Satyrday, a Fable. Thursday, parts 5 & 6,

     Deirdre woke alone, as usual. It was full noon, grey and dim. Around her, the walls of trees rose as before. For a moment she found that difficult to accept. So much had happened during the past day; the forest should have changed, begun to bud or flower, or fall away entirely. But the dense pattern of treebranch and leafless shrub repeated itself into the distance. She stretched her wings and folded them again, trying to relieve the ache that had developed during the flight the night before. Deirdre thought of the moon then, and how she had swung helplessly beneath the ravens as they'd carried her south. She'd tried to capture the moon's attention, to let her know the fight continued, but the moon had closed her eyes and let herself be taken, and Deirdre hadn't had the nerve to make herself known.
     Above her, a branch creaked, and when she looked up, she realized she wasn't alone. Condor sat there, staring down at her intently. His head was cocked to one side, and his beak was slightly open, like an idiot's. "Hi," he said jauntily. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
     "What are you doing?" Deirdre asked, flustered. "How long have you been here?"
     "Since it began to get light. I want to talk to you. I want to be with you."
     "Your candor is unnerving," Deirdre said.
     "My what?" Condor asked.
     "You don't understand a thing I say." Deirdre wasn't ready for Condor's blend of innocence and stupidity so early in the morning. "Why don't you go find someone to fly with? I haven't the time to take on an abecedarian . . . er . . . beginner."
     "But I understood what you said last night about the owl," Condor objected. "Besides, I don't want lessons. I just want to be near you."
     Deirdre shuddered on her branch. How was she going to get rid of him?
     "I have something you'll want to hear," Condor said quickly, afraid he'd be ordered to leave if he didn't speak fast. "The whole clan is arguing. There;s only one thing being talked about."
     Deirdre looked at him with sudden interest. Her anger subsided a bit. "What do you mean?" she asked.
     "I followed you last night after you saved my life. . . ."
     "Do me the favor of eschewing the melodrama," she said, and brushed right past Condor's puzzlement. "I only offered a word on your behalf. The falcon did nothing more than ask your name."
     "But he would have reported it to the owl," Condor said. "Anyway, I followed you after we carried the moon down there, and then when you slept, I went off to see what was going on. Everywhere I flew I found another group talking about him. Some say he's crazy. Lots are beginning to think his plan won't work. And now those three strangers are coming. Who are they?"
     "Never mind, Condor."
     "But you know them? Are they friends of yours?"
     Deirdre's vanity got the better of her. "Of course they're friends of mine," she snapped. "Why do you think they're on their way?"
     "To visit you?" Condor asked. "But I'd think that now was hardly the time. . . ."
     "Shut your beak!" Deirdre screamed.
     "I'm sorry," Condor said. "I'll be quiet."
     Deirdre sat for a minute until her heart resumed its natural rhythm. She looked at Condor, so good-natured yet so dull-witted she wasn't sure she could endure his company another minute. Her forbearance won over her anger. "Come with me," she said, and rose into the air.
     The younger bird flew after her. As she dipped and spun in the subtle currents, he followed as a respectful distance. She hovered over the treetops, and then headed east, her eyes trained on the forest below. She hadn't flown far when she saw a cluster of ravens, and she tucked her wings and dived. She and Condor settled quietly on a remote limb and listened to the conversation.
     It was like nothing she had heard before among the members of the clan. Most were given to small talk, idle chatter. But she was riveted now, galvanized by the intensity she heard in their voices. A dozen birds were engaged in an argument about the owl, just as Condor had said. Those inclined to follow him held the edge, but the few dissenters clung to their views with a tenacity which impressed her and gave her hope. She kept her beak closed and tried not to look too pleased.
     When she'd heard enough, she flew off again, and Condor, who had remained silently beside her, keeping his promise, flew off as well. They circled above the forest's top and headed west. They passed over a clearing, and when Deirdre looked down, she saw another group of ravens. Though she could not hear what was being said, the voices rose to her, angry and discordant.
     Everywhere the twp of them flew, the same drama unfolded. It's happening, she thought. The owl has overplayed his hand.
     She settled on a tree limb. Condor was right beside her. "See?" he said. "Isn't it just as I said?"
     "Yes," Deirdre replied. "Now I must be off. So be a good bird and keep watch. Let me know what's happened when I return."
     "But I want to stay with you," Condor said. "I won't be any trouble, I promise. I'll keep out of your way, and I'll be there if you need anything. And I'll be quiet."
     "You can be of more help to all of us by remaining here and finding out as much as you can."
     The younger bird looked at her mournfully. "Please don't send me away," he said.
     Deirdre became exasperated. "There are things you are too young to understand," she said. "There are things I have to do alone."
     "Please," he said. "Please let me come. I think I'm in love with you."



