LoreleiLee

I predict push-and-pull limbo. Ride is epic and I identify myself with "fucking crazy but free" part, but Blue Jeans is dark romance evergreen carved in stone. Blue Jeans - 138 Ride - 221

PS: Not to be misunderstood, I don't hate Adele, I think her voice is powerful and could move mountains, i just have a tendency to use a hyperbole as a figure of speech to underline an opinion and I feel Lana as much closer to me. I hope I didn't offend her fans.

I agree. Not only she predicted his death, or was spiritual catalyst of transmitting his tortured body and soul to a blissful place, her Swan Song predicted his whole album which is literally a swan song of his life and career. The Blackest Day, all-consuming, pervading and penetrating magmatic oil of blackness crystallized in his star-shaped symbol of deteriorating physical body and fixating chameleonic diversity of his stages and personas into one magnum opus charged with occult meaning and Crowleyan references (her feminine spiritual fluids into his masculine, geometric solidity, and maybe vice versa). And on this final breathtaking testament of his there is a song „Girl Loves Me“, like his act of gratitude and acknowledgement of her tribute „Terrence Loves you“. It is as they had a telepathic connection, which emerged after she called him like mermaid from deepest ocean empires or farthest galaxies, „all night long“ – his illness was his night, his extinguishing. And in Burnt Norton „into the rose garden“ might be the portal to heaven which awaitens him. At least I like to imagine it that way. Considering Adele, she is populistic artist, and as such, digestible for everyone and appealing to the taste of larger masses, because she only sings out her lowest emotional levels, delivering common places of everybody's experience, without a trace of personal strugglings, drama and prodigal illuminations. She hasn't developped those deeper, spiritual and metaphysic parts of self, they are still a fetus, so she can't channel them, howling straightforwardly with her werewolf, lumberjack voice from the lizard brain , without Lana's filigree sophistication, iridescent sensibility and nuanced complexity. Lana stands towards her as an aristocrat on an astral plane, and as such, she would be a threat to the mass and other entertainers on the tribute concert. People annihilate her because everything that stands out is disturbing, and because even in the herd there is a hierarchy, where every individual is reduced to an impersonal symbol and basic, elementary function, and she is so shape-shifting and so progressed in her individualisation that she is out of the orbit, like a fiery comet whose avantgarde speed is missed and overlooked by an ordinary eye and sense. Also, she is a master of attributing religious connotations even to the most vulgar allusions, which is a gift and virtuosity noone of today simpleton, greedy, bare-assed harlots can acchieve. Her performing would steal the show and she would swallow them all, because her radiance is infrared and ultraviolet, something that could be compared only with alienesque Bowie's aura. Those who still see her as a pretentious weirdo are of the same kind of the ignorants that claimed ascending Velvet Underground to be annoying cacophony of schreeching noise, for example. If Velvets brought obscurity, fetishes, sadomasochism and protopunk experimentation into the idyllic and idealistic flower hippy circles, foreseeing disillusionment and cocaine decadence of the seventies, Lana claimed back the braveness of the solitary soul exploration into capitalist machinery of spitting out generic plastic dolls. And all of that as a woman in still dominantly patriarchal world, setting her own rules and subverting all those female music clans, saccharine cheerleaders hiding under the false flag of feminism. That is just my two cents.

