The ocean of lost souls

 

Septicflesh/ Jon Simvonis: Portrait of a Headless Man. 

I have been busy doing what I can't refer to here. And what is just too mundane to write about. I know you are reading this blog because you're certain that any moment now, I may bare more than just my soul. You hope you may glimpse a tit. Instead you get cat photos. Such is the unfairness of life.

Well, my friend Jon Simvonis has been busy too. Unlike me, he has something to show for his efforts; the staggering music video of this post. He's responsible for the visual part, which is a feast of industrial SF horror and black slime. You see Septicflesh have been busybodies, and they pushed out yet another deliciously wicked baby called Codex Omega, which you can listen to here and grab here. If you want to begin your day with a torrentuous hail of unearthly growls married to brutal death metal onslaught while the orchestra of the damned performs in the background (using entrails for strings, dragon skulls for percussion and bladders for wind instruments), now you know what to do. It's probably what demons listen to while tearing the souls of the sinners to bloody shreds. It's certainly what I'll be listening to in order to deal with bureaucracy or depression.  

So September is here and I'll be soon looking for a job. I have a good feeling. I swam a lot this summer, and the sea has a calming effect on me. I don't know why the majority is afraid of the deep. There is nothing more tranquil than swimming in very deep sea. The open firmament above, the abyss below, and me balancing on the fine line of the horizon. Effort is reduced to a bare minimum, movement is unrestricted, relaxing, almost poetic. It resembles flying while wide awake. Let's not forget it was the ocean that gave birth to life. Like any other primordial element, it should be respected. It is the closest we have to the womb of creation on this planet. 

Do humans respect it? Ha. 

Do I give a shit about humans? No. I mean really, look at that and tell me why I should bother.

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Busy, broke, chubby and strangely pleased.

Chris and Seth, founding members of Septicflesh (and their cute as a button daemon-familiar).

I've been trying to tie loose ends for the past two weeks. There are countless little chores I've been avoiding like the devil avoids incense (as the Greek saying goes), but they need to be done. So lately I've been tackling them. They aren't important, but completing them offers me a strange sense of accomplishment. They are boring and unpleasant and necessary, so every single one that gets out of the way is one boring task less. I'm mightily impressed with myself.

On the good news' side, I plan to do an interview with the extreme metal band Septicflesh. They are Greek, they are awesome, and I've been a fan for many years. If you aren't familiar with them and you love symphonic death metal, check them out. They are excellent and constantly evolving. I hope they'll agree to an interview. My blog isn't music-related; it exists to document my obsessions so that my psychiatrist can have a better clinical picture er... so that I can write about my interests. Yes, of course. I have already started sacrificing pizzas and ice-creams to darker entities (it's plenty dark inside my stomach, believe me) to make sure I land that interview. If I don't, I'll just increase the number of sacrifices, fart despondently and wallow in disappointment.

Psst. Let me tell you a secret. I hate all those metal bands. Well, 'hate' might be too strong a word. Almost without exception, members of those bands have longer hair than mine and about 2.345 more tattoos than I do. I am jealous AF. That without referring to the fact men with long hair and tattoos accidentally press a special button inside my brain. I start secreting ginormous amounts of saliva while staring at them, one eye rapidly blinking, drool running down my chin, moonstruck smile splitting my face in two. I'm usually fantasizing that I have then in my bed in full metalhead gear and I comb their hair. Oooh what pretty hair you have. Oooh let me comb it for you. Show me your tattoos. Oooh you bad boy you, all dressed in black and leather. And so on. Of course, any sane person that sees me during that phase is certain I am having a stroke combined with a psychotic episode, and slowly tiptoes out of my field of vision. I don't even realise, too busy combing imaginary hair. *Sigh* My chances of capturing one of those specimens to enact that bedroom scene are slim to none, especially bearing in mind two facts: 1) the unreasonable number of cats on my bed 2) my super audacious chubby tummy, blowing raspberry to possible suitors from under my (carefully selected) loose t-shirts. But one can dream, right?

 

Quiz: cats on my bed. How many can you count? Plus foot porn.

In other news, I am broke as FCUK. Therefore I have started selling things I don't need. Right now I have three stamp albums listed on Ebay, official products, sold out years ago and completely impossible to find under normal circumstances. If you want, please take a look. They are very reasonably priced and I'd love to re-home them and use the money to buy more urgent things.

Items I sell on Ebay are here.

I'll keep you updated on the interview. Now go out and be as naughty and impudent as my round tummy.
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Valentine special: Ikea cupboards and Greek extreme metal bands

As a general observation, I avoid Greek art like the plague. I am not referring to ancient Greek art or the kick-ass Greek poets we were lucky to have. I avoid reading modern Greek writers, watching Greek films and listening to Greek music. Then again, there is a Greek band called Septicflesh that I love to bits. If you enjoy the darker aesthetic and symphonic death metal, check this awesome video. It's directed by Jon Simvonis, a friend of mine. If you like your visual treats a little fucked up and still wiggling/ crawling 'fresh', you'll find this right up your alley. If not, don't watch it. It will most likely put you off your food, and maybe your grandparents as well.

(If you enjoyed the video, you can see more of my friend's work at his site here, or subscribe to his youtube channel, and you can be real darlings and like his Facebook page.)

Other than that, it's Valentine's day tomorrow. I am busy at work. Have you noticed there are days someone leaves the doors of the asylums open and the inmates are left to their own devices, to roam the earth and make the rest of the population tear their hair? I got several escapees already. They came disguised as customers. One in particular was so weird and hopelessly idiotic I wanted to ask her if she found her boyfriend before or after the lobotomy. Being a polite seller, I kept my mouth shut and my opinions to myself. Blogging doesn't count. 

Besides that, I want to refer to the fact lately I've entered a weird phase and keep ogling men like Chris Hemsworth (Thor), Chris Evans (Captain America) and Benedict Cumberbatch (in his role as Khan). Men who seem to belong to an Ikea catalogue, cupboard section. If you ask me why, I have no plausible explanation. I can only attribute it to my present age. My ovaries are probably singing the Lament of Unfertilised Eggs, and lust after man meat (=good genes for possible children, that by the way, I don't want to have). Well I never. Ever since I remember myself, I liked my men feminine. Now I stare at buffed up studs with backs like trees and thunder thighs of doom and grin absentmindedly, in an idiotic manner. Slightly disturbing, but to hell with it. I have bigger problems than my changed taste in men. Besides, the possibility of me finding such a guy is only marginally bigger than me having a relationship with the protagonist from Assassin's Creed: Unity, so I let my ovaries lament. Hey, I'm not even sure I do want such a guy as a possible suitor, OK? So I ignore this new information. Never mind the fact I lose the plot and walk into doors when a big guy near me flexes his biceps. It's under control, I swear.

Me while discretely admiring yet another buffed up hunk passing by.

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