Brisbane Treasury Casino

Tomorrow… I will leave Brisbane for 6 weeks; touch down on Vancouver via Taipei. I told my friends I want to tread on fallen leaves, smell the candles flickering on the Halloween pumpink-patches, seek out the ghosts, the goblins and the witches…

Life against Death

Dear Allen, I will follow up on your suggestion to read LIFE AGAINST DEATH by Norman O. Brown, though I had (temporarily it seems) given up thinking about Gods, Life and Death. Those subjects are like riding a carousel... even if you change horse and carriage you still go round in circles... The deeper you search the more futile it gets... I cannot resign myself to believe in a Biblical divinity, nor accept any amount of brainwashing theologies... I figure belief in gods comes truly through - Blind Faith...- because the - truth - can neither be seen, felt or proved.

I am here, I live... I am not here, I am dead... There may be a - separate even spiritual reality - but why concern myself with that when right now I exist in this...

Norman O. Brown chose a good title for his work. "LIFE AGAINST DEATH A Psychoanalytical Meaning of History "is intriguing, though I doubt my humble under-educated intellect can rise to understand theories expounded by such heavy weights as Freud, Nietzsche and Marx.

What I know of Freud is that he is the Father Christmus of Psycoanalysis,- the guy who ties up Oedipus' marriage to Jocasta with the rest of us anal neuroticos... I know Nietzsche because in - Also Sprach Zarathustra - "The Madman" states that God is Dead. Karl Marx = the Commusnist State...

We struggle to make sense of Life, Death, God, Devil, Religion, Politics, Sex... Myth, Theory, Fact, Fiction, Communism, Democracy and everything in between, above or below, but as long as we remain cut-outs - human beings, the carousel will not stop. We may as well enjoy the ride for what it is... a ride...

One Night... Two Dreams...

19 Olga Street was the address in the first of last night’s dreams.

The dream concerned a packet of seed, seed given to me by an antique lover as I lingered on a mysterious isle surrounded by turbulent surf. Crossing to the mainland carrying the packet with my right arm raised above the choppy sea while swimming with the lone stroke of my left arm would have been unsafe for the seed the seed was not to get wet, wet seed would swell and burst out of the packet... For its safety we resolved to send the packet by helicopter while I swam my way back…

On the mainland shore an unknown lady in a gold BMW would be waiting for me, we would ride together to collect the seed. My historic lover revealed the packet's address was 19 Olga Street…



End of dream… I woke up, it was 2 am… I turned on the TV but couldn’t keep awake,
I fell asleep and dreamt again:

My bed was a raft floating on lake Titicaca. The unknown lady with the BMW had dark skin and was seducing me. Her penis was of average size, made of real flesh, not a dildo. Apprehensively I conveyed my vagina was sensitive, unaccustomed to penetration, the last time I had sexual intercourse was 17 years and two weeks ago. Inserting her penis inside me she whispered hers was a loving and gentle act, I need not fear…

Her motion was the ripple of the lake, in my ear her erotic murmurings transported me out of the sexual act to experience the flight of the albatross.

Softly, the dark lady whispered the penis was not entirely her own, it really belonged to her male twin, but they shared it amicably… On my back, on the raft, on the lake, with the dark lady between my legs and her shared penis halfway in and out of my vagina, I thought of the Graeae, the three Old Women of the Sea who lived where the sun never shone, between them they possessed only one tooth and one eye which they used in turn…

Laurie Went to Africa

Adventures in Zambia


Souvenirs of a Banquet Server

Dear Banqueteers,

Greetings to all. This CUSO job is a lot of work, lots of meetings, meetings, meetings-very political, and that’s a pain. I am struggling not to get mired down in all the art community feuds here. I miss the simple pleasures of the dish-pit.

I hope you are not too worried about me here in Lusaka-city from Hell-or as the local hospital is called, ‘The departure Lounge’, the gateway to the other side. If you’ve seen Woody Allen’s film “Bananas” that will give you a rough idea of this place. Rush out and rent it. Don’t worry about me.