Totally clumsy, awkward, unpolished and peasantish (and freestyle) translation of "Off To The Races" to my language (in English it sounds like a medieval troubadour song to an unattainable, pristine princess compairing to how it sounds here, like some drunken toast in a saloon; and obviously, we need much more words to describe something simple, sublime and beautiful). And, if OTTR original is irresistibly loquacious and effusive, with so many emotional facets and hues and exquisite, impassioned metaphors, this version is dishevelled logoreia. Moj stari je gad ali Ne mogu poreći da volim način na koji mi drži ruku I grabi me, steže, otima mi srce Ne smeta mu moja Las Vegas prošlost Ne mari za moju LA vulgarnost Voli me svakim otkucajem svog kokainskog srca Dragana u svjetlucavom bazenu Skidam bijeli bikini svojim crveno nalakiranim noktima Motriš me u bazenu čija se površina blistavo plavo mreška, i sjediš i pijuckaš Black Kristal O, da Svjetlo mog života, vatro mojih prepona, Budi dobra curica, učini ono što želim Svjetlo mog života, vatro mojih prepona, Daj mi zlatne novčiće, daj mi novčiće I otiskujem se na utrke, s kašetama Bacardija, I on me lovi po čitavom gradu, jer zna da sam pijana i nadrogirana, Susrećući se sa sumnjivim ljudima na Otoku Rikers, i neću se izvući, Jer ja sam luda, dragi, trebam te da dođeš i da me spasiš, Ja sam tvoja grimizna starleta, koja pjeva u vrtu, Poljubi me u moja otvorena usta Spremna sam za tebe Moj stari je opak čovjek ali Duša mu je slatka kao krvavo crveni džem I pokazuje mi kako poznaje Svaki pedalj moje naftno crne duše Ne mari što sam bez prebijene pare i što mi je život sjeban Zapravo, misli da je baš to ono što mu se kod mene sviđa I divi mi se, voli način na koji se kotrljam kao bezglavi kamen Voli me promatrati u staklenoj tuš-kabini kupaonice, u Chateau Marmontu, Kako navlačim svoju crvenu haljinu, šminkam se, Staklena ploča, parfem, konjak, ljiljan, Ples dima, kaže da se osjeća kao u raju Svjetlo njegovog života, vatra njegovih prepona, Zadrži me zauvijek, reci da me posjeduješ, Svjetlo tvog života, vatro tvojih prepona, Reci da me posjeduješ, daj mi zlatne novčiće I hrlim na utrke, u čipci, Koža oko mog struka je tijesna, i padam, Mogu vidjeti tvoje besramno lice, u Ciprianijevom podrumu, Volim te, ali tonem Bože, tako sam luda, dragi, oprosti što se ponašam tako zločesto i neobuzdano, Tvoja sam drolja, starleta, kraljica Coney Islanda, Podižući pakao po cijelom gradu Oprosti na tome Moj stari je lopuža, i ostat ću uz njega i moliti s njime do kraja Ali vjerujem u odluku Našeg Gospoda da motri nad nama Da ga uzme k sebi kad kucne čas, ako bude mogao, Ne bojim se priznati da bih umrla bez njega Tko će drugi izaći na kraj samnom, ovako izgubljenom i divljom? Trebam te, dišem te, nikad te neću ostaviti, Oni će okajati dan kad ostanem sama, bez tebe, Ležiš sa svojim zlatnim lancem na prsima, cigara visi s tvojih usana Kažem, „Mili, nikada nisi izgledao tako predivno kao što izgledaš sada, moj čovječe“ I sada jurimo na utrke, vrludamo mjestima, Spremni, vrata su spuštena, i sada ulazimo, U kaos Las Vegasa, u Casino Oasis, mili, vrijeme je za divlju igru Dečko, tako si lud, dragi, volim te zauvijek, bezrezervno, Ti si moja jedina, istinska ljubav, ti si moja jedina, istinska ljubav Ti si moja jedina, istinska ljubav

