Omg!! It’s been so long since I’ve written. I’ve been so consumed with my new job….I love it so much. I’m a Media Consultant for Idearc or Superpages.com. We also do work with google and yahoo…I love it because we are helping business owners increase their income by helping them with their website and making them more visible. I had 3 weeks of extensive training and it was the best training ever.
I also skipped writing about my favorite Holiday which was Halloween…had a good time Friday night @ Nox and Saturday night @ Sorella for Kim’s bday.
Another great time was my brother and sister-n-luv’s renewal of their vows. It was beautiful @ St. Lawrence Church w/ all family and most of my closest friends joined. Such a great night!!
Two weekends ago we all had a blast at the Renn. Festival.
Last weekend we celebrated Kristee’s Bday @ Nox…and that pretty much sums most of the meantime….
Yes! I’m still in search of my soulmate…in fact, the weekend before I started my new job I went to a psychic. Her name is Sandra Logan website is www.alexandrialogan.com she told me some things that were soooooooo true. I don’t wanna spoil the story of my life for you, so I won’t tell you what she saic, but I’m pretty excited!! All good things!!!

Pics to come soon!!

Kharis

It was about 1 o’clock at night, and a slim waxing moon was smiling from the among the rare clouds in the night-sky. It was a cold November night. Quinvex had been waiting for over an hour, hoping to meet Kharis – a new member recruited by the Mistress – again (they had met for the first time yesterday). She was new. She had not yet been officially initiated in the Temple, and yet the Mistress had already given her a name, perhaps by affection, or to adorn her unspeakable, impenetrable virtue.

Kharis was, to Quinvex, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was tall and very slim, with an almost snow-white complexion and intensely dark gray eyes. She had a unique color in her hair – whether it was natural or it was the product of a dye, Quinvex could not tell. All he knew was that he was intensely fascinated by Kharis, and desired her. When he thought about her, he couldn’t but help imagining her voluptuous nudity against his virile body, and member…

Quinvex often thought of possessing Kharis. Of exercising his amorality upon her, and rape her. Yet, there was something about Kharis that made her invincible to his sinister fire. When he conceived a plan to kidnap and enslave Kharis, he couldn’t help but imagine the Mistress herself cutting his throat upon the first centimeter of penetrating Kharis. In fact, Quinvex had a strange notion that Kharis was somehow related to the Mistress.

“Khaire, Quinvex,” said she, emerging as it were, from the darkness of the night as Quinvex entertained the former thoughts.

“Khaire, Kharis,” said Quinvex, with a slight start.

“You wanted to see me, Quinvex?”

“Yes, Kharis… I thought, well, maybe you would like to join me for a midnight stroll?”

Kharis smiled. She reached out and took Quinvex’ hand, much to his delightful surprise, and softly said, “I would love to.”

Hand in hand, they walked. Quinvex couldn’t help but marvel at how natural Kharis was at this whole Satanic brotherhood thing. He quite frankly didn’t see the Temple as anything more than just a group of people who gathered to revel in being “dark and sinister” (whatever that truly meant), and who happened to have a good leadership. The Mistress and Master were expert, Quinvex thought, at learning all the rituals of the Black Book by heart.  As Quinvex thought of the Temple, he had the brief notion that he might be part of the only truly Satanic Temple in the whole world that was active and actually functional.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Quinvex tried to start a conversation: “So tell me Kharis, how did a nice girl like you get into Satanism?”

Kharis smiled again, this time with some amusement at the implicit notion that ‘nice girls can’t be Satanists’.

“I’m not a Satanist,” she said with a slight chuckle, “I’m more than that.”

Quinvex stopped, thoughtfully. He recalled an Order manuscript he read last year. Quinvex never was a studious man. He always thought actions spoke louder than words. “I see. You mean, like the Order of Nine Angles isn’t just a Satanic Order, right?”

“What’s the Order of Nine Angles?”

Quinvex was astonished by her answer, and somewhat disappointed. He started to think she must’ve been some dumb blond the Mistress picked up off the streets. “The Order of Nine Angles, you know, the ONA? Our goal, among many, is to presence the dark. Our Temple is one of its nexions. Surely Melaenis wouldn’t have told you about the Temple if you knew nothing about the ONA?”

“I know nothing about the ONA. But I do know something about being sinister.”

“A sweetheart like you?” Quinvex scoffed at her.

“Think what you will, but I know what I am. Do you?” asked Kharis. At this point she let go of his arm.

Quinvex turned around, to look at the still smiling moon no longer occulted by the growing clouds. He paused for a moment, reflecting on his past deeds. Quinvex was an eager Initiate. He remembered that time he easily broke into St. George’s Parish Church one summer night at the request of the Mistress to steal the “hosts” for an upcoming Black Mass the Temple was going to perform. The Mistress promised that if he was successful in his endeavor, she would use the energies raised at the Black Mass to grant him any desire he so wished. Quinvex suddenly remembered his desire, and as he turned around to face Kharis, she was suddenly and completely revealed: Nude and hairless, perfect by today’s standards of beauty.

Kharis came towards him, her small breasts aloft, in a soft gait. She was whispering a few mumbled words in some strange language Quinvex did not know, but he could’ve sworn he heard the hallowed name ‘Baphomet‘ amidst the melodious utterance.