Luckily someone was at home when the thieves set fire to our grass fence with the ultimate goal of stealing the vehicles in the yard. Maybe 2:00 p.m. is not the most intelligent time for theft but one must abandon logic here. Anyway if our night guard isn’t asleep or bandits don’t beat the pulp out of him, we are safe at night. I feel most secure knowing there are thick iron bars in front of all our windows and doors. Too bad the alarm system is broken though hopefully our two vicious guars dogs Max and Skinner will alert us if trouble occurs. They were sleeping during the fire episode.






Also don’t worry about my passport. I will be returning in the Spring. The thief didn’t get anything when he slashed my bag while I was shopping. I am not sure which is the most dangerous activity here – shopping , sleeping, eating, or driving?

Maybe driving, as a prerequisite for attaining your license is absolute and irrefutable incompetence. If another car doesn’t get you, a pothole the size of a volcanic crater will – or you won’t even have to worry about driving as your vehicle will be stolen from you at gunpoint while you sit outside waiting for your guard to open your gate. But one needs transport as this city was laid out with an affluent car driving populace in mind. I have purchased a second hand pink bicycle but it is pretty tough trying to get around. Pray for me. Most drivers are on a personal mission to destroy all others on the roads. I believe that in order to pass your driving test you must always accelerate and swerve towards all pedestrians. A red light means that the next six cars go through. I swear. My friend’s sister had a collision at an intersection and was charged for going through a stop sign. She protested that there was no stop sign there. The policeman replied: “But Madam, there used to be one there”. Case closed.





Everyone I know has been ill with a terrible virus – vomiting and diarrhea. I am healthy as a horse thanks to three years of bacterial immunity build-up from the infamous Chattery’s food. I hope my luck holds out as I am going to the Copper Belt next week. There is a cholera epidemic there. A lot of people have died. But there is an art exhibit to judge and the show must go on.

I survived white water rafting on the Zambezi River at Victoria Falls. It was spectacular. We only saw one crocodile and our raft only nearly flipped. Everybody who got tossed fortunately got picked up before the crocs or the whirlpools got them. This is a world class rafting river which will disappear in the next few years as they are building a dam. So sad as it is an incredible place.

It is hotter than Hades here. This is the worst drought of the century and the hottest October anyone can remember. It is nauseating. I am doing rain rituals as I want to see what green grass will look like where all this red and brown dust is. I am sure we have a lovely yard. Well, the cactus tree is thriving anyway. It is covered in beautiful yellow blooms.

I am finally sleeping now that I have a fan, and I’m sure those black bags under my eyes aren’t permanent. The fan’s noise helps cover up the all-night-dog-barking, the 4am cat-howling at my bedroom window, the 5am continuous rooster- crowing, and the 6am onward-crying of Frank, one of our housekeeper’s six children. We call him Frankenstein.

I will put my mosquito net up on Wed. so hope to keep the blood-sucking highly virulent demons at bay. But if one gets me I can feel confident knowing that I’ m ingesting the controversial anti-malarial drug Mefloquin. I have agreed to report all side effects such as depression, hallucinations, hearing loss, etc…

On Monday I go to Ndola, (4 hrs away) to buy Acrylic paint. Can’t get it in Lusaka and they just started mixing it there. I can get black, white, blue, yellow and red. That keeps things pretty basic.

Can’t even say the word ‘feminism’ instead it’s ‘gender equity’. I am helping with a women’s artist workshop that will happen on January. The bottom line is, it’s the shits to be a woman in Africa. Lots of wife-beating here. ( My roommate works for the YWCA). The new government in Zambia came in on the platform of improving women’s lot but things are worst than before. And so it goes.

Please don’t worry about my nocturnal habits; I am as chaste as a nun. Aids is very bad, there are funerals constantly. Doctors say that for every case officially reported there are 9 more. Nobody talks much about it but the cemeteries are overflowing.

Well that’s it for Adventures in Zambia. Lusaka is an urban nightmare, Seventies gone bad. I guess the 70’s were prosperous and it’s been decaying ever since. Lusaka is the fastest growing city in Southern Africa. My theory is everyone is moving here to pursue a career in stealing. With the drought no one can survive (or just barely) off the land. It is so parched here yet still so beautiful outside the city. I’ve been traveling quite a bit and really enjoy that. It may be difficult here sometimes but it can’t compare in hellishness to that LAST BIG ITALIAN WEDDING, ( the one where VanderZalm sang ‘On Top of Old Smokey all covered in cheese’) so I’m hanging in here. So long for now,
Laurey

Copyright©2000-Laurey Nevers

The Plea of the - Wanna-Be-Famous Poet -

Dear National Editor

when navigating through the internet poetry rivers and streams the unknown poet never really knows where the flow will lead... PIW is an unexpected, unusual, stop. For years and years I tell myself I write my stuff and don't care anybody reads it... But once written, words want to be read, want all to see the pain or joy with which they can embroider a naked page. I read the FAQ which is quite clear on the NO NO of unsolicited submissions, yet simultaneously opens fireworks by suggesting the wanna-be-famous poet email - his or hers - website URL.