                                                         *                      *                       *



     As they raced across the sand, the spell of Matthew's music wore off, and before they could reach the nymph, she was a fox again. Derin collapsed on the sand, still light-headed, this time from the heat and his exhaustion. If he had been bathed in sweat before, now he nearly drowned in it. His face was a brilliant red, and when Matthew wheeled to a stop beside him, spraying sand, the satyr's first thought was that he'd killed the boy. But Derin threw back his head and laughed, drawing in the desert heat in burning draughts.
     Vera hadn't found the episode so amusing. She scoweled at the satyr as she lay on the sand, panting. "I'm sorry," Matthew said. "I couldn't help myself."
     "You're cynical and perverse," Vera said. "I didn't know you could do that."
     "I'm afraid so," Matthew said. "Trouble is, it never works. I can't run and play at the same time." Vera looked away disdainfully, as though she hadn't heard him. Her pretense didn't stop him. "If I'd caught you before you changed back into a fox," he said, "could you change after I'd caught you?"
     "No," she said. "Not until after you let me go."
     "Damn," he said. He slapped his thigh with his open palm and laughed. He was so good-humored about it, so like a small boy who finds he can do something clever, that Vera couldn't hold onto her temper for long.
     "Next time I'll have to run faster," Matthew said.
     "There won't be a next time," Vera said. "I'm warning you."
     Over them the sky grew darker. All three looked up at the clouds, now more ominous, beginning to ripple. Without saying another word, they rose from the sand and started toward the mountains, more quickly than before, trying to outrace whatever it was that threatened them form above.
     The rain came at them vertically, like knives. Soon they could see nothing but the grey walls enveloping them. The water stung them as though it were more than water, something almost animate with a mind of its own. Vera's fur became sodden and matted, smudged and yellow with sand. The water streamed down Derin's neck, into his eyes and mouth, so that he sputtered, shielded his mouth with his hand when he tried to breathe.
     Its velocity increased; it came at them so fiercely, Derin felt himself being pounded into the sand. But where was the sand? He was up to his ankles in water. It no longer seeped into the desert, but sat on its surface like a small lake.
     They sloshed through this sudden swamp more slowly, the water now above their ankles, dragging them down. A tiredness came over Derin which made him stumble. He thought he could no longer pick up his legs. Vera and Matthew were also dazed, their bodies numbed by the driving rain, their senses lulled into a state approaching sleep. They were all too lethargic to be worried.
     Derin stopped walking; his legs buckled and he sank to his knees in the water. He cupped some rain in his hands and brought it to his lips, but it was warm and brackish, like the water in the stream in the meadowlands. Matthew, throwing water before him with each step, reached the boy and walked past, catching Derin by the elbow and dragging him to his feet. The gesture was unconscious, concerned only with survival, as though a dream had overcome the satyr and he had lost his power of thought. He was moving to rhythms he would not have been able to explain, but forceful enough to draw Derin out of himself. He watched the satyr and the fox, lost to him now, responding to their animal natures, and he knew he would have to follow them, to do as they did, without talking, without even thinking, if he hoped to outlive this onslaught, this plague of rain.
     And then it lessened. First, Derin began to see further and further ahead, as though grey curtains were being lifted in front of him. The stinging drops became less heavy, and the storm front moved over them, headed north. One minute it was raining, and then the wall of water was to their right, receding rapidly. They watched it go, like the retreat of fever, and the boy became dizzy, as thought he'd been returned to himself after a long absence. he dared not speak to his companions who seemed still dazed; the sickness which had lifted from him still had them in its grip.
     It was steam the rain left behind. As the sky brightened from dark to light grey, the heat increased and the water evaporated from their clothes, from Vera's fur, from the sand under their feet, sinking into the desert and lifting from the Plain in shimmering waves.
     Only when the water under their feet was gone did Matthew and Vera seem to awaken. Matthew rubbed his eyes, as after a long and turbulent sleep, and Vera hung her head and shook it from side to side. They looked at one another in wonder, having shared something they didn't understand, and Derin, for a moment, felt an almost unbearable wave of loneliness.



