| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[22 Dec 2007|02:20pm] |
Someone once asked me (possibly before I ended their life), "What do you want?!?"
I believe that this question is inexplicably tied to the question of happiness, the essence of which has been debated by priests and philosophers, lovers and mystics, since the beginnings of humanity.
To me, the search for happiness is a futile one. I should know. Since I am omnipotent, I can and do have anything I desire. At a moment's notice, I can conjure up a spell to cause anyone on this godforsaken planet to fall in love with me, give me all of their worldly possessions, or even pledge their everlasting service to my name.
Some may say that this power isn't real, that robbing an individual of their free will cannot bring true happiness. To them I say, bah! What is a handful of flowers and a handwritten love note but an inferior magic spell, intended to woo a prospective mate from another suitor? What are promises of love and devotion, but a manipulation designed to alter another's future?
I can take happiness in the same way a hunter hunts, a blacksmith smiths, and a ruler rules.
...
It is therefore wise, and more effective, in my humble opinion, to ask, "What is unhappiness?"
If a searing needle under one's fingernail brings about unhappiness, if the demise of a loved one brings about unhappiness, if a case of boils and warts brings about unhappiness, then is it not logical, nay, obvious, that the opposites bring about a certain measure of happiness?
Doesn't the absence of torture, death, or pain create this contentment that we mistakenly search for? What is happiness but the void caused by a lack of suffering? Granted, a person may take this too far, and conclude that in order to be truly happy, one must avoid sorrow at all costs. But this too, is an illusion.
For suffering is not caused by desire, and instead the reverse is true: desire is caused by suffering. We want because we ache for more than just stale bread, a rotting shack, and a broken heart.
Emotion is not something to flee, it is the impetus by which we are motivated. It is the alpha of our movement, of our struggles, of our very selves.
Without desire, and without the drive to strive for something better, to climb out of the hell we call pain into the bliss of eternal happiness, we would be as nothing: immobile, unchanging, endless in our stony silence.
This is why I still feel. This is why I still need to feel. With infinite power I could have anything, and then I would no longer desire, and therefore would never have a catalyst to take any other action. Ever.
So I, unlike everyone else, do not search for the elusive paradise called happiness. Not because it is an impossibility, rather I realize that I already have it, and that it is a lonely, tedious place.
To some, heaven is just another word for hell.
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[17 Dec 2007|05:35pm] |
I have realized yet again that there can be no narrative within the course of the pages, for I can only tell what has happened, not what is or will be happening. This causes some frustration in me, as the life of an immortal is filled with tedium.
Years will go by with not a single interesting thing having occurred. I do understand, however, that my perspective is somewhat skewed, as to people with a relatively normal lifespan, things like births and floods and hangings all have some amount of vivacity to them.
To me, however, they are as everything else: just another happening that happens to follow something else, endlessly into the infinite courses of happenings that have ever happened, do happen, and will happen in some unforeseen future.
Stories become much less gripping when they have no ending.
Trust me.
...
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[16 Dec 2007|01:10pm] |
I am a statue in the cave of my youth.
People who have never experienced a subterranean environment believe that caverns are silent places, where the weight of nothing presses in like a vice until a mind fractures under the pressure.
This assumption is incorrect. Like a blind man in an empty room, every movement, every rolling of a pebble, every drop of water is amplified, until the torrent of noises crushes all else, smothers all thought, like a great chasm swallowing a galleon in the very depths of the ocean.
This is where I have been for the last six months: trapped in this fissure of rock and earth and ghosts.
An eldritch light is no comfort in the dank dark places of the earth. Oh, it seems like a good idea at first, but after a few months and years and decades, the shadows become shapes and the shapes become people and the people become real. The blank slate of pure unadulterated darkness is infinitely preferable to the chaotic tangled mass of a vindictive imagination.
The experience of light is made worse by the addition of one human skull, the previous owner of which perished long ago during one of my earlier escapades. I have no wish to stare into the lidless sockets, the frail light creating the illusion of movement on the bone.
Another preconceived notion of immortality is that the annals of time are crystal clear, and that at a moments notice I may jump backwards into the eons and recall any memory with stunning clarity. This too is also incorrect.
I cannot for the life of me recall this gentleman's name. I use the term "gentleman" loosely, because he was a brigand or a woodcutter or both, from what I do remember. I killed him at some point, or at least I think I killed him. I really don't know any more. It was so long ago that the memory has faded, like so many others.
Some things stay vivid in my mind. Certain people or places or activities are brilliant beams of light zipping around my skull, but others are gone, and gone forever. Well, not really forever, no, since at a moment's notice I could conjure up a spell to instantly recall whatever I wished. But what would be the point? Does the lion recall what he had for dinner five years ago? One could probably guess that it was some sort of grazing animal, but what would be the point? Do the details really matter?