I was eerily anxious and restless this night before I went to bed; for some reason I couldn't sleep and although I usually surmount insomnia and wait for the morning (because it is lately so rare), I needed to take a valium pill (which I need only once or twice a year), because of the great disturbance. I dreamt of a market place, which means opulence, creativity and abundance of ideas, and on one booth, reminiscent of a fussy place in Bahnhof Zoo subway station in Berlin there were sitting and chilling two men, two young punks, which I lately realized were David and Terry. There came a beautiful, playful cat white as snow (Thin White Duke, and snow falling in the January morning Terrence commited suicide), with blocks of serene and shiny pink fur, like strawberry ice-cream (David's originality and eccentricity), and she was jumping constantly at one of the guys (David), from the ground to his lap, always gently catching and touching his nose with both of her soft pearly paws. It was as she was saying, „Come with me, don't be afraid, come, let's go!“ and her presence was of an angelic, otherwordly sort. I hope this is the omen of her being psychopomp of David's ascendance to heaven. (Strawberries symbolize feminine qualities and, therefore, David's coquetting with bisexuality and his strong and fruitful feminine side, and also, reaching the goal and coming to the end of a path – which he so gloriously accomplished in grand, royal finale). Today I'll have a feast of listening the King and his avantgarde, prophetic music that influenced generations who followed his diamond, groundbreaking steps into unknown realms of wonder.

Wow!

Thanks, I know it's creepy – actually, I am not so aware of it untill others point that out, and few people would hang it on the bedroom wall, but drawing is a sort of exorcism and purification to me. I hope I will come with some less eerie stuff in the future I think your stuff is excellent, too - I like those skinny, sinewy bodies, aerodynamic postures and spiky costumes - you have an eye for art and fashion

One over-the-top statement, with many spelling and grammatical errors : Ultraviolence is strong, intense, deep, versatile, it quivers in fury, sadness, ecstasy, despair, longing and every other emotion from the spectrum. It has spikes, thorns, explosions and fire, but also ocean, blood, tears, honey, and stars. It is built from contradictions and numerous contrasts and layers. And I adore its rawness and shamelesness. An album with heart and soul, but also with balls and guts. Also, entering the world of Ultraviolence is like being bombarded and electroshocked with ultimatelly sincere and dismantling passion, and bathed in razorblades of heartwrenching anger and vengeful inclinations. It is pure, bold, gorgeous, shocking and soul-stirring emotional striptease and psychological crucifiction with spastic waves of dying and resurrection, and while Lana roars, moans, screams and begs on her blood-rose throne of lonely queen, I can feel her sonic teeth peeling my skin to the stellar schrapnels. Those dirty, desert rock, psychedelic ayahuasca noises and harmonies like skelletons in her psychic wardrobe catapult the listener in the land of rust, smoke and balsamic soul whispers. It is rudimentary tectonic disturbance, avalanche of tears, lust, avid greed and bitchy, yet sophisticated and aristocratic proud. It is desolate kingdom of lava and hurricane mist, while Lana weeps angelically and diabolically in her ivory tower, only to descend to opulent, decadent and rainbowish realm of hippy druggies, salacious feathers, pearls that symbolize innocence, luxury and device of choking – which is the crime lovers do. Ultra is the weapon of her inflamed, crazed, obsessed mind and hounted, exalted emotions that floods all the floors of our mental pagodas, and drives us in hallucinant frenzy of sepia, sunblinded seventies and ghostlike merging of fairy, narcotic voice with opiumish, twang guitars. I can feel myself floating above the field full of poppies in July, bathed in golden ash, or on the indigo crests of growling, mystical ocean. Burning pyres of Cruel World and West Coast collide with sublime and celestial Shades Of Cool, and velvety, scarlet Sad Girl transfuses into textured, exuberant tar black despair and delusion of Pretty When You Cry. She chants radiantly, dramatically and unwroughtly about her stabbed heart and galactic sadness, the siren song that rips and slits open our intestines in its intensity and tragedy, and she is furious, invincible and resolute dragoness who eats all of her peers for breakfast, because her own intimate garden of diamond mind, desires and dreams, although idiosyncratic, just pukes rubies, sapphires and amethysts in all its splendour, seducing us and making us her slave. She is not abundant, talkative, logoreic Lolita from Off To The Races (although I adore that song), with lyrics oversaturated with rich images, but purified, consolidated witch that carefully chooses her words, still powerful and image-evoking, yet charged with harsh, unapologetic statement that colors the whole song in enchanting atmosphere of very specific emotion and message. She is sorceress surfing on the crimson waves of this catharctic oeuvre, where all the suppressed anxieties and explosive ferocities and darkest sorrows spill over like a tsunami and overwhelm us in the symphony of senses. She, the lisergic acid mistress, drives us to indulge Mojave Peyote of her soul, being volcanic concubine and infusing us with fever and tempest. Sonically, the album is splendid fatamorgana that shines in all hues of the cosmos, revealing chameleon-like transformations of her soul, her violent mood swings and her experience that transformed her from ingenue and naive nymphet to real girl-woman of flesh and blood, goddess that has his earthly avatar and operates in her black chandelier tears, poisonous drives and nuclear loves for badasses with heroin boiling in their veins. But, her own mind is heroin and LSD, she doesn't need nightmarish mountains of vices to be wild, crazy and opalescent. Deranged, divine, stroboscopic and virulent melodies full of cuts and pulsations from devil within challenge us to reveal our own „sick to the bones“ state of mind. Ultraviolence chanteuse is cursed Persephone that three quaerters of the year spends in Hell milking the muses in that torture garden, but pain brings only best from her, leaving golden wounds and diamond scars behind, to shine in heaven like neon illumination. UV is a vestibule to her inner turmoils and psychic gargoyles, a battlefield of conflicted emotions and a minefield to those who seek only dead calm of solace, idyll and harmony of tame, jazzy songs; its grungy, dirty, raw and aggressive sound bites polished, cinematic raffinement yet is transcended through gloomy, sepulchral or ethereal parts and pieces. It is cathedral of sensual, fireworkish excess and aloof remoteness of a lonely eremite, fiery delirium and deepest melancholia, mirroring broken dreams and reflections upon doomed relationships with tyrants and sadists, but those memories are bittersweet because she is bended, masochistic tragic heroine and omnipotent empress at the same time. She rises out the ashes like Phoenix and that colossal moment of alchemic transformation pushes us into the mesmeric vertigo of album's epic, monumental experience. Phantasmagoric, orgasmic, devastating and leaving you with eternal, vampire thirst for more, more and more. --------- I already see "get a life" comments. I don't hate Honeymoon, I think it is gorgeous, mature, multilayered, very sophisticated and deep, but I just unwinded myself here, because UV is my favourite darling. I love fire and water, and UV is abundant with those elements, while the water of Honeymoon is too diluted with apathetic air. But, that is just my own subjective opinion, and, above all, feeling. And, I rarelly write on the boards, so I overcompensated here.

