It's been hellish to try and get the images and links working together. Firefox still doesn't render the images properly, or rather it does, but when I hover over them I get a the blue background appearing at the bottom. Ugly as heck, but I presume indicative of a lack of standards compliance in my HTML. IE seems to render fine, though.

Transformer was Reed's breakthrough album, where he managed to reach commercial success by "embracing" glam-rock and coming up with what is often considered one of the best albums of the entire genre; although, whether it really is glam-rock or is just loosely based around it is debatable. Regardless, it is by far Reed's most popular and well known album, and it's easy to see (or rather hear) why. Collaborating with Bowie, Reed went on a considerably different path to some of the Velvet Underground's albums. Now, I don't know about all this glam-rock nonsense, but the melodies are mighty fine. Heck, there isn't a single really weak track on here as far I can tell.

The opener is the delicious "Vicious", which opens with the absurd "Vicious / You hit me with a flower", at which point you just know that it's something else (apparently, Andy Warhol told Reed to write a song called "Vicious" that was "Vicious, like, you hit me with a flower"). Reed's vocals are stunning. I don't often say that, but it's true. The best I can describe it is Dylan for the masses - which I suppose would be Dylan minus nicotine (though not without heroin, eh?). Dylan takes a while to get used to, but his intonations are wonderful once you get accustomed to his voice. Starostin calls Reed "the best Dylan imitator in history", and I would agree. Some people say they can't hear the similarity, but I don't see how. Sure, the voice is different, but it's the intonations, the phrasings that Reed has perfectly captured. Anyhow, "Vicious" has a nice riff with hilarious lyrics ("Vicious / Hey, why don't you swallow razor blades"). Priceless.

"Perfect Day" has such a (dare I say it?) perfect chorus. Heh not really, but I couldn't resist. What does strike you is that Reed, who was involved with such, ah, works of noise (to put it politely) as White Light/White Heat actually has strings in this song. It's odd to hear Reed singing something so mellow and beautiful; is this the same guy who wrote "Sister Ray"? You never can pin this guy down, he's always got a few surprises up his sleeve. I suppose he wasn't afraid to try anything, which is good - he didn't try to keep up a tough-guy image, he just did whatever he felt like. Then we have "Hangin' Round" - now this is pure rock 'n roll, baby! I read somewhere that Dylan was on the road somewhere when he heard a Beatles song on the radio. He stopped the car and started madly thumping the car to the beat of the song. I was tempted to do the same with this song - once the chorus hits, ooh man, it's pure gold. Yes, it's no "Day In The Life", but it's enjoyable nonetheless darn it! And isn't that what's important? The answer, of course, is no.

Of course, the most famous song off this album is "Walk on the wild side", with the subdued shuffling beat and the "Do do doo do doo doo do doo" chorus. But I don't think it's the best song on here. More on that later. The song seems innocent enough, but they mask the lyrics about transvestites and other interesting personalities whom he came across in Warhol's factory. A bit off-putting, actually, since you want to love the song, but for me it's a little hard when I hear of people who "shaved her leg and then he was a she"..anyway, "Satellite Of Love"'s ending is precious - well I like it anyway. That's Bowie doing the "Satelliiiiiiiite", by the way; yep, amazing huh? The song reminds of something else, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

On the whole, pretty darn good, I'd say. My only complaint would be that the album gets a little limp towards the end. The cabaret-flavoured "Goodnight Ladies", for one, doesn't do anything for me, but that's forgiveable, it's over quickly enough. Extremely consistent, and always entertaining - minimal filler and wonderful melodies. How can you go wrong? It's too hard to pick a favourite song. "Vicious"? "Perfect Day"? "Walk on the wild side"? "Satellite Of Love"? Heck they're all great. Even the minor numbers are nothing to be ashamed of (like, say, "Make up" - I'm telling you now, the "You're a slick little girl" line is inexplicably infectious). Amazing stuff! I haven't really dug deep into '70s rock by any means, but I think this is up there among the best of them. Although Band On The Run might have something to say about that, eh? Oh wait a second, the '70s was when Plastic Ono Band came out, so Transformer is at best #2. Hmm and of course we have Rust Never Sleeps. Ya know what, let's leave it at "this is a great album", and save the "Ohhh my album is better than your album" stuff for another day.

Update 4/10/05: Just a quick word to say I now find this is so charmingly naive. Especially the bit at the end about it being one of the best, ah...! Would it still make my top 10 for '70s albums? Possibly, though I think Eno and his collaborations are currently swimming towards the top of my list.

 

Here's when I almost became a folk rock star; a piece inspired by, well, failure (more specifically, my own). Not quite as bad as my epic in 9 parts, but that's not saying much, now is it?