A description of my material is available at the mere click of the mouse over the http thing below... It may appear a bit long but like a jigsaw puzzle it separates into a 1000 pieces. At the mere asking...

Humbly yours

Mirella Della-Marina

My web: http://www.landscapeblues.com/

Five Card Stud

Watching Dean Martin as Van Morgan, cool dude gambler, detective, charmer, shuffling cards like a pro in a western whodunit was a bit of a tickler, Robert Mitchum’s portrayal of black-garbed, Colt-toting, Bible- bashing revenge-seeking Jonathan Rudd with “the you-know-he-is hiding-something” strut, well matched with cigarette-butt flicking, poison-spitting Roddy McDowall, felt right at home in Mama Malone’s saloon or Ms. Langford’s establishment where a man could avail himself of a $1shave, $2.50 hair-cut, $3.00 shampoo, and miscellaneous… $20…

Western movies, in particular those with Dean Martin remind me of J.C. J.C. was smooth, suave, debonair, charming... a very handsome con-man with a very high I.Q; he was simultaneously a gambler, a bookie, a forger, a safe-cracker, a thief, a mining prospector or a devoted stock market agent… He wore raw-silk suits in various shades of grey, preffered alpaca sweaters and Ferragamo shoes and his permanent address was the ***** Hotel. Apart from personal apparel he didn’t own anything but a black convertible Thunderbird with red leather upholstery, he had an interesting foot fetish, a passion for western movies, drank Crown-Royal and 7up and would trade any fancy steak and lobster dinner for Deluxe Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

I was his friend! I was often invited to his bed yet by each other hardly aroused, we frolicked once, maybe twice, without great success. We watched late night westerns on TV, talked and slept. Casual and anonimous was the best sex for J.C. He liked show girls, Las Vegas girls, Playboy girls, call girls, strippers and teasers... Beautiful but not permanent, briefly delightful not domestic…

The Bourne Ultimatum

The Movie:
e
I suppose somewhere along the strets of Moscow, high-rising in New York, navigating through Waterloo Staion, Torino or the rooftops of Tangiers, decifering the machinations, maneuverings and scheming (fictitious or genuine) of the CIA, surviving computer searches, telephone eavesdropping, superman-like roof jumps, shrieking motor-scooter rides, heightened-hype of whirlwind photography heightening endless car chases and crashes, blasting bombs, gun shots and the cacophony of the sound track, there was a storyline… Indeed, after all the “action” there really was not much of the script left to demand any sort of great acting… In the entire movie there was ONE scene with two funny lines, the rest (for me) was filler… Even so I left the theatre with some degree of satisfaction… The bad guys got what was coming, Jason Bourne recovered his true identity, and as David Webb survived… But if there are to be future sequels I suggest they give him time for a cup of coffee…

Human Fate

Buddha said, “Look at that cloud in the sky. Look long enough and you will see how its shape changes constantly. Human fate, like a cloud never stays the same, like a cloud man’s fortune ever shift, today he may live like a rich man and tomorrow a beggar, a gentle cloud turns to rain or thunder, a person’s life alters, happy or unhappy in its course. The cloud doesn’t change shape on its own. The wind, the heat, the sun, night and day force the change…

Alice meets the Caterpillar

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence; at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. “Who are you?” said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied rather shyly, “ I – I hardly know, sir, just at present – at least I know who I was when I got up this morning but I think I must have changed several times since then.”
“What do you mean by that?” said the Caterpillar sternly. “Explain yourself!”
“I am afraid I cannot say it more clearly,” Alice replied very politely, “You see, I can’t understand it myself to begin with, being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.” “It isn’t,” said the Caterpillar.
“Well, perhaps you haven’t found so yet,” said Alice, “ but when you have to turn into a chrysalis – you will some day, you know– and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel a little queer, won’t you?”
“Not a bit,” said the Caterpillar.