Quinvex was aroused. He felt the dark utterances dominate his mind with ideas of sex. He was also paralyzed by terror.  He could not move, yet he felt his shirt rip and his trousers undoing themselves. He felt the cold night sting his body. He began to sweat. His heart was beating fast. He started to feel Kharis’ arm around his neck, and her naked body positioning itself over his erect penis. Slowly, she conquered him.

Warmth. Soft warmth. Soft, perfect warmth.

Kharis let out a delicate grunt. Quinvex inhaled.

He looked up slowly to behold those dark gray eyes, and beheld Her. This Goddess’ eyes were wide, supernaturally wide, and so black they were glassy. Within those eyes he saw himself. Not a mere reflection of his face, but a horror he could not but feel akin to. He was sure he was yelling at the top of his lungs when he beheld it. He wanted to get away. He tried to wake up, tried to push the Goddess away, but he was stuck. He wanted to revert to his old ways. He started to damn the woman he now calls the Mistress for ever getting him off the streets. No, he wanted to revert even further. He wanted to return to his mother’s womb, wishing he was never born into this miserable world of pain and sorrows. Yet, he was in a womb. He was within that very matrix he so desired to be a part of. He shook his head, and awakened the black fire that was within him, kept ablaze by his regular performance of sinister deeds. He grunted the word: NOX, and pushed deep within the womb of the Goddess. They both howled in nocturnal bliss.

The gate soon opened. The waxing moon smiled.

The next day, Quinvex woke up naked, cold and alone, lying on the bare earth. Melaenis, a colossal woman in more ways than one, came walking towards him. She stood beside him in a black robe, holding the same tetrahedron the Temple used for ceremonial rituals such as the Black Mass. It seemed to glimmer with the light of the rising sun.

Aethelius Zardex
Order of Nine Angles
120 Year of Fayen

Nella sua Storia dell’architettura moderna Bruno Zevi da un’accezione di estrema importanza a quello che definisce manierismo moderno, le cui opere esplorano infatti il linguaggio dei maestri, lo applicano in cornici più vaste, ne intrecciano gli etimi con incisività e coraggio. I manieristi indagano tematiche espressive pluralistiche, arricchendo il lessico, i nessi grammaticali e sintattici, le articolazioni linguistiche con originalità e talvolta genialmente, senza mai deragliare dal solco dell’avanguardia. Viene a mente la differenza di comodo che viene fatta in ambito scientifico tra ricerca pura e ricerca applicata, dove mentre la prima ha come obiettivo primario l’avanzamento della conoscenza e la comprensione teorica tra le diverse variabili in gioco in un determinato processo, la seconda è svolta allo scopo di trovare soluzioni pratiche e specifiche, il cui obiettivo primario non è l’avanzamento della conoscenza, bensì lo sfruttamento di questa a fini pratici. È chiaro da ciò come il periodo storico che stiamo vivendo è per l’architettura una fase di maniera. Dietro la brutalità di una parola, si cela quindi una condizione di estremo interesse per il contemporaneo. Ma di quale maestri sono legittime figlie le nostre decadi? E soprattutto, è legittimo parlare di un rapporto diretto ed univoco? Stando a guardare le architetture dei protagonisti di quel tumultuoso ‘80, si direbbe piuttosto che sono proprio i maestri a reinventarsi, e la maniera a rincorrere, capovolgendo i fattori dell’equazione. L’esempio di Zaha Hadid è quanto mai calzante, avendo essa stessa dato vita ad almeno tre schiere di manierismi, che preso nel suo insieme non può che apparire contraddittorio e paradossale: passando per il neo-avanguardismo, passando poi verso una fase post-digitale, ed attualmente impegnata verso ciò che Patrik Schumacher chiama ambiguamente parametrismo, il lavoro dello studio inglese pare essere simile ad un andirivieni concettuale, al quale ogni innovazione apportata, deriva da un saccheggio legittimo di un con testo pratico-teorico affermato, ed una applicazione personale dello stesso.  Tutte e tre le sue fasi si possono difatti collocare facilmente in uno zeigheist chiaro: come gli anni dell’Architectural Association di Londra la hanno portata ad interessarsi ai primi anni ‘20 ed alle avanguardie storiche, così sul finire degli anni ‘90 le influenze della ormai matura transarchitettura si faranno sentire su una consistente quantità di progetti, per arrivare nell’ultimo lustro circa a sperimentare ciò che per gli studenti delle università di tutto il mondo iniziava a diventare legge.