---

It was a black day,
One cruel December morn
When the mighty king fell
As a new one was born.

All his life he'd struggled,
He'd risen to the top
Never once did he think
It would someday stop.

They came in the night,
They dressed themselves in white
And with swords of purest steel
They would be his last sight.

Not all had forsaken him,
There was a knight and wife
She was still glowing when
They stuck in her a knife.

The knight took his master,
And fled from the scene
All the while believing
He was in a dream.

The king had wronged no one,
His heart was pure as gold.
Yet all things' time must come
Or so we are told.

When they found them,
The knight clenched his sword
His palms sweating, he lunged
At the white horde.

His death was quick and easy,
They would recall and laugh
Trained all his life, but in the end
He was cut in half.

The king now left standing,
Not a friend was ledft
And so with a heavy heart
His end he did accept.

They laughed and wept soon after,
And the new king they did appoint
Heart of black and face of white
But in secret, he saw no point.

For in days yet to come
He too would see
A day when his time would come
At the hands of you and me.

---

Somehow, when I wrote this, I had this simple folky melody in my head, and so whenever I read it, it's like a song. What's odd then is how different the words appear to be when you don't have that melody in your head - things which may seem powerful and moving due to the way you sing them can seem quite flat when thought of as just words.

Actually, what the heck, I don't quite mind it, in fact you might say I like it. Sure, it is terrible, but why should that stop me?

A few chuckles (and insights into better GUI designs, if you're a techie) can be found at The Interface Hall Of Shame. Some of the error messages are pretty funny, including one program which prompts an error dialog that insists "No error".

Gather 'round, young ones, it's time for the masterpiece that I wrote two years ago. My epic meditation on death, life, love, and anything else I was thinking about at the time. It is without a doubt utter tripe, but like I said, it's something I ought to remember. Anyone who gets through the whole thing is dumber than me (to paraphrase Lou Reed, talking about this album).

It'll be interesting to see if I can get through the whole thing. But I have to - I simply must.

---

I Ode to lost hope

Hunting by the shores of time
My spirit bobbing up the water
And down it goes again
Down to the depths it returns.

Few have stepped here, it seems,
Too quiet for anyone to have stepped here.
Hear me, and perhaps
I will let you come near.

I once saw a jewel in the river
And I picked it up in a moment
Only to lose it the next
Down to the depths it returns.

I knew someone
Now, he has left me alone
Sometimes I like that he did
Not now, now more or that tone.

Shall we meet
By the shores of time?
A land I have long lived in
A land I now call mine.

Let us meet
By the shores of time
Let us meet
At the last heavenly chime.

Oh, angels of flame!
I would ask of you
Whether this one
May someday become two.

II Gazing at the valley

Never question my voice, sir,
It bears to much wrath
For you to incur.

Waves are flowing around
My head, always beating
That same sound.

Who told you that
I told him that?
Lies, lies, leave me
Be, perhaps one day
You will see
The truth in flowing colour
As the crevice below
Is the only place to go.

The green roots are abound
The valley is alive
Let us wait for the sound.

I can hear the sound
Can you feel it now?
I can feel it now.

III Dawn at a basin

Fortune is what I seek
Come, pity not the meek,
Know you are, above all,
The one true solider who stands tall.

Hail to you, champion of light,
My, such a glorious sight!
Come, let us go below
And our gifts, let us show.

IV Into the deep

Hark, close that door,
What light! My eyes
Cannot bear the sight
They are strong no more.

"Come now, no tears
Is it truly over now?"
Had I not told you
Once upon many a year?

Wipe the tears, and see
How I will fight these fears,
Best wipe those tears,
And sit by me.

Are you leaving? Pray,
Stay a while, I cannot
Tell in dream or death
What makes me say why.

Don't leave, I cannot
Close this door.
Tell me why
You are leaving.

Still, my beating heart
I cannot stop this,
Too much I have done
To stop this.

Gone like a crying angel,
Flying into the beautiful sky blue
My heart, canst advise
What am I to do?

Greetings from the depths.
Wish you were here.

V A Soldier's Funeral

How brave he once was,
Only to end like this.
I blame him not
He did not see anything
Quite like this.

I remember now
How he would tell
Of a trial so harrowing
He know not whom to tell.

If only I knew
What you thought of him,
We could have saved him.
But I blame you not,
We could have killed him.

Why shed tears?
Oh, if I knew!
Could he be saved?
Is it too late?

He knew many a thing,
He fought many a war
But he never had anything
Quite like this before.

His grave's quiet,
Shall we disturb it now?
Or leave it as it is
What is the right thing?
Ye Gods, tell me now!

