense. I will not go into the situation that caused it (but don't be worried -- I'm fine, sort of) but what I feel is conflicting. I feel torn.

But unlike a borderliner, I often feel conflicting emotions at the same time. Anger, joy, love and repulsion -- it's all there. A paradox of feelings.

And I fear only time will tell which emotion will last the longest.

Hunt them down

I have no idea what this means, but it looks weird and amazing.

Crap

When you gotta go, you gotta go.

Today's random thoughts

New on this blog's menu: the random thoughts of the day. Which, as they are random, will probably be a non-daily occurrence.

On to the randomness.

* Trees and flowers should have human rights, too.

* Wiggling noses are cute. So are toes. Eyes are scary, though.

* Why is that in the dark, one can't see, while in the light, one can?

* Of all the things one should do, the easiest are the hardest to start doing.

* There is a 99.1% certainty that nobody's reading this. There is a 23.6% chance you are offended by it, though. Around 4.7% chance you will now boycott trade relations with me, my family and generally everyone who happened to live in a 200 kilometer radius from me. And then try to kill all of us.

* Randomness is overrated.

Who am I?

A seemingly simple question -- who am I?

One could say I am a guy called DragonFang to some and Nils to some others. One could say I am a friend, or a lover, or a son. One could state I am a psychologist, or a dreamer, or perhaps a nice guy. And one would be correct in all cases (I hope).

However, those descriptions do not define me.

There is something, beyond words, that defines my identity -- who I am, and nobody else is. Everyone feels it instinctively. The moment a child realizes its identity does not stretch out beyond itself -- their mommy and daddy do not know what it has done in their absence. The line between oneself and the outside world. The line that defines my being.

Nothing I do or am is unique; however, every person is unique. This is probably the individualist's paradox -- one doesn't want to be part of the crowd, but in doing so becomes a part of (another) crowd that wants to be unique. People try to define themselves based on what they are not, but achieve the opposite effect.

It is a paradox I can't escape from, and from it springs my question -- who am I? Am I a unique individual at all?

Interestingly, people in less individualistic societies (China, North-Korea, even Eastern Europe) define themselves exactly by referring to their social class. They are a farmer, or a businessman, or a mother. What makes them special is generally not what they think of.

Perhaps we are not as unique as we would like to believe. To paraphrase Tyler Durden, perhaps I am not a beautiful and unique snowflake, but I am merely the same decaying matter as everything else.

And only in death will I have a name -- on a fading tombstone, eroded and finally forgotten.

Goth is art

Like toy soldiers...

Or: how to dispose of your enemies with creativity.

You don't know the power...

Unleashed

(Click Standard to view in this screen)

Artsy partsy

Note: Not my art. Mine's better, of course.