Not that I am a lion and humans are sheep, more like I am a lion and humans are ants. I do not derive sustenance from them, my very existence at this point is completely parallel to the collective cares and worries of humanity as a whole.
I will concede that, from time to time, I take pleasure in stepping on an ant or two. And what human would not kill a spider trying to bite him, regardless of the fact that the spider is incapable of truly harming the human? And as so, I sometimes feel the need to clean out the spiderwebs from my proverbial closets.
There are an abundance of ghosts in my closet.
...
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[27 Jul 2007|08:46pm] |
The lichen is edible, and mildly hallucinogenic. It tastes like gravel, and leaves a sticky residue that glows faintly on your mouth, fingers, and clothing. In the wrong light, you could be mistaken for a ghoul.
Many a night, in my younger years, I scraped at the walls with a stone, heaped my findings on a flat granite slab, and gorged myself like a king. I would lay back on the frigid rocks, stare at the ceiling, and dream about the future.
Despite any misconceptions you may believe, I have known hunger.
...
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[26 Jul 2007|01:35pm] |
It's a small, dank cavern. Lichen glows a faint greenish hue in the pitch blackness. The walls are slick, and gleam slightly in the pale light. Something drips in the distance into a stagnant pool.
A flash of light, and the candle is lit again. Sometimes I sit in the darkness, remembering.
I was young once. Everything is, even the gods. Everything has a beginning. Everything has an end. I contemplate mine.
Time passes, the candle flickers and dies.
...
At some point I summon a new candle and light it. Somewhere, a puzzled candlemaker scratches his head and wonders which of his apprentices is stealing his supply. Perhaps he beats one of them, to make an example. The whimpering scrawny lad bleeds into the straw on the floor as the switch falls. The other grimy workers look on impassively. The candles continue to disappear, even though he locks the storeroom, with the only key hung on a chain around his neck. "Perhaps," he thinks, "I have rats." He makes a decision to call the exterminator. Tomorrow, always tomorrow.
The stench of burning beef fills the confined area as the tallow smolders.
This is one of my safehouses, not even the imp knows their locations. Many have fallen before me by trusting others with information vital to their own survival. K'thoozik is useful, to be sure, but as a confidant he is worthless. At least, he can be counted on relying everything he observes to his demon masters whenever he is out of my sight.
I write with a swan feather pen. Goose feathers are for unwashed scribes in dusty countinghouses, scratching away the earnings of other unscrupulous persons. The ink is more pedestrian, a combination of soot, glue, and water. I find that blood dries too quickly, and besides, it is impossible to concentrate with someone screaming in agony from the many cuts necessary to compose any lengthy work. The parchment is sheepskin, not human. True, there is a certain precedent for someone such as myself to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies with feats of depravity, but really, it's impractical. Heads on pikes, iron maidens, and the like are unnecessary. They are a crutch for a lack of confidence in one's abilities.
I have complete confidence in my abilities. I am the most powerful wizard in the world, after all.
...
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[25 Jul 2007|12:56pm] |
I feel an apology is in order. (Not that I should ever do so, since I am a heartless master of the arcane. Though a small pang of remorse every now and then can't hurt.)
It is possible that a reader would be concerned at the nonlinearity of my writings. Granted, I am not a novelist, nor a playwright, so my experience with the creation of a narrative is limited, but it seems that jumping about, discussing any old topic, doesn't lend itself towards the sense of urgency required in a gripping drama.
I must admit that I have burned more books in my long life than I have read, due the necessities of the job. A tyrant can't allow knowledge to flow freely, as it were. There are many kinds of genius. I know next to nothing about animal husbandry, masonry, or calligraphy, but I am a virtuoso when it comes to harnessing power.
With that said, however, there is a certain malaise that can set in with the knowledge that a person is immortal. Someone like me must wrestle with this aspect constantly. The horizon of time stretches to the infinite, as chaos threatens to create a deterioration of the mind.
I've forgotten what I wrote previously. Or where I was. Let me reread what I wrote.
...
Ah, the Alerians.
Gold and red ants, swarming my tower. How can their flimsy armor and fragile bodies withstand the powers I wield? Why do they even try? Everyone tries, regardless of their impending failure. Everyone.
They always hide something up their sleeves and attempt to trick me. Me! A magic sword, a trinket, a word of power, or a chosen one: it doesn't matter. It's always the same. I can imagine them plotting, "Oh, that nasty wizard, he'll never see it coming. He's too drunk on his own arrogance! We'll surely defeat him now!"