Gangsta Finito.

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"Lesbos" - unfinished, but I will do the dirty job. [content removed] Btw., to quote myself, I'm straight as highway, but I platonically love female beauty and divine, sculptural magnificence of lesbian encounters.

Here are some comics I made with my ex-colleague about three years ago (he wrote the stories about relations and tensions between giants and midgets, since that is what turns him on and hardens his device , and the smashs where giant creatures, usually women, slaughter till the last tiny vein and cell their microscopic victims, and I made the whole drawings, that is, visual part). Now I am heading towards independent, standalone producing of comics with my own plots, where I will do both storytelling and visual part. Last page of "Fatal Balcony":

Hardly Wait - Juliette Lewis

The Garden - PJ Harvey

Thank you Yeah, I'm obsessed with everything that breaks boundaries, that disturbs, and all that is morbid, deranged, obscene, and deals with extremes and dangerous, dark places of human psyche. And I love the shocks and transformations, the experiences that push person over the edge, when the abyss starts staring at him or her. I love both Freud and Jung, and I just rewatched Twin Peaks tutto completo after all these years and returned to my childhood. And Lynch's twisted and convoluted movies and hazardous diggings through human nature always touch that tetchy chord in my soul and his perversities and kinks arouse me intellectualy, mentally, spiritually, even sexually, with all his bizzare and eccentric characters, secrets they hide and fantasy, dreamy, sinister, ghostlike atmosphere I think I channel that excessive, unrecognized libidinous forces (that sneak under the radar) through art, together with destructive avalanches. I would probably be a threat to society (or mostly to myself) if I wasn't given opportunity to express myself because I suppress a lot and only in art I become exhibitionist. I would put a link on my blogs, but I hesitate to reveal my identity (I prefer anonimity). Maybe on private mail? Merci You're so kind!

