12d3 [2003-10-20 14:51:13 +0000 UTC]

Thanks for the favourite, it's much appreciated!

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snowunmasked [2003-10-19 04:08:48 +0000 UTC]

That was a very poetic comment you left on my 'Come Hither'
Thank you very much indeed. It was very enjoyable to read

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playground [2003-10-14 11:45:50 +0000 UTC]

Random Deviant

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blindjanus [2003-09-26 22:40:51 +0000 UTC]

thanks for your comment. i'm sorry no birds where around during the shot

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OliveTree [2003-09-25 23:39:23 +0000 UTC]

Personal Mythology #1:

On the 2nd of May 1980, Joy Division played their final gig in Birmingham, a flaccid expressionless city at the centre of England. It was a tense occasion. Ian Curtis, his marriage in tatters, his epilepsy leaking out of him to consume his life, perhaps already aware of what fate would conduct through his hands a month's time, gave a precarious performance, flailing himself about in self-mockery, the crowd adoring every second. His screams rippled through the PA system, hosing the student crowd with distraught sound but still they called for more. The voice was accepted now, rendered safe, freeing nothing from within. Ian soldiered on, the band playing ceremony live for the first time, showing the quality of material as yet unreleased, promising even more illustrious music for the future. But time had run out and an ending was coming.

After the first encore, Digital, Ian could take no more and stormed off stage, with Peter Hook and Bernard Sumner exchanging weary glances before following. Soon the tour van was crammed with sweaty equipment and the band were crawling unnoticed out of the city, heading back north. The four young men sat in silence, never to perform as Joy Division again. The voice was no more. Above them the sky clenched black, somehow knowing what had died beneath it, shaking its rain across the countryside and howling out its rage. The wind spat litter into the lonely trees, scattered people scurried for cover and the universe knew that the balance must be reset. Something must begin.

At that moment, 50 miles south across the darkened countryside, the low ceiling of cloud sliding like an avalanche above the old Victorian health resort of Royal Leamington Spa, a woman in a hospital bed screamed. The rain threw itself at the windows as hour after hour the screaming intensified, pain singing out the anthem of life. A gathering was about to coalesce. A great release was due. As the water poured from above, a different life liquid gushed out onto the hospital floor. A white flash of lightning smiled across the night as the screaming was joined by a fresh voice, a virgin primal cry. The routine cheer among the medical staff was swallowed by the thunder, and I was born into this world.

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