Why do they have faith in such gimmicks? I didn't get here by having weaknesses.
I am now too angry to write. I'll continue this later after I wreak havoc with a fireball.
...
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[14 Jun 2007|04:09pm] |
And another thing:
An astute reader may have noticed that each entry is relatively short, only a page, or in some instances a few paragraphs. There is a reason for this: the life of an all-powerful wizard is rather dull. Boring really.
Once I accumulated virtually limitless power, there turned out to be very little to accomplish. Immortality is forever, as they say. At least, that's what immortals say.
I have the luxury of spending a day, a week, however long I wish deciding the worthiness of this phrase or that rousing anecdote. I can mull over exactly what I am trying to say without the nagging pressure of The Great End that all mortals are inevitably crushed by. My solitary state frees me from the chains of procrastination that a human endures. I can spend as much time as I desire pondering where to go next. And if this journal leads somewhere imperfect...well, I guarantee I will outlive whoever decides to criticize the contents.
It is infinitely rewarding to see your enemies crushed to dust by the endless march of time.
Which is, considering the circumstances, a good thing. I have a lot of time on my hands. Infinite, to be exact.
...
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[09 Jun 2007|09:59am] |
I realize that some amount of suspense is lost due to the nature of this journal. The fact that I am writing it now means that I survived whatever story I tell, regardless of how high the odds were stacked against me.
Though I’d like to point out that an army versus myself isn’t fair.
For them.
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[05 Jun 2007|04:45pm] |
Before I stepped out of the transdimensional portal, I activated a couple runes of divination and scanned the area. I always spend some time scouting in the ethereal plane, just in case someone is waiting for my grand entrance. I was generally certain that the area two miles away from Number Three would not contain any sort of magical trap against teleportation. Most wizards don’t think of such things: yet another reason why I’m still alive and kicking. I am always cautious. Always.
A brisk walk through the countryside and I reached a hill that overlooks Number Three.
The meadow below was swarming with a small army. Soldiers from Aleria most likely. The majority were armed with spears and bows, though I spotted a few catapults and ballista, and an honor guard of knights. In the center of the mass, a large pavilion had been set up. Banners with the golden lion and sword crest of Alerian royalty fluttered in the breeze.
Number Three rose out of the fields like a needle of pure darkness. The Alerian host was stationed a couple hundred feet away.
It seemed like I was here only fifty years ago, facing a similar ragtag band of conscripts. Why do they never learn? Impossible odds are just that: impossible. Why do sons never learn from the mistakes of their fathers? Or for this matter, their grandfathers?
I pity humans. Their civilization lives in perpetual forgetfulness. No wonder they have barely progressed beyond the primordial muck. Every death of an elder is a loss of experience and wisdom that inevitably leads to some young hothead who believes that their flighty opinion should be weighed on the scale of history.
Ha! Upstarts! They will learn, mark my words, they will learn. Especially petulant boy kings from some pissant backwater.
I cast a shroud of invisibility and silenced the tread of my footfalls. I even altered my scent to match freshly trodden grass. Experience always wins.
Always.
…
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[01 Jun 2007|11:30am] |
Teleportation, once you get past the initial queasiness, is quite enjoyable.
In theory, there are two different ways of achieving this feat: the first, and in my humble opinion the worse of the two, is to separate yourself into little tiny bits, fly them really fast to your destination, then somehow put all the pieces back together again in the right order.
I see many problems with this, first of which being that breaking yourself into lots of pieces is generally a bad idea. Especially with magic involved. I’m also assuming it would hurt. A lot. “Assuming” because I’ve never tried it. If you’d like to, be my guest. One less wizard for me to inevitably confront.
The second, and far more acceptable way, is to bend time and space. Using this method, you don’t really travel that far in the traditional sense. You, in essence, wrap the universe around you and, by this means, appear in a new place. The only problem with this is that anything that gets in the way generally is unhappy with the fact that you wrapped their time and space into a knot.
This is analogous to a fast moving ocean clipper plowing through a rowboat. Hopefully the fisherman jumps out of the way in time. Hopefully.
If not, well…I prefer not to think about it. No one will miss one insignificant fisherman.
At least I won’t.
…
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[30 May 2007|04:32pm] |
Number Three, located on the outskirts of Aleria, is one of the eleven towers of adamant crystal I have built. These impenetrable spires span the world. They remain a testament to my power and everlasting presence.
I also never have anything to do with them.
They are a ruse. I don’t live in them or even have much to do with them anymore. If, however, someone wishes to express their hatred of me for some reason or another, they can easily take out their futile rage on one of my towers.