From ALICE IN WONDERLAND

No Reservations

Yes, that is title of the movie I saw today… The storyline was actually good, but the movie was as flat as a glass of stale beer, no self respecting aria of Madam Butterfly or Traviata could save the deflated soufflé, nor the quail with champagne and wild mushroom sauce worth its truffle… Chef Kate’s paced through her dull New York apartment more like a fashion model than an over-zealous chef.

During my humble career in Food and Hospitality I met a few chefs. Most were man… For instance, tres-elegant French executive-chef Robert (pronounced Robear) was of the species capable to compete as IRON CHEF... Fast, meticulous, precise, austere, proud... he personally would fly a thousand miles to obtain the perfect Filet de Boeuf and could make a Pompadour-Homard (lobster) worthy of the Prince of Wales.

Yes I knew Italian-Swiss chef Marco, the meanest guy whose career almost ended when doctors amputated his right leg as a result of neglected diabetes… But he did not care… He just loved food… food and wine… Could I forget Zhiggy, the mad banquet-chef? I still can hear his German-accented shout: “Line up… Pick up… Pick up… If you drop it I’ll chop your head…“ Chef Zhiggy adored Wagner, cigarettes and Heineken; he went to the ladies’ bathroom to have a smoke, and never washed his hands…

I have known 3 lady-chefs. Religious Portuguese Maria made the sign of the cross over each Bouillabaisse. Encarna was Spanish-Lebanese, off duty she liked Flamenco and Middle Eastern foods, boiled chicken, lentil soup, Molochia, a green weed picked along the Nile, halva, cognac and champagne. When she became grandmother she packed it all in and went to Paris…

In a five star hotel worked the third lady, French-Canadian executive chef, lesbian, with an unusual name and a rare sense of humour, thoughts of her remind of Queen Latifah in the movie “Chicago;” at Xmastime she gave gifts of huge chocolate Santas, and while cooks, chefs and gifted kitchen-employees made gingerbread houses, hers were palaces; in Singapore she learned Ice-Sculpture well enough to win awards, she explained that a woman in a man’s world has to work three times as hard only to be twice as good… But... I stray... the receipe failed for NO RESERVATIONS?

It Raineth Every Day

Movies in the Rain

Because it rained all day it was the perfect time to clean-out the dozens of cumbersome video cassettes humbly stacked in dark neglected storage ever since slim’n sleek DVD’s became the elite upgrade. Not an easy task… the titles and the covers of the out-of-the-closet video-cassettes scattered on the floor exuded scents of old mystery, pulsated with undeniable magnetism. I poured a Corona, reconnected the VCR to the TV and inserted LA DOLCE VITA. Even without Special Features, Fellini’s film of 167 minutes merited at least another Corona. I poured the last ounces of Cointreau into a crystal wine glass and drank it while I watched SATYRICON, (twice).

Slept awhile, noisy raindrops at my window woke me… over a pot of tea I listened to John Mayall and Jimmy Witherspoon… O… how that Blues tunneled under my skin urging me to bust out of the c ocoon… but it rained again all day and the next, while on the floor the set-aside but not forgotten movies demanded viewing time… Enough! Enough Fellini after THE NIGHTS OF CABIRIA but still in Rome, CALIGULA came next. What a show… a tapestry woven of naked flesh… Malcom McDowell – a superbly wicked Caligula, Peter O’Toole- epitome of imperial decadence, John Gielgud – elegant even in the death-tub, beautiful is Helen Mirren – as Caesonia, Titania or Queen Elizabeth…

4th day and still raining…

Letter from the Past

June 28- 1990

Dear Tallulah,

Daiquiri, here we are having a Cuba Libre. Cheers!
It’s a lovely sunny day and we realize that it takes two of us to write you a letter…Really we wish we were all together on good old WRECK BEACH, laughing nude by the sea, watching the dazzling sun-struck parade of randy virgins… Puffing the hookah to the rhythm of tinkling ice cubes.

