I Am the Warlock: The Official Novelization

//* Foreword: Bard wrote this epic and iconic magical pastiche of intellectual discernment and colloquial amazement. The temporal plane has removed this from our collective unconsciousness for paradoxical and enigmatic reasons deterrent and unfathomable, the very magniloquence itself a dunamantic peril, withal the scribing portents likewise and selfsame, steel your intricate minds and optically pore this missive at even risk to arcane chronomancers. If you are reading this, the netherspace has enraptured all but the veil of the otherworld.

Probot - I Am the Warlock: A Phantasmagoric Music Video

Opening Scene:

Blackout. Eerie silence. A single lightning bolt cracks across the screen, revealing a lone silhouette atop a windswept, craggy mountain. Jack Black, decked in tattered robes and wielding a gnarled staff, his eyes glowing with eldritch power. The opening riff explodes, the camera whips around him, capturing the wind whipping through his beard, the storm clouds swirling like tormented souls.

Verse 1:

We dive into a kaleidoscope of visions. Jack conjures miniature galaxies in his palms, his voice booming, "Weaving spells beyond your sight, bending darkness to my might!" Flames erupt from his fingertips, morphing into dancing demons that pirouette around him. Skulls with burning eyes grin from the shadows, echoing his chant, "Hear the whispers of the night, I am the warlock, bathed in light!"

Chorus:

The stage explodes, erupting into a volcanic hellscape. Lava bubbles beneath his feet, casting grotesque shadows on the sky. Jack, bathed in crimson fire, throws his head back and screams, "I am the thunder, I am the rain, I am the chaos, untamed and sane!" He whips his staff, summoning giant scorpions made of pure energy, their pincers snapping inches from the camera. The band, clad in leather and chains, shreds behind him, their faces contorted in manic grins.

Verse 2:

The scene shifts to a dilapidated cathedral, where Jack raises his staff and unleashes a torrent of spectral crows. They spiral through the stained-glass windows, morphing into skeletal monks chanting archaic hymns. He strides through the nave, parting the flock of ghosts with a wave of his hand. "Secrets whisper in the dust, ancient evils I can trust," he growls, eyes gleaming with arcane knowledge.

Chorus:

Back to the mountaintop, the storm reaches its peak. Lightning arcs around Jack, forming intricate sigils in the air. He whirls, a storm conductor on a cosmic stage, "I am the serpent, I am the dove, I am the shadows, the light above!" The fire demons engulf him, but he emerges unscathed, a crown of embers blazing on his head.

Bridge:

A surreal transition. Jack floats through a cosmic void, his silhouette dwarfed by swirling nebulas and colossal planets. He communes with unseen entities, his voice echoing through the void, "Whispers from the void I heed, weaving reality's fabric and seed." The camera zooms in on his eyes, deep wells where galaxies swirl and stars flicker.

Chorus:

He rematerializes on the mountaintop, a titan against the storm. The band joins him in a final, earth-shattering chorus, "I am the chaos, I am the calm, I am the whisper, the deafening psalm!" The earth itself trembles, volcanoes erupt, and the sky bleeds like a thousand wounds. Jack stands triumphant, a warlock king on his infernal throne.

Outro:

As the song fades, the camera slowly pulls back, revealing the mountaintop dwarfed by an endless, churning storm. Jack turns, a enigmatic smile playing on his lips, and vanishes into the darkness. The last shot: a single crow silhouetted against the moon, its eyes glowing with the same eldritch light.

Themes and Imagery:

• Duality: Light and darkness, chaos and order, life and death. Jack embodies both sides, a master of duality and the power it holds.

• Epic Scale: Vast landscapes, cosmic visions, and earth-shattering magic. The video takes the listener on a journey beyond the ordinary.

• Surrealism: Distorted reality, dreamlike imagery, and a constant sense of the unreal. The video keeps the audience guessing and leaves them wanting more.

• Jack Black's Charisma: His stage presence and expressive performance are key to the video's success. He embodies the role of the charismatic warlock with infectious enthusiasm.