Unfortunatelly, I didn't see that, shame on me (and I must download it, because it's sort of cult series), but that blood propulsion is certainly inspired by Bathory, the grandmother and prototype of all bloodthirst royalties and historical figures (although, the story related to her is probably a myth). Edit: Oh yes, I see, Gaga is countess, so definitelly a direct reference and hommage.

Maybe Zeena LaVey is incarnation of hungarian countess Erzsebet Bathory who indulged in bloodbaths squeezed from the flesh of murdered virgins to keep herself eternally young, fresh and beautiful - and vigilantly alive, like a vampire, and Granny is incarnation of Zeena, aiming for Lana’s snowflake innocent soul and angelic voice, to corrupt her and curse her through naughty dirty occult reading, and to perfidiously get rid of the queen that overshadows her and whose gigantic charisma, enchanting poetry and monumental legacy she will never outreach. (just kiddin)

God and Lucifer are the opposite sides of one single coin, and Lucifer is, after all, the bearer of light and knowledge, therefore, positive figure (a fallen angel, he was once one of the fair feathery gang up in the Elysian fields). The church itself glued the alarm of evilness to the so called Satan in medieval times, untill now. And this book, "Satan Witch", is actually charming, harmless text about saucy, foxy seductresses that tease and manipulate men slyly and ingeniously into doing what those capricious little asses want them to do - to lick their feet and the ground they walk upon. I mean, just look at the subtitles of chapters: Cartoon Cuties Stockings versus Panty Hose The High Heel Accessories Color Clues for Witches How and When to Lie Learn to Be Stupid :teehee: etc. There are some spicy advices on how to cast spells and practice real, spoooky witchcraft, but they are in the cathegory of lite, sugar cotton Disney movies (at least for the people who were baptized by serious and tempestuous pains and troubles). It's a fun manual for ambitious chicks who want to be the whole world's girls or lethal femmes fatales that grab everything life offers in its cornucopia and who seek material, mundane, teluric pleasures (money, adoration, power and hot, sweaty screw). And, after all, "lies can buy eternity". There is no trace of bloody ritual carnages or eating little babies or placenta. C'mon, who takes satanists seriously, or at least their today's naive admirers? Once you enter into their narrative, you discover they are actually hypersensitive creatures who find their guidance and guru in worshipping Devil because they need an iron spine and someone omnipotent to rely on, in their wavering life whereabouts (because they are too insecure and scared to wander around stormy waves of existence themselves, or they undergo an identity crisis). Here is the gem to download: http://www.e-reading.club/bookreader.php/130868/LaVey_-_The_Satanic_Witch.pdf

Like the platonic idea of beauty (or everything else) that is supreme and sublime, above the physical manifestations of that idea/ideal in material world, that imitate her in perpetually imperfect manner, never reaching nor achieving that ideal. Like art that, according to Plato, unsuccessfully imitates that ethereal world of ideas. There are zillions of manifestations and representations of certain archetype, but, according to his theories, it is always just a faint echo of a "real deal", at least for him (I don't agree with his tense attitude towards creativity, though). Ideas are eternal and unchangeable, fixed in eternity, or, in the space where time does not exist, frozen in the eye of the hurricane, standing still like monades, and avatars/incarnations on Earth, like Lana, Lizzy (not Elizabeth), May Jailer, Sparkle Jump Rope Queen, that are mutable, like chameleons, channel specific idea or archetype, enriching skeleton of them with flesh, blood, juices and peculiar aromas and scents. She, with her many faces of goddess, injects trembling life and electric vividness to grey, monumental, austere, and ice-cold ideas/archetypes on their solemn pantheon and makes them unique in her individualistic, quirky and seductive manner. I guess so.