HOT TOWN SUMMER IN THE CITY…

We thought about you over a morning cup of coffee at the local – Greasy Spoon Café – so we rushed home, poured drinks, got into the computer and here we go…
One rainy night this past winter we met by chance (after all our nights of glamour) on the Victoria Coach, - the Bus!!! … Can anyone tell that we are world famous poets?Hah ! We reminisced how you entertain all with your impeccable Marilyn Monroe impersonation and the good-humored strip-tease act. No one guessed you were a man until that inebriated night when you overlooked your bird-seed boobs, your gorgeous wig askew, and your maleness badly tucked…
We were young then, we lived high, walking on a tight-rope to paradise, no obstacles would prevent our climb, Academy Awards glittered on the horizon… And while we waited for fame and fortune we mixed Strawberry-Frozen-Daiquiris and passed again the hookah… Yes it was divine, delicious, delightful, marvelous, miraculous and magnificent… Let’s call for another round of youth!
At the hotel where we are presently, unwillingly engaged as elegant slaves (banquet servers) at the price of Rubies, Blues and Champagne we ran into Miss Lovey, Miss Lovey discarded her leopard-skin exotic dancer costume, she now starrs in the long-running musical hit AIN’T MISBEHAVING and sings Gospels, upon recognizing us she shouted from the stage “GIRRL!!!” Where’s that MISS WILD DAIQUIRI… Could you hear in LA?
WindSang Galleons blown across the sealike a dream…Handsome Pirates light as dolphinsSeagulls calling…MagicNothing but…

The Emperor's Mah-jongg

Ok I will explain… the other wicked reason for postponing my blog posts as well as hiding from family and friends, for not answering e-mail, getting the car washed, weeding my sister’s garden or prune a single rose bush is because I became addicted to the Mah-jongg game installed on my computer. Brutal was my dedication to the game which like a magnet would attract me in the morning after I brushed my teeth but before I made a cup of tea, cruel to let me microwave a cup of soup but would not give me time to eat, wet the jade- plant on my balcony or make my bed… In self-loathing I unistalled the demon before I went to sleep only to reinstall it upon waking up…

It was not a simple addiction to a game. To recognize and memorize character and symbols on the Mah-jongg tiles and find the match, was a challenge and the 12 layouts blinking (were they winking?) kept testing my wits and ability just as promised on the CD cover. Persevering, I discovered that mere visual recognition of the symbols on the tiles was a mere smidgen, a token scratch in the pursuit of the - Scroll of Wisdom - , starting with the first mission which consisted of 12 tile “layouts” named and shaped to represent the 12 signs of the Chinese zodiac. Of course for the removal of ALL the tiles the player needs a strategy…

And when a strategy for each of the first 12 layouts became revealed, I realized that the challenge really was - SPEED-… To progress through 6 levels of 12 dissimilar layouts each at escalating speed in the quest of meeting the 12 Emperors!
Maybe in 12 years of 12 months each...

Mah-jongg and the Seeds of Wisdom

In search of elusive wisdom what did I not know about the Chinese Horoscope and the game of Mah-jongg I discovered during a swift excursion into the TONG SING, the Chinese Almanac. Nothing however wise, could release me from the masochistic pursuit and after playing an astronomical number of solitary games I resolved to plunge into the Emperor’s Challenge…
By now to remove from each of the 12 signs of the Chinese Horoscope 100 out 144 tiles within 6 minutes was easy enough; half way through the ordeal I became an APPRENTICE, upon completion I was reward with 12 Parcels of Knowledge, a symbolic RUBY GEM, and by Emperor's decree ordained DISCIPLE.
With creepy perseverance I regained a small degree of self-respect by the additional achievement of being deemed TEACHER, as one white-night I succeeded in removing the required number of tiles of 10 following layouts within 5 minutes, and in so doing I received additional Chinese Wisdom, all of which is posted on the right side of this blog…
In the futile quest to become ranked as Emperors one must progress through 72 layouts grouped in 6 different themes:
1– Horoscope, 2– Crafts, 3– Nature, 4– Scenery, 5– Martial Arts, 6– Emperors.

I should give it a miss, as proclaimed by Parcel of Knowledge No. 2:

Of all stratagems - to know when to quit is the best!