Il progetto per la sede della Corte Civile di Madrid, i cui lavori inizieranno nel 2010, potrebbe benissimo essere uscito dallo studio di un Lars Spuybroek o di un Kas Oosterhuis di sorta, se non dal desktop di uno studente particolarmente abile. Non è certo da abiurare questo tipo di pratica, ed anzi è tipica dell’evoluzione della storia dell’architettura: non è stato per caso Le Corbusier a trarre ispirazione dalla Citté Industrielle di Tony Garnier per gran parte delle sue idee urbanistiche ed architettoniche? Sarebbe quindi Le Corbusier da definire un manierista? Probabilmente sì, proprio per la natura flebile ed aleatoria del manierismo stesso: si rende necessario definire quindi il manierismo in una accezione più elastica, liquida, ed adattabile al contesto di cui si sta parlando. Il termine manierismo sta ad indicare la presenza di un’eredità implicità in un’opera di un maestro, di cui l’opera manierista stessa ne rappresenta la prosecuzione, ed in qualche modo un tributo. Non si intende qui peccare d’impressionismo, e confondere la citazione con la rielaborazione. Vi sono delle lacerazioni storiche difficilmente riassimilabili a tendenze temporali lineari, spesso infeconde, qualche volta esplosive. Paradossalmente, in un epoca come la nostra, che predilige lo scandalo, la trasgressione più insensata, il rifiuto e l’abietto, non si può certo dire che sia facile trovare ina di queste lacerazioni prima accennate. Ma forse, non ce né nemmeno bisogno.

Learn what causes high NOx – Nitrous Oxide emissions at http://www.smogtips.com/failed-high-nitrous-oxide-NOx.cfm

Créditos: Divulgação

A Banda de Joseph Tourton se prepara para lançar seu primeiro disco. Para promovê-lo, a banda fará show na Nox dia 12 deste mês. O show terá a participação especial de China.

Na mesma noite, haverá show de Nuda que volta ao Recife após passar uma temporada fazendo shows pelo Centro-Sul do país. A banda relembrará as músicas de seu primeiro CD.

E mais, as cem primeiras pessoas que chegarem ao local do show receberão de graça o CD coletânea do Festival No Ar Coquetel Molotov 2009.

Confirma os MySpace das bandas e conheça um pouco mais de seus trabalhos!

Joseph Tourton // Nuda

Para informações sobre esse e mais shows, dê uma olhada em nossa agenda já atualizada para o mês de novembro

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Por: Natália Marinho

Créditos: Divulgação

O festival que acontece em Natal nos dias 7 e 8 de novembro terá sua prévia em Recife nos dias 3 e 4, na UK Pub e Nox, respectivamente.

O Drops DoSol custará 8 reais na primeira noite e 15 reais na segunda (12 reais apenas para quem enviar seu nome para a lista do email lumocoletivo@gmail.com)

Confira a programação completa dos shows na nossa agenda!

Mais informações no site oficial do festival
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Por: Victor Toscano

I might be don’t have much time to write long blog post but I still want to try write some about the good aspect of action-rpg. In other words, what kind of criteria they have in Diablo that we love so much. And for me good action-rpg is not just Diablo, there are excellent ARPG other than Diablo such as Titan Quest (strong graphic, audio, story and gameplay), Dungeon Siege I and II (although DSII is definitely better) and some others. Older linear one like Nox is quite good. Unfortunately, I’d never try Sacred 1 and 2. Never had the chance.

So, I hope to discuss this some aspects and then later we will talk about each ARPG I mention before. Keep hang out here.

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Il nuovo filtro antismog applicato su un autobus urbano - ha percorso più di 80.000 Km tra Firenze e Scandicci

Si chiama Eco-Energy ed é un nuovo filtro da applicare ad autobus,ma anche a camion e veicoli a motore. Abbatte lo smog fino a minimi livelli, impedisce la formazione delle piogge acide, riduce il rumore allo scarico ed incrementa la potenza del motore. Completamente inox é di fatto indistruttibile.

Sperimentato a Firenze su un vecchio autobus urbano un nuovo tipo di filtro antismog. Le prove sono durate due anni sul percorso urbano che va da Scandicci (dove ha sede la società LI-NEA Spa, che ha messo a disposizione l’autobus) a Firenze e viceversa. Il filtro si è dimostrato efficiente anche dopo aver percorso gli 80.000 Km, riducendo notevolmente polveri fini (PM 2,5), ossidi di azoto (NOX), ossidi di zolfo (SOX) e monossido di carbonio (CO). La sperimentazione è il frutto di un accordo scientifico cui hanno aderito Regione Toscana, Comune di Scandicci e la società di trasporti LI-NEA Spa.

La tecnologia antismog per trasporti si è dimostrata molto efficace ai fini dell’abbattimento delle polveri fini disperse in città; ma non solo poichè ha dimostrato di poter neutralizzare a monte tutte le sostanze che rilasciate in atmosfera formano le piogge acide. Un altro  vantaggio del filtro è che ha dimostrato di non aver bisogno di alcuna manutenzione; inoltre,  essendo costruito interamente in acciaio inox, è possibile riutilizzarlo su più veicoli. Per concludere, due particolarità tecniche interessanti rese possibili dalla nuova tecnologia: la prima riguarda il rumore finale allo scarico, che viene ridotto per più di 35 decibel; la seconda invece concerne la potenza misurata alle ruote, che viene incrementata del 7%.
Finalmente abbiamo la possibilità di toccare con mano una soluzione concreta ed efficace contro lo smog, che tutte le Amministrazioni, se lo vorranno, potranno adottare.

copyright Curiositybox 2009

“I’ll give Fran one more try,” says Sophie, cradling her Blackberry in one hand. We are sitting in Sophie’s car. The boot is crammed with sleeping bags, camping equipment, and a giant tent. My bag is crammed with ecstasy and weed. We are missing only one thing.

