HERE IT IS! SABBAT: DIRECTOR’S KVT on itch.io!
for a $5 minimum, you get to download this twine story, which includes:
- music by stationlost (NEW!)
- over 200 sprites by cactusbee (NEW!)
- abstract, cruelty-free sacrifice options (NEW!)
- 3 initial genital options (NEW!)
- enhanced headcanon support (NEW!)
if you don’t currently have $5, you can still play a text-only version on philome.la!
feel free to share! thank you all for your support! hail satan! ＨＡＩＬ ＳＡＴＡＮ！
why not celebrate the fourth of july by physically destroying the government of the united states of america?
i did the music for this! also eva owns so you probably should buy this if you havent
I haven’t played this yet but it includes music by Stationlost who does awesome drone, and it includes “3 initial genital options” so what’s not to love?
- Me: But I have about fifty books at home I haven't read, there's no reason for me to buy these.
- My brain: Okay, but consider this: more books.
As tensions rise in Ukraine in their battle against pro-Russian separatists, a group of Ukrainian astronomers have come up with a way to deliver a cosmic burn: by naming a star “Putin-Huilo!” after Russian President Vladimir Putin. “Huilo” (or as it is sometime seen, “khuilo”) is a useful Ukrainian word that roughly translates to “fucker,” “asshole,” or “dickhead” in English.
Add “star naming” to the Things We Forget Are Political file.
There’s no toy surprise in the inside of that egg.
ADI’s redesign of the alien egg for 4 was a great example of all that’s right and all that’s wrong with modern creature design, and to some extent film in general.
What’s right- The design is very cool. It’s meatier, more complex, more realistic and the effect was executed perfectly, as everything I’ve ever seen ADI do tends to be.
What’s wrong- It didn’t need to happen and it replaced an H.R. Giger design to do it. Giger’s original egg was clunkier, less organic, and uglier. Much like the alien itself. ADI made Giger’s designs more streamlined and realistic. This was a mistake. The alien’s aesthetic was what it was in part because it was unaesthetic, clunky, and mechanical (And translucent). It was unpleasant to look at. ADI’s Alien, and its alien egg, are cool.
That’s the trend. Everything has to be awesome. Perfected. Seamless. Look at the original alien and you can see plainly where the gloves connect, they don’t event hide it with a scrap of foam rubber. Yet it’s still infinitely better than the flawless sleek, animalistic aliens of Resurrection. The film Alien itself is sloppy by comparison to the tightly edited and sound designed Prometheus. Prometheus is by every tangible measure a superior film to the cheap old original, but the original is far superior to the sum of its flawed parts. Take the sound design- It’s weird. It doesn’t always make sense, sometimes it’s distracting. Another thing modern film makers are too afraid of, taking people out of the movie.
Giger’s Alien took people out of the movie. It wrecked the movie for me in any terms of suspension of disbelief and attentive focus. Every time I caught a glimpse of the thing I had to pause the video and draw what I could of it. It was a design so brilliant it wrecked the film it was for. Nobody has the guts to do this anymore. They’re so afraid that they’ll crank out the sleek plain tripe that littered Prometheus and have the gall to put it side by side with original Giger designs.
We get a lot of cool stuff these days. We’d get more if dumbass film makers would stop replacing ADI’s practicals with CG bullshit. But we don’t get mistakes or happy accidents. We don’t get any sense of risk, we don’t fall out of the film staring at the concoctions that demented geniuses dared to put in their films.
We get meaty, thick alien eggs. But they’re not translucent. They’re not sickening in concept.
Fun fact- The original alien eggs are a compromise on Giger’s part. Rather than the cross shaped opening seen in the film, he originally intended them to have vaginal openings:
This is definitely true in the efx world, but I think there’s a lesson to be learned here by writers as well.
An Open Letter To My Friend, On Any Given 4th of July
Every 4th of July I think of you. When I see fireworks, and every surface is red, white, or blue, when anyone, no matter how ironically, yells “AMERICA FUCK YEAH,” I remember the time you nearly strangled me into unconsciousness while I choked on whiskey.
It was the weekend of the fourth, some year, it doesn’t matter which. We were having a party at your house, because your house was where we had parties, plus I think the police had mine under surveillance at the time so fireworks were out. And, really, any excuse for a party, right? So everyone came over and we all watched the rockets red glare bounce around the overcast sky.
You were always political. I mean, we all were, because you can’t be neutral on a moving train, of course, and given our hobbies we were kind of more aware of the situation than most. But you still had… something I lacked. I’m tempted to call it idealism, but that’s too dismissive, and I’m tempted to call it hope, but that implies that what I have now is hopelessness. You were still wanting to fight in ways that I had given up on. I had already assimilated the idea that Politics is just War by other means, but you were still ready to run to the the beachheads, whereas I had completely checked out from the front but had not yet found my way over to the psyops department.