You were once a friend true,
Wipe your tears now,
It would not be what he wanted.
For rumour is,
He once loved you.

VI Oasis

What, in ill thoughts again?
Need I remind you
Of what we are doing?

I know you can stop it,
I know you can block it,
Have a drink of water
And clear the mind.

VII Judgement

Angel of time,
I am not worthy
I know not your thoughts,
I am not worthy.

Soon I shall see you fly,
Into those clouds of the night,
Perhaps you wish me to join you
But I do not know.
I cannot overcome my fright.

My life has never seen
Anything quite so foreign
To my world of thought.

I know it is normal, angel of time,
I know.
But now, is it normal now?
Some would say yes,
Yes, I fear, not them.

Cursed confusion! I am
Not as able as I once was.
Are you, angel of time,
As able as you once were?

To even reveal myself
Would be a tragedy to you
Oh, angel of time,
What would you want me to do?

Wipe your tears,
We shall survive.
I know you shall
Myself? I am unsure.

VIII Revelation

Put it away!
They might reveal
A secret too tender
For you to heal.

IX The Past Spoke

The past spoke to me
When I was feeling for
What I was feeling.

I would listen to it
But now is not the past.

If only I knew
Without asking,
Without anyone knowing.

Angel of time, I beg
For forgiveness.
At any offence to you.
I beg for forgiveness
If you wished a touch sooner
I am not worthy to touch
One so beautiful.
Wipe my tears, angel of time,
Wipe my tears.

---

Once again, no need to tell me how it's pretentious, heavily influenced by stuff such as The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, how it's total rot, makes no sense, etc. etc. Trust me, I agree completely. Ode to lost hope? Oh God...!! Believe me, I know! It's easily the worst thing ever in the history of human civilization.

I'll just keep repeating "Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now" and it will all be alright..

"You need to become a better individual. I am not saying you are a crappy person, but there is always something that everybody lacks. We, the geeks, mostly lacks in conversation skill and self-image. We are not aware about this until somebody else point that out to us, or see ourselves in a video tape, or maybe when we realize that nobody wants us. Look yourself in a mirror. Do you see a loser or a winner? You must see a winner"

Nice (if typical) motivational speech directed towards geeks, but especially interesting for me. Because I don't want to see a winner in the mirror. "What?!", you splutter incredulously. No, 'tis true, I don't think I want to be a winner. Am I mad? Scared of success? There's bound to be some deep psychological problem that creates this sort of thing.

But seriously, I don't want to be a winner. The thought of it is it both unsettling and, dare I say it, revolting. I don't know, perhaps it's the full moon, but the thought of self-confidence is, well, frightening. I'm not sure whether it's because that would be a dramatic step away from my personality, but I would think not; I think the fundamental issue is that I don't like the thought of being a winner. This is possibly due to the fact that I have this fractured image of what a winner is - it's one of those strong images that is really hard to express in words. Suffice to say, it's not something I wish to pursue.

Surely actually wanting to be a failure is condemning yourself then? The thing is, is there a dichotomy? Winner and loser, failure and success? I would guess that there is someplace in between that I would like to see myself. Mediocrity is the best word for it. The thought of being nothing more than a failure is comforting at times (that's another story for another day, children), but I would like to delude myself at moments like these that I have the potential to rise above it - but I certainly have no desire to be a success. So there must be a middle ground, or else I'm going to be running in circles (which is always a possibility).

In short, I don't want to be one of those smug successful people - mediocrity is my cup of tea.

How is it I find stuff to write about these nights? Not a clue.

Talking about what I wrote a couple of years ago reminds me of something else that I had a couple of years ago (aside from motivation, ambition, and happiness) - a notebook. I must have something like five entries in it, but it's still an integral part of me. The story of how I got it is a brief one. Essentially, when I read Huxley's Those Barren Leaves and Point Counterpoint, I was struck by the thought of ideas. More specifically, a "novel of ideas", as one of the characters mentions. If memory serves, both books have characters who keep diaries where they muse on philosophical ideas, and, being the impressionable young waif that I am, I thought that I too ought to do something like this. For a period of time, I was convinced that this was going to work, that I would actually have these great ideas and put them to words, and have them written down and safe for all of time.

Unfortunately, it didn't work.

Why? I don't quite know. Perhaps I'm so out of touch with the art of writing that I simply cannot do it anymore; then again, there is the fact that I was not able to come up with any great ideas in the first place. No ideas implies no writing. Once I realized this, I thought I might include some fictional writing, the sort a budding writer might have. That failed too, unfortunately. If memory serves, I came up with one poem and one short story, neither of them making much sense at all.