One hundred whippets of nitrous oxide – laughing gas to the layman – have been ordered to Fran’s house. They will arrive today, but when today is anyone’s guess. Sophie calls Fran.

“Has the package arrived?” she asks. I wait with baited breath. A second seems like an hour. Has it arrived? Has it arrived?! I can’t take it any- “Just now?” says Sophie.

I grin as Sophie kicks her little Fiesta into gear. We are on our way.

Half an hour later and we are cruising through the Welsh countryside. Emerald hedges border our route. Yellow-green fields swerve and merge around us. I am doing whippet after whippet of nox, which annoys Sophie because she is driving and thus cannot do any (it’s in the Highway Code). I am far too high to care. I take a break from huffing gas to roll a joint. After one particularly gigantic hit, I gaze into the middle distance. The road ahead seems pregnant with beautiful and boundless possibility. However, that could be the drugs.

For music, I have appropriately prepared what I dub the “Lit Mix”. It is a CD full of tunes that are about or inspired by works of literature. And so we are carried on our way by the timeless melodies of Bruce Springsteen (“The Ghost of Tom Joad”), Rush (“Tom Sawyer”) and Blind Guardian (“The Lord of the Rings”). I think this is awesome. Sophie is not so convinced.

Finding Hay is easy; finding our campsite is not. We drive from one side of Hay to the other, slowing down and speeding up, following a road that leads out of Hay to the next village before turning round, completely lost, until at long last we locate it, sitting plum opposite the Co-Op, exactly where our directions said it would be.

Filled with ceaseless joy at finally reaching our destination, we hurry through minor business like b0oking in and setting up the tent and settle down to the main task in hand: getting smashed. We have a date with Rick Wakeman this evening, and no matter how many years he has spent sober now, I’m sure he wouldn’t like us show up all boringly compos mentis.

The Co-Op provides us with vodka and Schweppes, I bang up a fattie while Sophie fries some steak, and three nox-fuelled hours later is it time to catch the shuttle bus into the Festival itself. The Festival is situated somewhat outside the town, and is surprisingly clean and posh. Glasto this is not. We grab an extortionately priced bite to eat at the café, collect a few extortionately priced drinks at the bar, then head into the tent to see the extortionately tall Rick Wakeman. Seriously, the man is a giant. You can see him coming from miles away, his dirty yellow hair powering out of the crowd. He is so tall he is making the interviewer nervous.

Luckily, this makes no mind to Rick, and he cracks a few jokes before regaling us with hilarious tales of his ex-wife, his ex-alcoholism, and his clearly not-ex intolerance for bullshit.

Earlier, while we were eating in the café, a man asked me if I was here to see Rick Wakeman because of his music. Smiling, I told him I was a huge Yes fan and couldn’t get enough of the solo work. This was a blatant lie – in fact I was just drunk and namedropping albums I remembered from reading Wikipedia. I’ve never even heard any Yes. However, if Rick Wakeman’s keyboard playing is as good as his storytelling, I think I want to.

* * *

The next day dawns bright and clear. The clouds that drifted in and out of view yesterday have completely upped sticks, leaving a sky as blue as Prince William’s blood. There are a couple of whippets of nox left from our post-Wakeman binge yesterday, so we have those for breakfast then head across to the Co-Op to purchase something more substantial.

After breakfast I construct a joint of the finest quality and we smoke it in the sun before heading into Hay to sample a little of the sights and sounds before Marcus Brigstocke at one. Hopping off the bus at the top, we buy Mr Whippys and wander down towards the main street. The atmosphere is alive with the bustle of book-lovers, an altogether more refined commotion than the raucous hullabaloo of a music festival, and it doesn’t take me long to spot someone off the tele: Chris Addison, a comedian with Have I Got News For You under his belt, saunters past us, chatting amiably to his (or someone else’s) family.

We mosey on down the street, aiming for the square, and on the way we hang a right into the castle grounds. In addition to the bookshop, for the festival said grounds are also home to various stalls, selling crepes, bric-a-brac and, rather strangely, mobile phone accessories. We are wandering round, taking in the sights, when suddenly a loud bugling makes us jump out of our skin. We turn to see a man who looks exactly like Rob Brydon dressed head to toe in a jester outfit. He blows his long brass trumpet again, then announces with great panache that we have won an award for the best-looking tourists in Hay. Here, he says, is our prize, stealing an Asian woman’s bag and handing to an elderly gentleman before scampering off up the steps. He is quite clearly barking mad, and we affectionately nickname him Uncle Bryn. It will not be our last encounter.

By now we are coming down slightly from the joint we smoked back at the tent, and so we look for somewhere to top up our high before Brigstocke rips apart the news. Somewhat ironically, the most deserted place on Hay is the library, so we steal round the back for a sneaky toke then head towards the shuttle bus stop. On the way we see a busker with big hair and a small guitar, and as we stroll past he is singing, “folk music is dirty, like my hips against your hips”. No joke, that line is verbatim. I try to keep my laughter contained until we are safely past but trust me, that’s harder than it sounds.

