Wintered Hotel [Nu Strălucirea]

Stephen King Rejected Doctor Sleep Pitch to Recreate Kubrick Overlook |  IndieWire

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High up in the Carpathians, on the south-western slope of a mountain dominated by snowstorms and sluggish bears, a man who called himself Jaq shoveled the remains of the previous night’s blizzard away from the hotel doors.

It was tedious work, but necessary.

At least that was what he’d been told. To him it was pointless, no vehicles coming up this way until April, no tourists in danger of slipping on the ice, but he was a disciplined man and routine could be a comforting thing.

So he dug, for forty-five minutes each day.

Religiously.

Digger digger digger digger digger the snow

If ya, if ya, if ya don’t want Etta to know

Depositing the last dregs of sleet on the snow at the side, he took the shovel back inside the main lobby, propped it up against one of the mauve pillars, sat down in front of his Adler 39 typewriter and started to write.

After an hour or so, he heard a noise.

It wasn’t the first time.

In fact, it was the hundred and thirty-seventh time…in two months. Which, according to his calculations, rounded out to two point one six occurrences a day. Of course, most of these noises ending up being nothing more than his kid breaking something, or his wife rehearsing her role in The Cherry Orchard…but not all.

The noise came again, from upstairs.

He took one last look at what he’d written on the page, muttered ‘bland, average’ then reclaimed the shovel and went to investigate.

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According to the hotel manager, room 237 was the most auspicious spot in the entire region. VIP guests had been married in it, philosophical theories had been thought up from inside its bathtub, an indigenous Romanian tribe had fitted the pipes [before being beaten to death with other, looser pipes]…the mythology was infinite.

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Moddey Dhoo [poem]

Manannan's Map of Fantastical Folk of the Isle of Man…

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dry out the fibreglass

prepare your nan

can’t have two poets in the attic, it’s weird

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During a period of intense productivity

play darts

read Kant

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Night on the farm, blessed by

neon control

there half the year

avec plastic conscience and

sell-pork

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Those Stalinist future shotguns

travel in pairs

vicious and green

with a blurred understanding of breath control

Avoid

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Star Trek TNG: The Drumhead [Redux] Part 2

The Drumhead (episode) | Memory Alpha | Fandom

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Part 1 is here

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Worf smacks the table in frustration, making the betazoid jump and the Observation Lounge shudder.

‘This is impossible…’

‘We shall look again.’

‘All of the crew have been with us for over a year, I know most of them, there’s no way they could be Romulan spies.’

‘What about this guy?’

The betazoid points at a picture of Alexander.

‘That’s my son.’

‘Official records say he’s currently living on Earth, in a city called Minsk.’

‘He’s on vacation.’

‘Okay. What about this woman?’

‘That’s Guinan.’

‘It says here she has poorly-defined magical abilities…’

‘She runs Ten Forward. Sometimes.’ Worf shakes his head. ‘Her schedule is strange.’

‘Has she ever been to Romulus?’

‘No. But she has been to Ted Danson.’

‘Noted.’

Worf folds his arms. ‘This is still pointless. All we have is vague supposition and guesswork.’ Continue reading

Not Another Mishima

9 Soviet Sci-Fi Movies You Need to See

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Gena Rowlands met with the scientists somewhere near Almeria, Southern Spain. She didn’t know this but they were the same scientists who’d brought back Pol Pot, the same scientists who’d predicted genocide holes = long distance space travel and the same scientists who would one day put the mind of a Japanese student into the body of an English lit student/gym instructor.

It was 1989.

‘Here’s what I want,’ said Gena, checking her watch. ‘My husband, John…you know him? He’s a director…was a director…he did Shadows and Faces and…Gloria. No? Doesn’t matter. The point is…what I want is my husband, alive again, via science.’

The scientists muttered something in Spanish.

‘I know, he’s dead. But only just. I mean, it happened a few weeks ago. But that doesn’t matter, right? From what I’ve heard of you guys, the science you can do, that doesn’t matter. Does it?’

The scientists nodded.

‘Cool. That’s cool. So the point is, what I want is…’ Gena paused, realising she’d said this part already. ‘Okay, you know what I want. Bring John back. My husband, bring him back to me.’

The scientists looked at each other.

‘You can do that, can’t you?’ Gena said, lighting up a cigarette. ‘I mean, I’m not just talking to a bunch of fucking actors here…am I?’

The lead scientist broke off from the others and led Gena to another part of the desert twenty metres away.

‘We can do it, of course. Explanations, however, are a different matter. Science is…it’s very complicated, the methods are…perhaps not so easy for you to understand.’

Gena breathed smoke on his jacket. ‘Try me.’ Continue reading

Suspiria 2

Related image

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‘Oi sing yan.

‘Mo chor.