The whole thing sounds like a colossal failure, and in a sense, I suppose it was. But the idea, the principle, they are really strong even till today. The mere fact that I pursued something like that is remarkable, considering how lazy I am, and how inert I am in pursuing any goals or dreams. That much is immortalized in my memory. Yet when I think about it, in a sense this blog has become that notebook; this is exactly the kind of thing I would have liked to have written there, except that for some reason it didn't work back then. Sure, the mere fact that this is an digital format makes it lose that quaint charm that the notebook has, but I think my former self would be pleased that I have found a way to express myself, albeit I don't do it as often as I would like. Still, baby steps..!

What the heck, let me get the ball rolling, here's the "story" I had in the notebook. On glancing at the date, it appears it was little over a year ago. I simply don't remember it being so recent. Charmingly enough, before the story I wrote the following:

Let me experiment a little.

And without further ado, here we go:

---

(Professor's study, 1969)
It was purely by chance that I came across the latter. Buried amongst a pile of obscure writings and seemingly incoherent scribbles, it was hardly the sort of thing one would notice. I wonder what life would have been like had I not seen it. But I can't, really. Whatever I imagine has been directly influenced by what has happened. The 'other' reality my mind creates is probably further away from reality than the actual non-reality. But I still wonder.

Several hours I spent that night, legs resting on the table as I glimpsed at the moon. This, this was real. This was. It existed - a moment was something born, something which lived. I sighed with satisfaction.

(1984)
"What's this about your daughter being missing?"
('As a sparrow flies, the hawk follows')
"Yes, I don't know what to do anymore"
('Blood, red blood, dripping from the ceiling. I can taste it')
"Never fear, we'll find her soon"
('Wait a while. The axe will fall')
"I say, are you alright?"
"Not really, no.."
('Tears are for the weak')


(1951)
"Chaos. It's everywhere. But what is it? How to define it? More importantly, how to stop it? Can we stop it?"

No idea what he's talking about. Time seems to be crawling. Tick-tock..

"Let's overthrow the government"

Didn't see that one coming.

"Volunteers?"

Can't hurt.

(1977)
The raids are everywhere. It's only a matter of time. But now I have a family. Surely that's enough for them?

(1973)
"It's a girl".

I'm so happy.

(1968)
I wonder what he's up to. Surely nothing dangerous? Curses that he should be a guest here! Jane sure knows the best time to find distant relatives.

---

I know, I know, it's not so much a story than a stream of consciousness ramble. I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking at the time. An interesting artifact of the past (for me anyway, you probably don't care!). The jumping between past and present, incidentally, is influenced by Eyeless In Gaza. Is Huxley the only author I've read!? No, but he's the one who's had the most impact on me.

Please, save your scorn, and pity my former-self, he was but a young lad trying to fit into this crazy world.

A couple of years ago, I had done some writing that I think sort of defined that period in time for me. A while back, I read it again, but found it visceral - looking back on the whole matter, I get incredibly embarassed and wonder just what I was thinking. At the same time, do I want to forget it? I think it may be worthwhile preserving some of it, for posterity's sake. After all, if this blog is meant to be a collection of thoughts and ideas, why limit myself to the present? It would be silly to deny the past, no matter how foolish it may seem in the light of the present. I once remarked that hindsight is a sadly ironic thing - amazingly powerful, but never there at the time you need it the most (the present).

It may be worthwhile to remember this lyric too:

"Learn from grass
Learn from water
How to transform
Into something other"

Not written by me, but still hopelessly funny (and no, this is not one of those "I have this..friend, see, and he has a problem" things). I feel sorry for the author of the lyric, because, well, I don't know. Either he feels embarassed looking at it now, or else he still remembers it fondly. Tragically funny is the best way I can describe it; is it amusing because one pities the author? Is it both? An interesting scenario, to be sure. When I say "pity the author", it's not with a condescending tone, but it's more of a situation where I can relate to the author. I think at some point we all pity ourselves (well, at any rate, I know I do). Anyone who seriously mocks someone for something like this has to be, well, utterly without soul. God I hate those people.

Anyhow, I might post the first in a series of writings from the past sometime today.

Incidentally, I installed FF7 again yesterday. Memories, sweet memories..

I think Blogger will either have to upgrade servers, or tell people to get rid of all their images! It seems like everytime I click on a recently published blog, it's one that has just been created. It's becoming too popular for it's own good. What kind of server must it run? How does it profit? I'd really like to know.

If possible, one thing I want to do by the end of the holidays is hook up a computer to a projector system and play games. Why? Well why not darn it!? I have precious little going on in my life, so why not play computer games like they were meant to be played, on a freaking huge screen?

I've somewhat changed the blog layout, but it's essentially the same as what it was before. A small step in the right direction though.