Entering the Guardian Tent, where Marcus Brigstocke is scheduled, we are struck by one thing: the stark and oppressive heat. The place is like a comedy sauna. We grab seats at the top and watch Brigstocke and company tear the papers to shreds, all the while fanning ourselves with our tickets. The jokes are good, though a little left wing, and André Vincent, who appears to be Brigstocke’s main sidekick throughout the week, is like a cross between Ricky Gervais and James Cordon, i.e. he’s fat and funny. No, I’m kidding, there’s more to it than that – he also has the David Brent beard.

After an hour of being baked like a potato we are more than ready for refreshment, so we wander back through Hay and before long we are sitting in the Three Tuns, which the Independent claims “can compete with the finest gastropubs in London or anywhere else”. I wouldn’t know, I’m having a pint. It is too nice to be inside for long though, so we order a tray of drinks and sit outside in the beer garden, soaking up the rays.

Frank Skinner, our next appointment, is at seven. Learning from previous mistakes we arrive earlier this time and claim seats near the front. I have sneakily filled a mineral water bottle with a heady mix of vodka and Schweppes, and I surreptitiously swig it as Frankie takes the stage. The vodka is strong, and I have been steadily drinking since three. I find myself in the stage where making loud suggestive comments is absolutely hilarious. The people in front of me are not so sure, but they can go fuck themselves.  Bunch of squares.

Skinner is tearing the house down with a mix of banter and excerpts from his autobiography. I wish I could repeat some of his funnier lines here, but all I can remember is laughing fit to bust. He goes on for an hour or more and after he exits stage left, we file out and take a seat on the cream canvas deckchairs in the middle of the festival to have a cigarette. I finish mine, then hawk up a massive loogie and spit it into the grass, completely unaware of the dirty looks this earns me. Sophie informs me the next day that everyone around was suitably mortified.

At The Globe, a bar/pub/restaurant not far from our campsite, there is an “intellectual rave” kicking off at ten tonight. Apparently the DJ has written an “unashamedly highbrow” book about rave culture. It sounds hilarious, and as soon as I hear about it I am filled with a burning desire to read it. It is not, unfortunately, on sale, but I am still keen to go to the rave, partly because I have ten pills burning a hole in my knapsack, and partly because I want to hear intellectual techno. I come up with a name for it: intellechno.

Our tickets bought, we stagger back to the tent to change clothes and refuel. In said tent, I pour a drink, down it, and make the huge mistake of taking a brief rest on the airbed, and the effect is not dissimilar to a film in which the protagonist gets hit over the head with a shovel.

* * *

My eyes flicker open, then closed, then open again. The tent is light. I check my watch. Eight in the morning. Looks like I missed the rave. Whatever, who wants to hear some geek drop MC Hawking anyway. I sit up. Sophie is still asleep. I can tell this because her thunderous snoring is shaking the foundations of the very earth we are pitched on. Giggling to myself, I record it on her phone and set it as her ringtone. I then begin my search for breakfast.

Ten minutes later and I have narrowed the choices down to A. beer B. weed. I pick the beer due to its higher nutritional value. The little picture on the side of the can is either telling pregnant women not to drink or telling drunk people not to sleep with pregnant women. I decide both are sensible policies.

My breakfast of champions packed away, I poke my head outside the tent. It is immediately burnt to a crisp. Not even nine and the sun is already beating down on me like I’m its ugly stepchild. It’s gonna be a scorcher. Luckily for us we have nothing to do and nowhere to go. We’re not even supposed to be here today – we only paid for two nights – but we correctly assumed that no one really gives a toss.

I am still not feeling too clever from the massive amounts of vodka consumed the night before, so I rapidly concoct the greatest hangover cure known to man. Two alka-seltzer and a spliff later, I am ready to start the day.

If by start the day I mean lie in the sun feeling high.

A couple more hours of lazing around and we are finally ready to experience some more festival atmosphere. I also want to find a pub that shows Sky Sports. United have already won the league by avoiding defeat against Arsenal last Saturday, but I am keen to see who gets relegated. My fingers are crossed for Newcastle to plummet into the Championship. Big club my arse.

As we head into the town the heat of the sun beats down on us. Yesterday, I was proud to be the only person in the whole of Hay walking around bare-chested. Today I cannot achieve that distinction. Not because there are other people with their tops off, but because I am redder than a commie already and I didn’t bring any sunblock. We hit the Spar (one of only a handful of places in Hay that isn’t a bookshop or a pub) and ask for some, only to be informed they sold out about half nine this morning. Looks like no one else was prepared either. This is typical British weather. Pack wellies and they melt in the blazing sun. Pack flip-flops and you’re using them to paddle a canoe down the street.

The square where we sat and watched some dancers yesterday is now home to a rock band. Their first chord sounds and I think the entire square is immediately united in hoping it will also be their last. They have no drummer, the guitarist can’t sing, and there is a girl up there with them dancing – if by dancing I mean swaying with the breeze and clicking her fingers every three to four seconds. Either she was the guitarist’s girlfriend or she was there to distract us from the bassist, who looked like he was only familiar with the word string when it was immediately preceded by the word cheese.