‘Means alien?’

‘Yup.’

‘Okay…’ said Sila, looking to the left of his brain where he’d been told his language conduits were, ‘Oi sing yan hai…yee gah…chu lido…hai Heung Gong.’

‘Aliens are living in Hong Kong?’

‘Yup. Were the tones okay?’

The teacher smiled. The same way she’d smiled when he mixed up wife and grandma. ‘Some.’

‘I’ll take that.’

‘40% accurate.’

‘Ho geh.

‘Lei yau mo gin gwor oi sing yan?’

‘Huh?’

‘Have you ever seen an alien?’

‘Ah. Yau mo gin gwor. I knew that.’

‘Ho lak ju.

‘What?’

 

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The rest of the lesson carried on in pretty much the same way, the same way it’d gone for the last eight years since he’d first murdered ‘lei ho’, not realising he had to sing it, not say it, or say it but with elasticity, showing four tenths teeth and moving his mouth in an alien way, alien to the way he’d been taught while growing up, which wasn’t really taught either as sheep had once been geep, think had once been fink, and Batfink had probably always been Batfink. Continue reading

Star Trek Discovery // A Poem

Image result for star trek discovery

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Part 1

What’s that room, what’s that room, what’s that room, what’s that room, what’s that room do, what’s in there, what’s it do, what’s that room, what’s inside, what, what’s inside, whoopi g? what’s that room, what’s that room, what’s that room, what’s in there,

Captain?

 

Part 2

Sentient textbook, shave in space, don’t like talk

Put it in the slut net

cowardly shit

 

Part 3

you’re soldiers now, 12 ship war, where’s earth? Where’s Chiba, where’s Mish? Turn left, stick with me, I’m half Belize, D at science, fuck first, sob fight later, where’s Sally B, you stole my knees, mourn that fool, we turned left yet? I’m fine, nice shirt, don’t apologise for holo-suite fun stains, scare Tracy.

 

Part 4

Asian cameo, comfy chair

Man, that’s the canteen

don’t go there

O Brien’s remembering things Continue reading

Zelda: A [tenuous] Link to the Past

Image result for zelda a link to the past

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Hate my life, hate my life, fucking village, fucking villagers, fucking village square, fucking castle, fucking king, I hate it, hate it, hate my life, fuck you mum, fuck you

‘Dad?’

I wake up, pixeled vision, and see the woodchopper packing his stuff and heading out to the castle.

‘Wait up, I wanna come too.’

‘Cannot.’

‘But I wanna.’

‘Back to bed. It’s not your story.’

‘The hell it isn’t,’ mumbles Link, getting back under the blanket long enough for the front and only door to close and his dad to get out of earshot.

Five seconds in all.

‘I’ve got your back, pa,’ Link shouts, throwing off the duvet and quickly putting on his Lincoln green costume. Before leaving, he grabs the wooden sword too, just in case dad’s staging a coup.

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Outside the castle, it’s dark and thunderous and polystyrene like a star trek set. Luckily there are only four guards and they have no peripheral vision so, after slashing leaves off a few bushes, Link slips through a hole in the wall and into the castle. There’s no one about so he wanders around a bit until a street performer appears, throws some cheap smoke and warns Link that he will take over the whole kingdom unless three items are found and connected and, even then, it won’t be over cos he’s got the dark world concept up his sleeve.

‘Do what?’

‘You’ve got as long as you need though. No rush.’ Continue reading

The Book + the Sword // Jin Yong

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Jin Yong is my wife’s favourite writer and probably the best known guy writing Chinese martial arts in the whole world.

Though most people in the west don’t know him.

I don’t know the reason, but not many of his books have been translated into English. My wife told me it’s hard to translate from Chinese to English as the traditional Chinese characters used often have a meaning that can’t be translated well. Also, there probably aren’t many western writers, apart from academics, who are at a high enough standard in Chinese writing to give it a crack.

Maybe the American-Chinese guy who did ‘The 3 Body Problem’ could give it a crack sometime?

Anyway, what my wife said could be true in this case, as the translation I read was quite simple in its style, word choice and sentence structure. And a lot of the story was just plot, plot, plot, which made me wonder if a lot of the deeper, between the lines stuff had been lost along the way.

And when I say ‘a lot’ I mean:

The Chinese version of ‘The Book and the Sword’ is about 1,000 pages

The English version is around 500 pages.

500 pages worth of story was lost?

I don’t know,

but,

although there were a lot of characters to keep track of and the story was quite melodramatic in a lot of ways, there were aspects of it that I thought were great.

Kung Fu strategy

The way Jin Yong describes the action is decent, but the parts that really stood out were the parts in-between where the characters or the narrator would delineate the style that was being used and the strategy behind it

E.g. the one third attack Continue reading