                                                     *                       *                       *



     If only Rise of Skywalker was a well constructed piece of cinema, I would have brought up "No one is ever truly gone" as a great and a wise line from a great film. But it's not, so I will instead say "No one can truly kill me, or this blog".

     If you want me to actually speed this along, you must leave a comment. Otherwise, I will go as fast, or painfully slow, as I please.

The accordion, aka world's first portable piano!

     German folk music. French street musicians. Russian and finish folk. It is pointless fighting over which country's music scene can claim the accordion. Because of what needs to be remembered and understood.

     And what needs to be understood is that the accordion was the world's first portable piano.

     If you're not a musician, i could explain it like this: most music instruments cannot play all that many things, most of them are very limited with what you can squeeze out of them. Piano, on the other hand, despite being somewhat harder to play on (all those keys look the same, dammit!), you can play almost anything on. There is a reason so many world famous classical pieces are for the piano. Piano can have up to 10 notes ringing at any given moment, giving you more options of what to play. NOW, of course more does not mean better, and one could play great things on a simpler instruments despite the limitations............ but on the piano it is easy (after years of practice) to play any composition, except maybe orchestral (and even that could be fudged).

     So, what does this mean?

     It means with the accordion, you have a portable piano that does not need power. Take it with you when you go to the country, when you go mushroom picking. Take it with you on the beach. Grab it when you move to a new town, a new country. And you could play whatever you want, wherever you want!

     See now why accordions were an instant hit? See now why the instrument spread all over Europe (after someone somewhere PROBABLY around Germany invented it) and later the world.

     Accordion has been a part of european folk music several hundred years now, with no country really "owning" it. Don't fight over the portable piano, european nations, do not fight over "who the accordion belongs to"; share this common musical tradition instead!

Don't call it pop!

     I don't like when certain music gets labeled "pop". I just don't like it. Why? Because in my little world "pop" carries negative implications. I see pop as the opposite of art. Arght is when you follow your sixth sense and ur <3, and create something good, without careful calculations of how to please as many people as possible. When CC (careful calculations) get involved, the art becomes craft. And I have nothing against craft. However, when I want art, I won't take your craft alone as a substitute.

     What makes it worse is the current state of pop music. And by that I mean mainstream pop. Apparently there is such thing as "indie pop", where musicians write and arrange their own stuff. I am not talking of those fine gentlemen and gentleladies. No, I mean the SHIT you get on your car radio and the abortion that MTV has become after ~2005.

     When you spend years listening to ALL kinds of music, all genres (yes, even that one), songs and instrumentals, and even knowing how music is made, being able to compose, makes you see cheap emotional manipulation for what it is. The same few chord progressions to evoke the same quick emotional responses. The same damn drum samples. Not very imaginary arrangements (you do know what arrangement is, right?...) THE SAME DAMN WORDS ABOUT """ROMANCE""" (it's really fucking) OR YOUR DAMN BROKEN HEART THAT IS NOT WORTH ANYTHING SINCE YOU ARE CREATIVELY BANKRUPT AND LITERALLY DISPOSABLE.

     In other words........... please don't call this really cool band I like "pop", they deserve better.

Green Eyes

     I do not get it. So, allegedly the differing eye colours are due to the different melanin content. You know melanin, right? It's that brown stuff that, in large quantities, makes brown so dark you call it black. Black eyes are like that, so much melanin they have no choice but the be black.

     So, in that case, eyes with less and less melanin should have brown, light brown, beige, and pale beige colours...... right? Well, somehow "less brown stuff" means green and blue. CAN SOMEONE EXPLAIN THIS? Cause my low IQ brain cannot get it. Apparently it has to do with light refractions or something like that...?

     /shortpost

The SMALL Spyro problem...

     NO, this is not well timed clickbait.

     Today, gents and ladiesmen, I will bring your attention to the size of Spyro the Dragon. Yes, his size. Spyro, believe it or not, is small.

     Now, the reason for Spyro's small size does not matter much. Mayhaps he was shrunk to appeal to tiny humans playing the game at the ripe age of 6. Perpossibly playing as a smaller character works better for a platformer. It even allows for the premise and story of the first game. There are several reasons to make Spyro small, be they logical, stylistic, and market based.

     Then what's the "PROBLEM", exactly?? Why am I complaining, having just explained why small Spyro makes sense?