We escape the cacophony for the sweet relief of Mr Whippy, and on our way we see Bryn the Jester, lurching around on stilts. He is still in his leather get-up and must be absolutely sweltering in this heat. He wanders up to a woman and holds out his hand for her ice cream. She gives it to him, and he repeats the trick with her friend. The third woman in the group, who had been watching events unfold, suddenly realises she is next in line and not wanting to part with her ice-cream she flees the scene, clutching her cone and casting terrified glances over her shoulder.

After our own iced delights we return to the square where the band have disappeared. Presumably they were booed off in a suitably dignified fashion. Maybe they got pelted with Penguin Classics and spectacle cases. In their place is a female singer/songwriter, you know the type – wispy blonde hair, acoustic guitar, lunchbox full of tofu, but right now anything would be a massive improvement on My Worst Rock Band.

We grab a seat and a smoke, and before long who should reappear but Bryn, minus the stilts but with kleptomaniac tendencies still very much intact. He approaches a canoeist, who is standing to one side with his lifejacket and paddle, and attempts to steal his equipment. This would be amusing on it’s own, but the funniest part is how this guy responds. Instead of laughing about it or even acknowledging that there is a crazed jester trying to make off with his gear, he just stands stock-still and keeps watching the singer. Bryn’s attempts get more and more vigorous, but the guy just holds onto his equipment with an iron grip and keeps staring straight ahead, much like the way you ignore a particularly animated dog in the hope that it’ll get fed up and go away. Eventually Bryn tires and staggers off down the road, never to be seen by our eyes again. This leaves me a little disappointed – I had so many questions to ask him. Does he act like this every year? What does he do in real life? When is the next series of Gavin & Stacey coming out?

We take another wander up the main street after the singer finishes, and as we near the top whom should I spy but Dave Gorman, stand-up and writer of many unique books. He is being interviewed at exactly the same spot where I saw Chris Addison, proving that this corner really is the place for B-list comedians to hang out.

It is nearing four o’ clock, however, and that can mean only one thing: le foot, mes amis! Despite having a colossal amount of pubs, there is only one in the entirety of Hay that shows Sky Sports. I guess books and football aren’t the most comfortable bedfellows. Having said that, however, it is a good job we get there early, because as kick-off approaches the pub fills up like a pint getting pulled. By ten minutes in getting to the toilet resembles an episode of Gladiators.

Our room is slightly off to one side and filled with interesting characters. In front of us there is a group of lads and lasses supporting Aston Villa. By listening to their conversation, we learn that they had a heavy night last night. One of their number spends the entire match with his head in his hands, and another never even appears because he is off somewhere being sick. There is also an old couple watching because their grandson is one of the mascots, and two thirty-something lesbians who sit by us on the sofa. I am glad the feminine one takes the place by me, because the other one strikes fear into my very soul. She has as a shock of ginger hair and a moustache like a pirate. Her femme girlfriend is sweet, but I am wary of us getting on too well. The last thing I want is a dust up with a strapping northern dyke.

As the matches draw to a close, I nip outside for a fag. It is clear Newcastle are going down by this point, and I exit the pub into an area filled with angry drunken Geordies, smashing glasses and ranting about Michael Owen. Thinking quickly, I try to console the nearest one by telling him Newcastle will come straight back up. This works well, and he calms down a little. I listen to his drunken ramblings while smoking my fag, all the while secretly laughing at how shit Newcastle are. As someone put it, more Messiahs than a Monty Python travelling troupe and they all turned out to be very naughty boys.

After the footy ends the pub all but empties, leaving us and a few random mateys scattered around. One of them befriends us while we are playing on the quiz machines. He is introduced to us, by the barman, as the “village idiot”.

We decide to head back to our camp for more vodka and a spiff, and while I am mid-roll Sophie gets up and goes to the toilet. While she is away, the Village Idiot finds the fire extinguisher that was part of Sophie’s parents camping pack, and dares me to let it off. It has always been one of my ambitions to let of a fire extinguisher, and I’ve never been a man to back away from a challenge. But on the other hand it’s a vital piece of equipment we really should save for emergencies…

The jet of white powder arcs into the air and drifts down around us like snow. I giggle. This is amazing. I am fulfilling a dream. I aim it at the Village Idiot, who dodges, then swing round and fire it at the side of the tent, which immediately starts resembling an Alaskan cabin. The lads in the next tent over are looking at me, so I stare at them and let off a burst of powder into the sky. They hastily resume their business.

Our next plan is to hide in the tent then ambush Sophie when she comes back, leaping out on her amidst a powdery white stream of death. While we wait we smoke and giggle to ourselves about how awesome our plan is. Our laughter trails off, however, when it becomes apparent that she is not coming back. We set off on a mission to locate her. She is in a very bad way. A mystery bug has struck her with the force of a thousand suns and she is lying on the floor of the toilets, throwing up blood and bile. The campsite attendants hasten to the rescue, giving her water with salt and sugar in it to replace what her body has lost, and installing her in our tent with a bucket in case she is sick again. Exhausted, she falls asleep, and with Sophie snoozing away, there is only one thing for it: go out. The bag of pills is still in my pocket. I drop two and offer one to the Village Idiot. He accepts, and with a new lease of life we head back into Hay.