Something had happened, that year, that week. Some new atrocity; expanded surveillance laws, Gitmo being revealed, Manning getting captured, it doesn’t matter which. But when you swerved up to me on the porch (I believe it is the only time I ever saw you truly drunk), you had a manic grin plastered across your face. You said “Happy fucking fourth of July! Are you happy? Are you drunk yet?! You should be! It’s the only fucking way! Here! Let me help!”
You tried to hand me a flask. I tried to demur, saying I was fine with my beer. You hooked one arm around my shoulder and pressed the issue. And pressed. Your arm around my shoulder became a headlock, squeezing my carotid artery shut, while you tilted the flask into my mouth. I started to black out, while whiskey burned up my sinuses and down my esophagus. I didn’t know if the red flashes I was seeing were fireworks or phosphenes. I didn’t hit you because you were my friend.
It took three people to drag you off of me.
The next day, you called me, appalled and deeply apologetic. I said it was ok, that I understood, that the actual damage you did had been no more than any roughhousing we all did. And all of those things were true. We kept being friends, it never came up again, I rarely saw you drink more than you could handle, and I never saw you hurt anyone who didn’t physically attack you first. Eventually, now, we’ve sort of lost contact, but, if you’re actually reading this, I want you to know that it’s just the vagarities of distance, and really, I never held it against you.
Because I knew, even as it was happening, that the victim here wasn’t me. I could have hit you, I could have called for help, I could have gotten you to stop. But I didn’t, not because I was afraid, but because I was so deeply astonished that this country, all of the corruption of a system that still has the gall to straight-faced call itself a democracy, had been able to push you down to this cold hard destructive machine. That the schism between the celebration of Freedom and the horrors propagated in its name had driven you completely, violently, if temporarily, mad. That every year we would go through this charade, again and again, singing our strength through joy and watching the bombs bursting in air, be it over Baghdad, Syria, Iraq, it doesn’t matter which.
And every year, I think of you, and I hope that you’ve found another way to deal with it. I know you didn’t retreat into alcohol like so many do, and I am pretty sure I was just at the pointed end of a unique incident. But I don’t know that you ever came to a way to carry the weight of that front line. So many have fallen. At least you only did so briefly, and not in the much more permanent ways I’ve come to expect since. And I think of everyone else fighting, in their own way, no matter whether they claim to be political or not, whether their battle is writing letters to congress or stockpiling ammunition or just getting out of bed every fucking day and still finding the space to dream. I think of you, and I think of us all, and I see the rocket’s red glare, and me? I just sit here not naming the fallen out of respect for the living who still mourn them.
Me, I just write fiction.
Radio Free Albemuth Report
When Inception was first released, I was living in New York. I was more isolated than I’ve ever been in my life, utterly alone in a city of several million people. I was also broke, and not eating well, and it was the day after my birthday, and much of that time is a sort of haze of mild delirium. So when I navigated out of the labyrinthine theater, from that intensely multi-level movie about the synthetic nature of perception and ultimate questioning of reality straight into the neon hyperreality of Times Square at midnight, it was an intensely psychedelic experience that drove home whatever point the movie may have had like a spike to the forehead. The parallels between Inception and the greater works of Philip K. Dick are both too obvious and too personal to be belabored here, but when I walked out of Radio Free Albemuth, having once again not consumed more than a few coffees today (this time due to logistics rather than economics) it was into Berkeley, right at sunset, in the twilight where Dick spent much of his life writing. The experience was less like a spike to the head and more of being wrapped in a chilled blanket of acceptance. “This is Phil’s world, we just live in it.” Or, possibly, “I told you so.”
Because he did, over and over, of course, tell us so. Whether he was talking about angels or aliens, communists or fascists or republicans, the themes resonate through his work. There may, or may not, be a vast conspiracy to keep the human race enslaved and prevent us from fulfilling our potential. There may, or may not, be an even more vast conspiracy to liberate us from the Black Iron Prison. The thing about Phil is that he never assumed he was right, and he never let his readers fall into that trap, either. In that way, this movie is very true to his ideals. The primary characters all constantly debate theories of what’s going on, and certainty is always viewed with a certain skepticism. In fact, and pardon the vagueness for not wanting to spoil, the only moments of certainty are the ones which are associated with the most peril.
I confess that it’s been years since I read Radio Free Albemuth, so I can’t really speak to the fastidiousness to the book. But as a long time Dick fan I certainly felt that the movie was true to the spirit of his work. Dick’s character (who, if you don’t know, is not the one receiving the visions) is played completely straight, the way out science fiction writer never giving in to the wackier theories without analysis, and in many ways he’s played with the sort of stoicism that messing around with mad notions of reality engenders in order to maintain sanity. Welp. My best friend is receiving messages from an alien intelligence. Welp. The massive government security apparatus has decided to set me up. Welp. There are multiple scenes of Dick waking up or otherwise entering into a new and weird narrative event, and Shea Whigham always faces them with what I could only describe as a sort of steely-eyed wonder which resonated completely with me as someone who’s walked similar edges.