Adamant crystal, in essence, is concentrated darkness. No blade can cut it, no hammer can shatter it. This substance is proof against divinations, teleportation, energy effects, and pretty much any force in the known universe.
The only magic capable of altering the form of these structures or bypassing their walls would have to be shaped by the most powerful wizard in the world. In other words: me.
Time and again, some would be hero finds a magic sword or tome, believes in some obscure prophecy, and foolhardily thrusts the blade/unleashes a spell against one of my towers.
Another property of adamant: it devours magical energy. Unfortunate for a would be hero. It’s as if they added mortar to brick, strengthening the tower, while at the same time their “special” artifact crumbles to dust.
Sad really. More than one peasant farmer, at one time or another, was “the chosen one” and now lives out their lives in squalor and misery, chopping wood or carting chicken manure while reminiscing about the good ol’days.
Breaks my heart.
...
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[29 May 2007|11:43am] |
"Number Three is under attack, sir."
K'thoozik crouched over the eleven shards of adamant crystal driven in the dirt. The imp's head was wrapped in a bandage. He wasn't hurt: imps can regenerate nearly every wound; their egos, however, are not as resilient.
"I'd like to help, but, you know..." He pointed to his imaginary trauma.
"Amazing how those villagers managed to fight you off, armed as they were with torches and pitchforks," I commented.
"The pitchforks were especially...hrm, pointy," he countered. "They must have sharpened them, Master."
"The damage you caused with a single torch, you burned to the ground, what...two privies and a chicken coop?"
He pointed his ears in defiance. "The rooster looked at me funny."
I glared at him. Don't get me wrong, I never expected him to be capable of pillaging an entire village. He is woefully unequipped to handle a task of that magnitude. It is my experience, however, that minions, no matter how inept, must be constantly kept busy or else they have a tendency to revolt.
"Master? Number Three?" He pointed to one of the crystals, from which whose blackish depths a fel green light began to glow. A more important matter.
"I thought we had an agreement with that kingdom? Why are they attacking my property, now of all times?" I rose from my wicker rocking chair. The imp scattered. "Why doesn't anyone learn?"
"The old king died. It's a new prince!" K'thoozik dived behind the straw mattress.
"I'm sorry to hear that." The Alerian king had been an agreeable monarch--a tyrant, yes--but agreeable nonetheless. I plucked the crystal from the ground. It was warm to the touch.
"The new king and I must have words."
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| The Evil Wizard's Diary |
[26 May 2007|06:44pm] |
I was rather bored this morning and as such I commanded my imp to raze a nearby peasant village. He was slightly annoyed by this request--he always is.
"Master, I regret to inform you that I am only two feet tall."
"Yes, and?"
His wings fluttered.
"I am incapable of annihilating an entire village. Perhaps if you let me borrow the ogres for the day--"
I waved my hand in dismissal.
K'thoozik hung his head in submission. "I will do as you ask."
He flew out the window, which shimmered slightly as he passed through the frame.
I congratulated myself yet again for choosing the most idiotic demon I could find to take as a companion. It is never wise to surround oneself with intelligent creatures. Especially traitorous, backstabbing hellspawn from the forty-seventh layer of the Abyss.
True, a battledevil heccaboar or pleasureslave succubus could be infinitely more useful, but really, I cannot waste effort reigning in their natural desire to wrench my intestines out through my nose.
One of the many reasons I am still here is that I understand my limits: one of which is that I cannot change what cannot be changed. Demons are demons. The don't have free will. They will always betray anyone they have sworn to help. It is in their nature.
Just as a Celestial will always lecture me on the subject of morality while attempting to sever my head from my body with their silver swords. It's in their nature.
Luckily, due to my unique circumstance, I cannot be predicted.
It's in my nature.
...
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| The Best YouTube Video Never Made |
[07 May 2007|02:19pm] |
"BEWARE THE CORNADO!"
Mullets collide as a colossal mutant ear of corn veers towards the Midwest and spins a swath of destruction on every trailer park in its path. Only the valiant redneck scientist with the cure can stop this menace before the clock runs out. As lightning strikes and creates kernels of mass popcorn destruction, the hero must kill the monster, get the girl, and save the world.
With lots of cheesy green-screen goodness, model trailer parks complete with plastic figurine white trash, and miniature explosions of popcorn and cows, this would be the best short movie never made.
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| Kurt Vonnegut died. |
[07 May 2007|02:04pm] |
Kurt Vonnegut died, so now I can write in earnest. I had been holding off, waiting for him to kick the bucket, because he had every Grand Idea I've ever had before I did. IT WAS CONSTAPATORY SADNESS ON AN ENORMOUS SCALE.