     Well, the thing is, Spyro is not just small. He is small because he is YOUNG. And that creates a problem no one thinks about.

     The problem arises when you keep making sequels. Unless you're rebooting the franchise all the time (cough, cough), with every sequel some time passes. Spyro MUST age, however slow. What I am getting at, is that at some point Spyro has GOT to grow. Even if he is unusually small for a dragon, he HAS to grow, at least a little.

     And despite that being common sense, it is a problem. If Spyro The Dragon™ ever grows up and get bigger*, that will destroy the iconic brand's recognition. Iconic look is the only way to be remembered by an audience who will return to buy your sequels. What if Crash Bandicoot stops being orange and loses his mohawk? What if Mario shaves off his mustache? What if Harry Potter loses his forehead scar? What if Slash takes off his hat and sunglasses?? WHAT IF YOUR FAMOUS CHARACTERS STOPS LOOKING AS YOU REMEMBER THEM?

     No no no, we cannot have that!~!

     And that, is why you cannot make Spyro The Dragon™ bigger. If you do that, the numerous retards in the audience will get all confused, and not buy the next game. "What the fuck?! Who is that?? I don't recognize that large purple reptile! Where's muh Smol Spyro™???" Or, perhaps, if you are slightly less a retard, "The fuck?! Why is Spyro BIG now? Why did they change him? I don't like when things get different, I don't want this! Take it away, I want my Smol Spyro™ back!!!" And a sequel with a grown up Spyro does not sell. And that is sad.

     And so, our little purple dragon will continue to roam the earth (gliding occasionally to reach some gems), cursed to forever remain small, to never grow up. He will never grow old enough to do it with Elora without the risk of jail time. That is why Spyro's iconic small size is a SMALL problem.




* LOS is a reboot and a different canon. Doesn't count.

Bipolar Geniuses? !

     Hi, I'm a guy on the INTERNET! Have you ever seen a man (or woman or bear) be exceedingly smart and insightful on some topic on one day, and then blabber something extremely stupid on another? Say something that really makes you think on Tuesday, and then declare the Matrix sequels smart and deep on Wednesday?

     Yes, I am sure you have met at least one person like this: a philosopher at night, a retard at day. Such people are more common than fans of obscure british animated shows. And yet, to call them "regular flawed individuals" would be incorrect, since such regular people are usually not extraordinary in any way, with nothing great about them. Such "average" homosapienses are mediocre at everything, and make up roughly 80% of the world's population.

     NO, these are special people, distinguished for being either extremely insightful and wise, or extremely stupid and mentally lazy. I have been thinking... what would I call such people? I don't believe anyone ever devised a word for such strange folk.

     Until today.

     4 today, I have finally solved this problem that no one ever cared about! From this point, these "sometimes brilliant, sometimes daft" people will be called Bipolar Geniuses™. ©Me, 2017.

     No one steal!








     More post are coming, as this blog continues to live, despite according to all known mainstream science it should be dead.

The Vicious Cycle of Cute (a rant on art websites)

     On a popular art sharing site, a drawing of a CUTE vaguely kitten-like thing had been uploaded.

     A user with a CUTE avatar icon writes "CUTE!" in the comment section.

     on another day . . . . .
     
     A CUTE vaguely kitten-like thing with BIG CUTE EYES is posted.
     A user with a CUTE avatar comments: "CUTE! Draw moar liek this!"

     on a different day . . . . .

     A CUTE vaguely kitten-like thing with BIG CUTE EYES is posted.
     A user with a CUTE avatar comments: "CUTE! Draw moar liek this!"
          
     a day after . . . . .

     A CUTE vaguely kitten-like thing with BIG CUTE EYES is posted.
     A user with a CUTE avatar comments: "CUTE! Draw moar liek this!"

     on the next day . . . . .

     A CUTE vaguely kitten-like thing with BIG CUTE EYES is posted.
     A user with a CUTE avatar comments: "CUTE! Draw moar liek this!"

     on another day . . . . .

     A CUTE vaguely kitten-like thing with BIG CUTE EYES is posted.
     A user with a CUTE avatar comments: "CUTE! Draw moar liek this!"

     the next day . . . . .



     . . . . . . . . . . .

   

     . . . . . YOU wake up. You do the usual routines, eventually get to your piece of paper/drawing tablet. You want to draw something. You want to make a drawing. You want to create a picture for others to see.

     But what will you draw? . . . . . .