deidrichenstein: (filthy)
作曲: Dir en grey
translation by deidrich

I question the void )
deidrichenstein: (京)
I haven't slept in over 30 hours.

I feel so fucking weird right now. I'm tired but not sleepy, my body is aching but it's not painful, everything, especially lights, are unfocused and grainy and when I turn quickly my vision becomes slightly clouded over for a moment. Then it clears when I squint a little. My body feels very heavy, heavier than it should feel.

It's clouded over as the day has worn on, and I wish it had stayed clear today. Usually bright sunlit days feel oppressive to me and I spend much of the time wishing it would all go grey. Today it's the opposite and I feel just as dreary as the day looks. Everything is dull, I want it to be vibrant.

My head is a dull mush. I can't concentrate on anything, and I had planned to do a number of things today. I can't be fucked. I'm sitting at my desk staring at this screen, at the window, at the tree outside, at my bed, at the woman's face on the magazine I'm using as a mouse pad and there is just nothing there. I can't think. This makes me tense and jittering and very ill-contented. It makes me bored and there is nothing I fucking hate more than being bored. Hopefully it's just fucking burn out and will be better by tomorrow. But I can't sleep now... I have to continue till nightfall. It's only 2PM. I need more coffee. I need a lot more coffee.

I visited my grandparents this morning as I usually do on a Sunday. I've moved recently and I don't have a fridge or a washing machine so they do my washing for me once or twice a week. I've never before been in such enjoyable, regular contact with anyone. No matter how shitty I might feel before hand, even on the way there, when I there and with them I'm joyful. I suppose I'm grateful. I've never had any kind of support in my life, genuine, loving, all encompassing support that makes me feel so much gratitude and affection for them I almost feel ashamed.

Ah well, I'm going to get a coffee and listen to Buck-Tick all afternoon and try to work on more of Uroboros. I've decided I'm going to complete that album fully before posting others, although I have done work on them. I'll post the verses throughout the hardcover book in the deluxe edition as well, because I've never seen them anywhere, as well as english versions and any rambling or annotations I might have because I like the idea of it being ~complete~ and thorough :P
And the documents on my computer are in a disgusting horrendous mess and there is shit everywhere and I'm too lazy to go and clean everything up. So I'll have it all neatly stored here. :P


Misshitsu is just indescribable and it's been my favourite B-T song since forfuckingever. I just found this video and jesus fuck me sideways I'm just watching it over and over and over. The mic cam is amazing, I've never seen a performance shot like that before. SAKURAI YOUR EYES ;-;
... I need that fucking DVD.
deidrichenstein: (Default)
作曲: Dir en grey
translation by deidrich

understand death by dying )
deidrichenstein: (Default)
慟哭と去りぬ / dōkoku to sarinu / gone with a lamentation*

作曲: Dir en grey
translation by deidrich

colourless and transparent )
deidrichenstein: (京 > amilania)
Even now when I listen to Dum Spiro Spero as a whole... I still can't handle it. O.o and it's been what... seven months now since it came out. I've listened to it over a hundred times, I've listened to at least a couple of songs every day since it came out. I know it like the back of my hand but it still leaves me gutted.

I still completely loose my shit if I sit and listen to it from start to finish with my eyes closed and with no distractions. I come out of it weak and drained and red-eyed, and incapable of speaking or of listening to so much as a simple piano tune even if I wanted to. I always need the silence afterwards. I don't know what exactly does it, but I feel, sort of, that the order of the songs have a sort of domino effect on me. By the time Diabolos rolls around I'm a muddled wreck, and it's always Diabolos that buries me. I strongly doubt it would do so in such a way were it not immediately preceded by Lotus. I don't know how, but those two songs have become intrinsically linked in my head and my body, both musically and thematically, but I can't really explain how... it's a sensation in my bones, that's the only way I could describe it right now.

Diabolos actually makes me feel... abjection. It makes me feel desolate and wretched. It makes me so sad I can hardly breathe through it's duration, is how I love that song. The moment it ends is the moment I'm buried. For that second before Akastuki begins I'm devastated that it's over.
Then shortly after comes Vanitas which just... I mean, it's Vanitas. Every single time, the moment I hear Kyo say 'kimi yo sayonara', I cry. And I cry and cry. And I keep crying right through Ruten no tou. And when it's over I sit where ever I am, exhausted, and let everything settle into it's proper place, so I can function again.