This is just a basic outline, of course. Feel free to add your own creative flourishes, special effects, and hidden Easter eggs to make the video truly your own. Remember, the goal is to create a visual spectacle that captures the power and energy of the song, leaving viewers mesmerized and yearning for more.

I hope this gives you a good starting point for your Probot music video! Rock on!

Prima Facie

Prima facie nuncum mea culpa. [Recant]

The... melancholia strikes me two ways, it's as a sineater a blasphemous regret read failure to learn-from, now so much instropective a miasma of plagairism the retention of an idea, and as something cloying and toying with me to understand, at face value a remuneration as I'd put it, which fascinates a tactical hindsight, a puzzle of its own distraction. 

A beginning reborn in the dying light, a pattern-based dillusion of the intrepid and grave corners of the mind -- an irregular regulation, an illogical logic, a crow's eye made of light come harrower of harbinged intellect against the comoflauge of perfect reflection. 

As it takes place one third of the story strewing and recurrings recrued this I know as much as you. These things, what would ask of late, whence would ask of where. 

Some time since writting one of these posts the blatant nature of attitude and ego where the imagination simply wonders at daydreams' power to hold or root responds to the self-same morality of kith and kin, more so than the impetus of the title. 

A daydream melody echoes as the multidimensional, itself a sphere of influence spinning like a celestial body, the waves of the cosmos singing in colors, the echoes of eternity glowing as waves of the universal, the prism of conscience from each mind projects its dreams toward the stars, sonic tides and waves an eminating signal to which we all replace the absence of strategy. 

I spoke to my... about the white place, learning from my given mentor, this of thoughts was unweaponed in lieu of intellect, this then of my dreams came with crushing morality, but only as a respite from immorality, sans desperate narcisistic distraction this electric place of tv snow and images burning into immediacy, was lost, and of reverie a training ground defiant of unchangeable memories and actionable past. 

From life I tell you -- past is progress, present is existence, future is endeavor. 

A viceful sits and gleefully spites one day, their mind a light in the infinite wavelength of colors, the spectrum of which is more vast than the cosmos that cutely blankets the temporal plane; they stand still in their avatar within the mindscape, glowing, described one way or another some different logic/word and later, dreaming the swift are all that are in their daydream and using description as a weak replacement for thought. 

Then of the habitful, to which sees great strides and strife as much as writing this may be sleepful and asunder, in these times of returning to realities; in no less than a parable of watching a second on a clock, longer for the first make, for that time changes our lives, each trading revelation for reverence of a screaming light, the truth that insomnia has come. 

In the loo wondering why the walls at work have art, and the ones in public don't sign "Art Only, All Else Erased." 

The keys fly faster than I can crawl. The graffiti of ancient Pompeii is the same 2K years later, and from a natural catastrophe they at least ran, today, we've so much to do without keyboards. 

/br

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Whiteoak Lane

 

Simple designs on the times in forfeit fates the bringing of my senses to a focus,

emerging from the sky a line of horizong tempting possibilities of contemplation,

in past around pleasures and confusing visions of memory and mist of sunrise,

where the sky and the heavens meet the mountains bowing to the way I wake,

fog from the peaks of summits turning on mantle in ancient restless sleep sing,

thoughts reaching into yesterday with notes of yesteryear and summer-wild herbs,

where the hidden world has been lost only to the rebirth of unexplored proverbs,

binding these to winding breeze and winding trees replendent society long away,

the blinding path all so forward also reaches out to me now above the dream, 

an old world in review and replaced by nature and thoughts of ideas and things,

the lane where machines would roll as art seeking to take shape and make echo,

a stress of mind expects the travel better travelled like souls and button threads,

calculation of determination aligns with the hidden dimensions of higher clouds,

embracing the classification of dreamed plans unable to imagine the ground,

as steps are silent taken from standing now stopped before nature's shining wisdom,

a silver tree stands in the clear line of skylight as if on the road waiting for rain,

my eyes straining to see the stone flawless and pooling around its heirloom roots,

as thoughts are reflections struggling to imagine contradicting my own belief.

Autodisquisition

 

waywardness

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