Hay is bursting with vivacity; tomorrow is Bank Holiday Monday and people are making the most of the extended weekend. Our destination is the Three Tuns, because it is close and we are too fucked to deduce that anywhere with a quotation from the Independent on the wall it is not likely to sell budget alcohol.

Getting our drinks from the bar, we make our way outside to the beer garden. The night is warm and pleasant. We take seats and start chatting with a dreadlocked white guy sitting at the other end of our table. We befriend him while I make a cigarette. It turns out he is a poet, and moments later the rest of his party arrive, including more poets, publicists, and a literary publisher.

As we drink I tell the poet that I am also a writer. He becomes excited and informs the rest of the table. I become the centre of attention. I tell the table about the novel I am working on. They applaud the idea. We continue to talk literature. At some point during this the Village Idiot slips away, no doubt bored to tears. I do not care. I am coming up off two pills and shooting the shit with a bunch of real-life literary figures. Life is good. While everyone is getting another drink I phone Hywel. It rings for ages before he finally answers. I excitedly tell him the situation. He not so excitedly tells me he was asleep.

We all continue to chat. The poet gives me the name of the greatest poem in the world. I immediately forget it. He shows me his notebook and pencil, which he always carries around with him in case inspiration strikes, and asks where mine is. I show him my mobile phone, and tell him we live in a digital age.

Eventually the night winds on, and it is time to leave. I make sure to get the poet’s email address and wish them all well. It is late, and I have one final drink before making my way out of the pub and back to the campsite. As I walk I reflect on the past couple of days. Hay-on-Wye is one of my favourite places in the world, and the festival really sets it ablaze. Britain’s premier booktown is transformed into a bustling tourist centre, alive with the atmosphere only a festival can bring, attracting literary figures from around the world.

Not bad for a village in Wales.

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O NOX é um escritório de arquitetura e design comandado pelo holandês Lars Spuybroek, que além de arquitetura, projeta interiores, objetos, instalações multimídia, textos e vídeos. Esse repertório variado impulsiona o diálogo entre a arquitetura e outras linguagens, gerando discussões entre outros profissionais acerca da tendência de uma nova arquitetura: a transarquitetura ou arquitetura líquida. Esta se relaciona com as arquiteturas do ciberespaço, aquela, imaterial, líquida, mutável e interativa. Desta forma, os integrantes do grupo vêm repensando novas maneiras de projetar e construir, levando-se em conta um espaço animado (vivo), utilizando técnicas de computação
gráfica.

Diferente do pensamento tradicional que via o espaço como passivo, projetado a partir de coordenadas fixas e atemporais, a arquitetura líquida não descarta totalmente a idéia de malha rígida, a malha líquida trabalha em primeira, segunda e terceira dimensões, considerando fluxos, forças, movimentos e sempre aberta a possíveis transformações. Esse novo processo serve para organizar o espaço, utilizando modulações, variabilidades e flutuações contínuas, constituindo assim superfícies ondulantes e volumes disformes. Um exemplo são os Pavilhões da Água Doce e da Água Salgada, que integram o espaço arquitetônico com recursos de mídia interativa, gerando uma simbiose entre espaço real e virtual, em que estruturas e formas fluídas e envolventes da arquitetura se inter-relacionam com o contínuo fluxo de informações, trabalhando com os sentidos. Dessa forma o espaço se anima e se transforma continuamente, apresentando alternativas de caráter ecológico, cultural e artístico.

Dear Nole,

While we were sitting around today waiting for the rain to stop and the tennis to continue, we spent most of the afternoon looking up videos of you playing on youtube.  So naturally, we watched the last time that you met with ole Feddy at the US Open. We discussed and decided (since we are both tennis experts and can see the future too) that you are going to win tomorrow’s match (the weather forecast looks sunny!) and hopefully make Roger cry again or slam his racket.  Actually, we just hope that he does not ruin your victory for you by crying all during the ceremony as he did to Nadal. 

Good Luck Tomorrow Novak. We wish you the best so get your beauty sleep and bring all of your sexiness and your A-game to the match tomorrow!

Sim, depois de meses sem notícias daquela criatura foclórica ma-ra-vi-lho-sa, és que resolvou tomar uma atitude definitiva!

Eu realmente admito que estava obcecada e facinada pelo meu Professor, e hoje em dia sei que é tudo idealização, mas eu o achava lindo (isso continua sendo verdade), educado (isso também), gentil (é, isso também), perfeito (essa foi idealização…). Mas enfim, o fato é que eu cheguei ao cúmulo de procurar no sistema do meu estágio pelo nome dele e ver quando e onde ele teria audiência lá no Fórum, descobri que ia ser uma semana dali pra frente, e, nesse fatidico dia, fiquei perambulando pelo corredor perto da vara da audiência pra ver se esbarrava com ele “coincidentemente”. hahahahahaha Mas não deu certo, porque ele nem apareceu, mas sabe que uma das partes dessa audiência era um gatinho e super ficou me dando bola?! hahahahahaha

Eu deixei passar, mas todo mundo ficava perguntando: e o seu Professor? Ai que coisa! Acabou que encontrei o e-mail dele no google (sim, eu google as pessoas pra se fudeer), e meu dilema só fez aumentar. Mandar ou não mandar?! Perguntei a todas as minhas amigas e nenhuma delas sabia o que eu deveria fazer, nem minha piscologa, Rose, sabia o que eu deveria fazer.