Leonardo's Dream

I dreamt we were riding on an open nineteen-century carriage, curiously their was nothing in front pulling it, but turning my head to look behind I realized the carriage was pushed forward by the four Byzantine bronze horses of St. Mark Cathedral. We rode along a boulevard flanked by sumptuous buildings. The architecture was familiar, it might have been ancient Rome or Washington DC. Gradually aware that the scene belonged to a world of computer generated graphics we moved forward as players of a Nintendo game. Captured in the scene, we paused awhile, motionless while time like wind was gusting by. There was no sound, not a whimper!

Silently the left side of the grand boulevard imploded… self-destructed… In fog, dust or smoke the rubble disappeared… Leggo architects came, new buildings quickly rose, impressive new generation of palaces filling all vacant space. The vitreous facades reflected the old...

Then the carriage became my bed and Leonardo DiCaprio was beside me. “Magic” he said.

Food Poison

I was ready to resume posting a couple of weeks ago but I woke up suddenly in cold sweat, fainted on my to the bathroom, hit my cheek-bone on the tile floor, injured my upper lip and bruised my knee. When I regained consciousness I had to crawl on my hands and knees because I couldn't stand up.

The only other time I injured myself was when I got unintentionally drunk on OOZO… I was sitting on the sofa and when I stood up the wall on the opposite side of the room came at me and struck me with a vengeance… Lucky it was not the stone-faced fireplace! The bruise on my forehead prompted my friend Sam to confess the reason he never showed up for Sunday breakfast a few years before was that he woke up pushing against a wall he couldn’t get away from, and not until he heard the policeman’s voice did he realize that it was not the wall but the sidewalk floor he was flat upon… He recalled having a couple of drinks with his pals after an afternoon shooting pool…

I have recovered well. It was only a case of food poisoning… hit my guts like a ton of bricks, I am glad it wasn’t arsenic… Though for my part and when it’s all over, I find the more painful the experience the greater the impact on my memory, and so I will avoid tasting even the smallest bite from a suspicious jar… but pain of the heart such as Sidney Adrian’s is not easily healed by flushing it down the toilet.

Landscape Blues

So long since I posted to this blog, I have been busy, I have been preparing for a website. And who am I to want a website of my own? A blog is great, but a blog is not enough. Now, with a lot of help from two very special people the website is up, I am happy and very very proud.

Why the website? To publish my writings of course… I just could not trouble a myriad editors and publishers with my humble manuscripts, I may be wrong but I believe those Gods do not favor unknowns like me. So be it.

My jewels, for my stories are my jewels, are beautiful, and because the most beautiful things in life are free, they are free for anyone who cares to read them as they appear on my brand new website: LANDSCAPE BLUES.
LANDSCAPE BLUES consists of three ACTS in prose poetry. The Voyage of Tomorrow, Fields of Snow, and the Heart of the Rose, are poetic narrative populated by call-girls, suicide, and shadow puppets… My website is the abstract garden where reality and fantasy fuse into poetry of passion and obsession... See you there!

Death On My Journey

I speak of Death as if talking about a friend, yes, a devoted friend who walks beside me, sometimes behind me or up ahead, leading the way... Yeah, you think I am weird, ok, I spend a lot of time alone, yet I am not lonely because Death keeps me company.

Don’t take me wrong if I address Death as She. Sometimes she’s female, sometimes he’s male, and often has no gender at all. Death is whole soul. Methinks I’ll speak to it. To enquire if it’s true he only exists as light divine…

I will ask him for a dance: “Come Death, come dance with me. Right here, right now, let’s glide on these white-tiled floors surrounded by white painted walls… Lie beside me at nightfall in my bed of black satin sheets, my nightly coffin… In my dreams you are a soaring eagle, you teach my spirit to ride rainbow zephyrs over lakes, rivers, and verdant valleys, over mountains covered by eternal snow fields … into the sunlight and beyond... among the stars... ”

Conversations with Death 1

O Death, Old Captain…

From THE FLOWERS OF EVIL
Charles Baudelaire 1821-1867

O Death, old captain, the time has come! Let us weigh anchor! This land bores us, O Death! Let us set sail! If the sky and the sea are as black as ink, our hearts which you know are filled with rays!

Pour your poison so that it will comfort us! The fire searing our brain is such that we want to plunge on the bottom of the abyss, whether it be Heaven or Hell, to the bottom of the Unknown in order to find something new!