Now I can cease surfing the web, playing Sudoku, and generally WASTING TIME, because no one else in this contemporary time period comes close to fulfilling the role of honorary mentor as well as Vonnegut did.
Except perhaps the guys at Penny Arcade.
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[18 May 2006|10:01am] |
name:: Matthew Jacob Coughlan
nickname:: Pookle
birthday:: 11/10/77
birthplace:: Riverside, CA
current mood:: stressed
current taste:: apple, pear, and mango scone
current hair:: too long and losing it at the same time, oh the irony
current clothes:: dry
current annoyance:: a rash
current smell:: allergies
current thing you ought to be doing:: haha! Finals week.
current desktop picture:: a random castle
current favorite band:: Beck
current book:: Ill Wind
current cd in stereo:: Sea Change, Beck
current crush:: my wife
current favorite celeb:: Vin Diesel
do drugs:: every chance I get, oh wait, I never get a chance
ever have a dream that keeps coming back:: yes
remember your first real love:: yes
still love them:: my definition of love has changed
read the newspaper:: no
have any gay or lesbian friends:: I don't ask
believe in miracles:: define miracle
believe it`s possible to remain faithful forever:: define forever
consider yourself tolerant of others:: define tolerant
consider love a mistake:: define mistake
like the taste of alcohol:: yes
have a favorite candy:: the 88% dark chocolate panther bar from Whole Foods
believe in astrology:: define believe
believe in magic:: define magic
believe in god:: define god
have any pets:: you don't really "have" cats, they have you
go to or plan to go to college:: yes
have any piercings:: no
have any tattoos:: no
hate yourself:: maybe?
have an obsession:: no
have a secret crush:: no
do they know yet:: see above
have a best friend:: yes, my wife
wish on stars:: air pollution makes that impossible
care about looks:: of course
love life:: ongoing
first crush:: yes
single or taken:: taken
ever been in love:: yes
do you believe in love at first sight:: no
describe your ideal significant other:: define ideal
word association
rubber:: condom
rock:: and a hard place
green:: moist
wet:: moist
cry:: baby
peanut:: Andre the Giant
hay:: horses
cold:: burrito
steamy:: shower sex
freaky:: circus people
rain:: parade
blow:: job
appearance.
hair:: brown
eyes:: hazel
height:: 6'1"
last thing you.
bought:: #3 and and iced tea at Jack-in-the-Box
ate + drank:: apple, pear, and mango scone, water
read:: The World is Flat
either/or.
club or house party:: raid
beer or cider:: guinness
drinks or shots:: margarita
cats or dogs:: babies
single or taken:: married
pen or pencil:: keyboard
gloves or mittens:: fingerless gloves
food or candy:: cake
cassette or cd:: mp3
Have you ever...
dated one of your best friends:: yes
loved somebody so much it made you cry:: yes
drank alcohol:: yes
done drugs:: yes
broken the law:: see above
run away from home:: yes
broken a bone:: no
played truth or dare:: yes
kissed someone you didn`t know:: no
been in a fight:: no
come close to dying:: yes
the most embarrasing cd in your collection:: They Might Be Giants, Here Comes the ABCs (and I love it)
What is your bedroom like:: my wife
your favorite thing for breakfast:: eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and toast
last person you.
talked to:: my wife
im`ed:: my wife
had a serious conversation with:: my wife
yelled at:: my wife
befriended:: define befriended
random questions.
what`s on your bedside table:: my wife's stuff
what do you eat when you raid the fridge late at night:: peanut butter sandwich and chips
what is your secret guaranteed weeping movie:: Good Will Hunting
if you could have plastic surgery, what would you have done:: attach a third arm
what feature are you most insecure about:: balding
do you ever have to beg:: no
are you a pyromaniac:: yes
do you know anyone famous:: myself (I'm on IMDB woohoo!)
describe your bed:: dead people slept in it
spontaneous or plan:: violet
do you know how to play poker:: of course not. (wins another pot)
what do you carry with you at all times:: my schlong
how do you drive:: I envision points over the pedestrian's heads
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| Wisdom of the Ages |
[17 May 2006|09:43am] |
if we are all god
Chuck Norris could be our god
oh my god, he is
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| Wisdom of the Ages |
[17 May 2006|09:39am] |
dinosaurs fiction
evolution is a scam
man by Chuck Norris
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| Communication Issues |
[17 May 2006|09:34am] |
Live Journal black hole
Matt is not a word person
slingshots FTW
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| Baby Woes |
[12 May 2006|05:24pm] |
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He touched his dirty butt. Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
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concretebuddha's journal