Oh, I know that song! I listened to Massive Attack devotedly and only now I realized that this is her voice It is really angelic and otherwordly. I have Mazzy Star's album "Among My Swan" and I find psychedelic depths and creases of "Umbilical" marvelous and irresistible, so hypnotic - she kidnappes me with her music, pushes me into the rear of her spaceship and then slowly and gently crumbles my physical body and my sore knots of anguish with her tiny triangular sonic teeth into miriads of stardust sparkles. Thanks for the song, I am going to dive into it as soon as I finish my drawing. PS. I wanted to say my addressing to you was not supposed to be mean, it is just that I am sometimes spiky bitch (and I am aware of it ), because my own little black, hairy, crusty demon with degenerate yap pushes me by the tongue Damn him, let him burn! (But still, I need him for inspiration sometimes, when angels are not challenging enough). PS. I agree with you in the fact that Lana brings me also into unknown, magical places and help me reveal often obscure artists that hide under the cortex of the net, but become visible only after her divine intervention and guidance.

Aha, ok, I didn't know they were connected on so many levels, because I'm not introduced to the oeuvre of Shannyn so well. I was just reacting to the spread tendency between many devoted fans (I do not condemn them, however) of putting everybody and everything in their surroundings in the relation with the idealised vision of their beloved goddess - which is not a sin per se. I guess there are just two types of fans: the ones that put Lana on a celestial pedestal surrounded by ultraviolet comets and neon lilacs, exalted by anything she produces, and the ones that let the love for her touches them and influence their core, but who also critically analyse, ruminate and contemplate her as a diva, and also as a flesh-and-blood mortal being with all her flaws and misdemeanours. I also used to succumb myself to magical thinking (not meaning seeing miracles in the atrocious, tyrannical world - I still do, because I nurture the innocent in me and I would kill myself if I would let everything to tint itself the sombrest black, but seeing everything as connected and believing nothing is random or incidental), but I realised that it uplifts me too high and that I lose connection with myself. After all, I love myself better than Lanz, for the sake of my mental sanity and groundedness You must not forget you are precious, too, Lana is not an invincible and miraculous alien. Or maybe I am too pessimistic and wounded to observe the world through the rose tinted glasses This part writes the gloomy and skeptical part of me, another is esoteric and obsessive freak Ok, I will leave, since I hate to patronize, and I slipped into that vice here. I hope I explained myself without being harsh

Hi. I do cherish many of your other insights, but you are a queen of conspiracy theories. Innocence lost is a very common term, a trope that became universal archetype, because it is derived from everyone's life experience (read: disillusionment, broken heart, dreams not came true, corruption of the grandomanic, messianic and omnipotent fantasies of youth and hitting hard the ground, disappointment in life, not getting what you want, your closest ones betraying you when you need them most, getting stabbed in the back, trusting nontrustworthy, being taken advantage of, encountering dark side of existence and being disturbed by your own demons etc, etc. Animal or a child are in the paradise state, they do not know the difference between the good and evil, moral norms are a spanish village to them, they are wild and untamed and carefree under the golden sun, but then knowledge causes their fall and loss of that adored innocence. Everyone knows: the wiser - the unhappier and more troubled, bombarded with tsunamies of his or her analytical mind and excruciating awareness of the degradation, decadence and decay of the world). John Milton wrote "Paradise Lost" (byblical story of a a fall of man that Lana depicted in her "Tropico"; but you know that) which is a paralel to this syntagm and its probable poetic source or inspiration. I myself named one cycle of my drawings "Innocence lost" about eight years ago, when Lana was still daydreaming of being songstress and when she was certainly in the blessed state of ignorance, which is the effect of still perfect life circumstances and beeing protected, groomed, taken care of and loved like a diamond - and when I didn't have a clue she even existed. How could you explain that? So... It is fun to search similarities in everthing your heart caresses, but sometimes pipe is just a pipe, not a phalos. No hard feelings, just a note