I don't know if it might be considered stupid to have that sort of bond with something like a band, or an album, well I say fuck that consideration. Dir en grey's music, for me, and I'm sure for a lot of others as well, is a cleansing experience. THIS album for me especially is. It's deep. It's one of the deepest pieces of music I've ever heard, and as such it illicit's an equally deep response.
deidrichenstein: (Default)
THE DREAM UNFOLDS like this. I am facing a mass of hot, grey rocks, overhung by huge wedges of concrete, shaped like coffins. As I look to my left, I see the glittering, undulating sea, the light catching each crest. The sea is empty. It is high summer, but there is no one there. There are no boats, no windsurfers, no parachute gliders, no swimmers, no families, no dogs. The coloured pennants in the little beach café are all aloft, full in the wind. The spray touches the barrels which support the planks of the café floor, boards pale as driftwood, smooth beneath my feet. But there is no one there. The tables are deserted. The bar is empty. The glasses are packed away. There is no one there. I feel the sun on my back. My eyes narrow in the glare.
And then I see that I am not alone. There are two of them, a man and a boy. They are squatting over the rock pools at the edge of the sea. Here where the waves rise with the tide the pools are left, full of tiny transparent crabs, green maidenhair, shellfish, old cans, fresh sand. They do not move. They are peering with terrible concentration into the pool. The boy's hand is still in the warm shallows. He is trying to catch something. The man's cigarette is motionless in his hand, the ash poised. He is concentrating hard, willing the child to succeed. They do not see me. I do not move. I feel the sun on


my back. I smell the sea, the white light bursts in glory about them.
And then—and this is the only movement I ever see—the child has found what he sought, he is drawing it out of the pool. I cannot see what he has found. I see nothing, only his hand rising, the fall of his curls as he turns to the man, smiling, triumphant. And I see in the man's warm glance, the complicity of lovers, the friendship of many years, the enterprise of a life shared, work undertaken together, meetings in restaurants, in public places, an intimacy achieved, the promise of a thousand things we can give to each other when there is love, honestly and confidence between us. I do not know whose memory I have entered. This is not written in any of the books.
I begin screaming. I am shaking, hysterical, distraught. In the dream I reach out towards them, to clamp that moment back into time, to halt the corruption of change, to lock them forever in the acknowledged joy of companionship and affection, across the gulf in their lives and in mine. The glance between them gleams, frozen forever in the hot, drenched rocks. I am awake, sweating, crying, consumed by the horror of what I am unable to prevent.
Sometimes I loose my grasp of what happened in that summer of 1993. I have only these evil, recurring dreams.

I took my first degree at Cambridge. I studied French and German. In my last year I specialised in modern French, linguistics and literature. I also took a paper in modern French history. I ought to tell you that because it explains why I got so involved in the whole affair. It was already my chief interest, my intelectual passion if you like. It doesn't explain why it all became so personal. Or maybe it does. You see,


page one and two. this is one of the most beautiful, brilliant, surprising, heartbreaking books I've ever read. The blurb:

in this ravishing tale of sexual and textual obsession, the young unnamed narrator sets forth from cambridge on a quest. he is to rescue the subject of his doctoral research, paul michel, the brilliant but mad writer, from incarceration in a mental institution in france. what ensues is a drama of terrible intimacy and tenderness played out one hot and humid summer in paris and in the south of france. hallucinating foucault is a literary thriller that explores with consummate mastery the relationship between reader and writer, between the factual and the fictional, between sanity and madness. in blurring these boundaries, patricia dunker has written a novel of astonishing power and beauty.
deidrichenstein: (Default)
GLASS SKIN is most certainly one of my favourite singles... ever. I think I've got three copies of it. >.>

作曲: Dir en grey
translation by deidrich

the glassy sky )

作曲: Die
translation by deidrich

your words pierce my heart deeply )

deidrichenstein: (Default)
Well, while I'm here and getting started and all that jazz, this is my first translation. *hides head*.

蜷局 / toguro / coil
作曲: Dir en grey
translation by deidrich

coil )
deidrichenstein: (Default)
I sit here
At the window
Waiting for you
To come jogging past
In your crucifix uniform
You remind me of myself
Perhaps (I wonder aimlessly)
I could comfort you
I love the furrows between your eyes
And the ravages of anxiety
Across your clenched expression
You have the new face
The coming face
The face of no objective experience
And you have chosen the path of muscle
Toward your sorrow
How private you are
In the minds of everyone
I salute you
Brave spirit
Who has swallowed so much
And tasted so little

my secret drug is death
i take it whenever i see you
and you don't see me

leonard cohen; book of longing, pg81
Page generated 21 Sep 2017 10:31
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios