I'm gonna ignore the sickness and go play board games with my friends tonight. It's such a rare opportunity.

Now, as we have promised, we will shew what some of these kind of sorceries are, that, by the example of these, there may be a way opened for the whole subject of them. Of these, the first is menstruous blood, which, how much power it has in sorcery, we will now consider:--First, if it comes over new wine, it will turn it sour; and if it does but touch a vine, it will spoil it for ever; and, by its very touch, it renders all plants and trees barren, and those newly set, die; it burns up all the herbs in the garden, and makes fruit fall from trees; it makes dim the brightness of a looking-glass, dulls the edges of knives and razors, dims the beauty of polished ivory, and makes iron rusty; it likewise makes brass rusty, and to smell very strong; by the taste, it makes dogs run mad, and, being thus mad, if they once bite any one, that wound is incurable; it destroys whole hives of bees, and drives them away, if it does but touch them; it makes linen black that is boiled with it; it makes mares cast their foals by touching them with it, and women miscarry; it makes asses barren if they cat of the corn touched by it. The ashes of menstruous clothes cast upon purple garments, that are to be washed, change their colour, and likewise take away the colour of flowers.

Francis Barrett, The Magus, 1801, p. 46

...despite being rather bleak.

Bah, I'm sick. I have the flu I think. Feel free to pity me.

As soon as I get around to it, I'll be posting the next character, Doctor Conrad, former right-hand man to a bona fide warlock.

Now, what is a warlock? Many sorcerers have some truck with beings of the Unbearable Night or, to speak plainly, demons. This does not in and of itself make them warlocks, although the distinction may be a fine one.

The scholars tell us that warlock is a word that means 'deceiver' or 'oath-breaker', an it is an apt term. The warlock has given himself to demons in a very fundamental sense. He may not work to do their bidding, or feel any sympathy for their causes and urges, but he is theirs nonetheless.

Has a warlock then sold his soul? Only in a figurative manner of speaking. What the warlock has sold is his destiny.

It is said that every thinking creature has a tacit covenant with the world (or with whatever gods there may be) to abide by it. We grow, we hurt, we love, we die. The warlock has set himself apart from all this.

He may rise to greatness, but always know that he is raised on the back of lies. He can no longer discern the difference between his own accomplishments and those of his benefactors, and while the power he accumulates may be heady, he has become a stranger to himself, and to the world.

 

Beware the warlock, for he has left his humanity behind. In his search to feel the joys that he thinks he ought, he is capable of the most blood-curdling atrocities.

 

Furthermore, a warlock's destiny seems to be contagious. Happenstance is askew in the places that warlocks call theirs. Good fortune may come your way, often spectacularly so, but it will be poisonous to you. Like the warlock himself, you may gain the world by losing it.

The warlock we will come to know fleetingly is Ghiarn the Thrice-Bought, a man so devious that he entered into no fewer than three demonic compact and became godlike in power because of it. Yet he was abandoned and deceived and abandoned by the one whose friendship he sought. Similarly we can see the fortune of the warlock at work in the story of doctor Conrad himself, as he was given the opportunity to enter a world of deep wisdom and unique experience, but a world built on suffering.

I saw the John Dillinger movie yesterday. I liked it a great deal. It was good to see some gunfights with out so much special effects-fu. Depp was good at Dillinger and had the crooked mugshot smile down pat. At the end I found out that I'd confused John Dillinger's last days with Jack Hamilton's. There were very few people there, but I think some were weeping at the end.

I think there oughta be more movies about Jewish gangsters, from Monk Eastman to the Purple Gang. They're quite interesting.

"He was a battered and monumental man. He had a short, bull neck, an unassailable chest, the long arms of a boxer, a broken nose; his face, though legended with scars, was less imposing than his body. He was bowlegged, like a jockey or a sailor. He might go shirtless or collarless, and often went without a coat, but he was never seen without a narrow-brimmed derby atop his enormous head. He is still remembered.
Physically, the conventional gunman of the moving pictures is modeled afterhim, not the flabby and epicene Capone.It has been said that Louis Wolheim was used in Hollywood films because his features reminded people of the deplorable Monk Eastman"

Jorge Luis Borges - Monk Eastman, Purveyor of Inquity in A Universal History of Iniquity

If you want scrilla
If you're a cheddar gorilla
Stack up your bills as
You sign away your free will

In fantasy computer games that has various races to choose from as a part of character generation, there is a trend towards difference in the genders. In World of Warcraft (which I've played all of once) the male orc is the kind of green, muscular and tusked creature with a near-gorilla posture. Y'know, orc. The female version is fully-upright, a kind of athletic green babe. The same holds true for trolls and dwarves.

Now, is there a term for this?

I'm just about finished with the horror/weird fiction anthology Poe's Children. Generally, I think it lives up to the title, as many of the stories deal with the grotesque, the obsessive and the absurdly humorous. Most of the stories are very good reads too, and not as uneven as I often feel genre anthologies are.

I'm slogging slowly though the Eisenhorn omnibus. As you probably know it deals with an inquisitor in the Warhammer 40.000 universe. It hasn't gripped me yet, but I'm determined to get through it.

Finally, I've just started on Joyce Carol Oates' Dear Husband, a collection of short stories dealing with Americanm suburbia's everyday horrors. I'm 1½ story in, and so far I'm very pleased. Home is where the heart breaks, as they say. There is something very crisp and to the point about Oates' style that I like. Sordid details following, unless I forget.

The heat makes me drowsy and I can't get anything done.

Today I was asked to take a candid on-the-spot picture of myself. That's my mid-morning lobotomized look.



Is there a word for not wanting to finish/let go of something you''re writing? I've got it. I've cobbled together a game system, and now I can't seem to get my sh*t together and send it

And WHY does it have to be so warm? This whole summer concept is overrated, although it's a good excuse to eat ice cream. Last night I had some honey-and-almond milk ice cream with pear sauce on top. Mmm...

I just got paid for a translation job (some material from Career Scotland from English to Danish for Herning Municipality). This means I've got money! It feels all weird not having to scrape by.