Foram mais um mês e meio de dilema, onde minhas amigas começaram a concordar que ele ia pensar que eu era uma desmiolada desesperada, pois tinha encontrado o e-mail dele não-sei-onde e tinha “corrido atrás.” Bem, um belo dia ocioso eu resolvi virar uma mulher moderna e mandar todos tomarem no cú e mandei um e-mail pra ele. Adimito que não foi nada fácil, só pensava na resposta dele como sendo: “Desgruda desmiolada carente!”, mas mesmo assim deixei a insegurança de lado e enviei o bemdito e-mail, com a desculpa esfarrapada de que tinha encontrado o e-mail dele num curriculum que ele tinha na internet através de uma pesquisa que estava fazendo para faculdade (hã? alguém acreditou nisso?).

Além da minha desculpinha muito esfarrapada, o e-mail era composto por mais uma descrição descontraida e irônica de quem eu era e de onde nós tinhamos nos conhecidos. Não era possivel que depois de lembrar até em que carteira eu sentava ele esquecesse que tinha me agarrado na boate.

Finalizei dizendo que queria manter contato com ele e que se ele me achasse muito maluca perceguidora não precisava nem responder o e-mail (meu atestado de doida né?). Nenhuma resposta veio nos 15 dias seguintes.

Eu perdi as esperanças e parei de abrir meu e-mail de 3 em 3 horas. E continuei a viver né… Até que, numa bela noite de verão (no Recife é sempre verão), eu estava tranquilamente conversando abobrinhas no MSN com minhas amiguxas quando sobe a janelinha: Você recebeu uma nova mensagem de Professor.

Quase que eu tive uma bilôra. Depois de dar pulinhos e contar a toooodas as minhas amigas, eu entrei no meu e-mail pra ver qual foi a resposta dele. Ele, muito phyno e educado, não me chmou de doida, desmiolada, maluca e afins. Pediu desculpas pela demora em responder o e-mail (já pensou?!) pois não entrava muito naquela conta. Disse também quem é claro que lembrava de mim, e para eu adiciona-lo no MSN.

Pasmei. Depois de me recuperar do siricutico, adicionei ele no MSN, e estou agora mesmo conversando com ele. Onde será que isso vai dar?

How do you feel,

when eternity´s not lasting?

Nox: the villian

Nox is the evil, maniacal, sadistic antagonist. She’s long since been deceased, to the relief of the entire Eternal world, but her name still strikes fear and terror.

She is a daughter of the main family from the Soul Clan.

Little information is known about her, albeit rumors and legends, but the most definite and reliable truth about Nox is that she had been executed for her treacherous crime: eating her own sister, Lux.

Souls, due to their high affinity to their own spirits, are impossible to kill by anyone outside the Soul’s main family. Any mortal wounds which should normally vanquish an Eternal’s soul will damage the Soul’s physical body, but their soul will flee to a vessel (an inanimate object–usually stuffed animals). They will lie in wait for their bodies to heal and return to them once the body has recovered. In the case that the body is completely destroyed or undesirable, the Soul can possess a body whose soul had been recently expelled (by aid of another Soul) or retain their vessel shape. Seth, for example, could keep his presence hidden from others by hiding inside Elise’s teddy bear.

Souls have methods for killing their own, but the only of these methods aware to the public is “eating.” Eating another’s soul, especially a fellow Soul’s, is considered vile and is punishable by death. Ironically–to public knowledge–Nox was eaten by another Soul as her execution.

Legends surrounding Nox are usually mere rumors meant to instill terror and fright. The Eternal world, at large, wasn’t particularly harmed by her, but she had been known to kidnap Eternals and perform terrible experiments on them. Those who wander near her palace might find its surrounding forests harboring hideous monstrosities, part human and part Eternal. No one understands why Nox would so brutally force the souls of humans and Eternals together in such wrong union–the resulting creatures are made of decaying flesh and feast on both their parents and each other.

Another legend about Nox involves her supporters. In fact, some rumors suggest that Nox herself was instead a nameless girl leading a group by the name of Nox. The members of the guild known as Nox are few, outcasts of lower families. But despite that, they are uncharacteristically powerful for their low status, their abilities supposedly enhanced by Nox’s scientific endeavors. Specifically, their identities are unknown, but a few characters are remarkably memorable:

–Nox’s lover, a boy who’s never been seen, is infamous for dismemberment, which is viewed as taboo among the Eternals (regrowing limbs is nasty business, after all). Not much else is known about him except that he is as evil and twisted as his girlfriend.

–A member of the Mind clan who works as Nox’s spy, supposedly. It is believed that her great talent in information have led her to owning the largest information network possible. Paranoids suspect this person has ties everywhere and possesses an “all-seeing eye.”

–A small group works directly under Nox’s lover as assassins and errand runners. They are remarkably powerful and also remain unidentified.