Another striking thing about the movie is its sense of temporal ambiguity. It states, outright, that it takes place in the 80s, but it never feels dated. There’s a kind of anachronistic sameness to everything that prevents it from being nailed down. The television is an old 70s model, the beer is a brand which I sometimes drink, the fascists look like fascists always look. The only thing that gave the movie a period, for me, was the inclusion of a lot of music by Robyn Hitchcock, but he was always ahead of his time, and I Wanna Destroy You, the first recognizable song in the film, was released in 1980 and re-released in 2001. Other than that, it could be yesterday or tomorrow, and it overjoyed me to see Phil hammering away on his typewriter to a soundtrack to which I’ve hammered away on a laptop.
If the movie has a weakness, it’s the fact that it gets a tad monologue sounding at times, as is the danger when dealing with material this cerebral. The producers did not fall into the trap of Lynch’s Dune and have lengthy internal voice-overs, instead presenting strange ideas mostly in conversation. This sometimes feels a bit awkward, but it’s awkward in much the same way that Dick’s book have the sense that the science fiction is so close to your periphery it’s become normal. Ultimately the oddity of the conversation only pulled me out of the film in the way that Dick’s reveal of himself as the protagonist a short way into Valis pulled me out of the book. It has the effect, for me at least, of saying “you’re experiencing an unreal event, a movie, or a book. But how do you know that the thing you’ve gotten pulled out to is any more real?”
And so I found myself standing on a Berkeley sidewalk at sunset, geographically close to the house where Dick first wrote some of the material referenced in the movie, and terrifyingly close to the encroaching fascist state dressed in the rags of democracy, where spirituality is potentially a method of both rebellion and control. As a writer of fiction, it inspired me to remain true to the constant balance between openness and skepticism that allows one to walk the edges of reality without falling in (or out), and to produce the sort of warning and wonderment Phil always did, to resonate with and amplify him in saying “I told you so.” But even if I tell it too, the timelessness of this movie reminds me that this is, after all, Phil’s world.
My name is Ada, and me and my girlfriend Ivy are desperately looking for an affordable long term place in SF (but we are open to other options like the east bay if it comes to it) to move out of our current, toxic living environment.
I absolutely endorse Ada as a person. She is rad and if you help her you will also be helping us drag the world out of its cultural cesspit because she is _that awesome_. Please help my homies if you can.
Fun Story: My director kept telling me and my tenor sax buddy to play softer. No matter what we did, it wasn’t soft enough for him. So getting frustrated, I told my buddy “Dont play this time. Just fake it”
Our Band Director then informed us we sounded perfect.
To my readers: “p” means quiet, “pp” means really quiet. I’ve never seen “pppp” before haha.
On the contrast, “f” means loud, and “ffff” probably means so loud you go unconscious.
I had ffff in a piece once and my conductor told me to play as loudly as physically possible without falling off my chair…
Me and my trombone buddies had “ffff” and he sat next to me and played so hard that he fell out of his chair.
The lengths we go for music.
Okay yeah so I play the bass clarinet and the amount of air you have to move and the stiffness of the reed means it only has two settings and that is loud and louder, with an optional LOUDEST that includes a 50% probability of HORRIBLE CROAKING NOISE which is the bass equivalent of the ubiquitous clarinet shriek.
One day, when I was in concert band in high school, we got a new piece handed out for the first time, and there was a strange little commotion back in the tuba section — whispering, and pointing at something in the music, and swatting at each other’s hands all shhh don’t call attention to it. And although they did attract the attention of basically everyone else in the band, they managed to avoid being noticed by the band director, who gave us a few minutes to look over our parts and then said, “All right, let’s run through it up to section A.”
And here we are, cheerfully playing along, sounding reasonably competent — but everyone, when they have the attention to spare, is keeping an eye on the tuba players. They don’t come in for the first eight measures or so, and then when they do come in, what we see is:
[reeeeeeally deep breath]
[COLOSSAL FOGHORN NOISE]
The entire band stops dead, in the cacophonous kind of way that a band stops when it hasn’t actually been cued to stop. The band director doesn’t even say anything, just looks straight back at the tubas and makes a helpless sort of why gesture.
In unison, the tuba players defend themselves: “THERE WERE FOUR F’S.”
FFFF is not really a rational dynamic marking for any instrument, but for the love of all that is holy why would you put it in a tuba part.
This is the best band post
Everyone else go home
Oh man, so I play trombone, and we got this piece called Florentiner Marsch by Julius Fucik, and we saw this
which is 8 fortes. We were shocked until,
that is 24 fortes who the fuck does that
Who does that?
This guy. Take a good look - that is the moustache of a man with nothing to lose.
More like Julius Fuckit
this post just kept getting better and better
This is not my forte but still worth repeating.
We’re all going to hell
this post might be the best thing ive seen on here
THIS IS THE BEST FUCKING THING I HAVE EVER SEEN