Category: Arte

Review: Mushoku Tensei, Vol. 12, by Rifujin na Magonote

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, ReseñasLeave a comment

Three-and-a-half stars.

I love me some isekai. If you pay any attention to my words, you know this already. It’s the quintessential boys’ fantasy: explore some fantastic places cut off from this repulsive Earth; exploit newly-gained, generally undeserved powers; meet cool people mostly of the attractive, female persuasion then have sex with them; possibly marry one or more of those gals before or after impregnating them; enjoy the fact that you will never, ever have to deal with Earth and its people again.

This time, our hero starts at the lowest point of his life: after two decades of parasitizing his parents as a hikikomori due to relentless bullying in high school, his parents died. Instead of attending the funeral, he spent that day jerking off to child porn (or loli hentai), a fact that bothered his siblings enough to beat him up and throw him into the streets. As he wandered in a daze, the mythical creature known as Truck-kun deigned to make a visit and transport the protagonist, along with a couple of people nearby, to death, and later on to a fantasy world.

Our protagonist gets reincarnated as a baby that retains the memories of his harrowing past life. In this new one he’s Rudeus Greyrat, son of a horny swordfighter and a lively mage, who had retired from adventuring to start a family together. Rudeus is overjoyed by the fact that he’s been given a second chance at life, but mainly that he’s able to suck on a hottie’s tits on a regular basis, and that the grown-ups around him forgive him for his relentless perversion. The anime adaptation did a good job rendering this, as seen below:

Anyway, lots of shit happens, as it tends to do. I read this volume of the light novel to catch up with the anime adaptation, that has just finished its second season. I’m discussing spoilers from now on, so read on only if you already know what happens, or you don’t care to find out this way.

<spoilers>That whole magic displacement incident that teleported Rudeus’ family, as well as the redheaded terror and his childhood elvish friend, to random corners of the world, has led him to organize a spelunking raid to a teleporter labyrinth where his mother is supposed to be trapped. We accompany Rudeus along with his scumbag father Paul, blue-haired loli and magician Roxy Migurdia, their monkey-man scout, a gay dwarf, and a promiscuous grandma as they bond with each other and fight monsters. First they rescue Roxy, who falls in love with adult Rudeus because he saved her from the brink of death. Finally they face a hydra, and although they defeat it, they suffer a devastating loss. Rudeus also ends up maimed.

The biggest difference from the anime adaptation happens when they’re nursing their wounds back at the inn. Rudeus is depressed in a similar way as he’s been in the past (for example during his episode of erectile dysfunction). This time, Rudeus’ grandma-in-law suggests Roxy that she should fuck Rudeus to get him out of his funk. In the anime, Roxy drags Rudeus to bed and mounts him. In the original, she’s about to stand up when Rudeus pulls her down and fucks her roughly. He barely considers the fact that he’s cheating on his pregnant wife. Later on, his grandma-in-law deceives our protagonist by stating that he’s impregnated the blue-haired magician, in order for him to take responsibility, as the Japanese love to say, and make Roxy his second wife. Other than those significant changes that made me lose some respect for both characters, the anime adaptation is faithful to the rest, even verbatim for plenty of the dialogue. The author is involved with the adaptation, so maybe those changes are a very late revision of the original work.</spoilers>

What else can I say? If you like Mushoku Tensei, you’ve likely watched the anime, so you knew what to expect from this volume. This is a story about the pains and struggles of growing up, rising from rock bottom to becoming a more or less respectable family man, processed through the Japanese charm you know and love (if you know and love it), and free from the politics that have corrupted every aspect of Western culture. This story also makes polygamy quite appetizing.

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 18 (Poetry)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial2 Comments

You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.

I used to know every contour of your face,
The exact timbre of your voice,
The way your body pressed against mine,
Your taste, the salty scent of your sweat.
But your traces are flaking off my brain;
In the seams and margins of my memories,
Bugs and patches have appeared,
Corroding the integrity of a past
That I’m editing, shaping with bias,
As I revisit it time and time again.
Your gaze, your smile, your laughter,
They all fade away into oblivion
With each ticking second.

Izar, I beg you, stay with me.
Let’s leave this suffocating city
On a motocross odyssey spanning Europe:
Hundreds of kilometers of highways,
Speeding through the countryside
Past petrol stations, fields, and farmhouses.
We’ll make love on the shores of the sea,
Then sleep under a blanket of stars.
Let’s rent bikes and ride along the Seine.
Let’s explore the winding streets of Venice,
Swim in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean,
Surf the waves of Hawaii or Costa Rica,
Climb the ancient terraces of Machu Picchu.
For the rest of my days, I will care for you,
Your unstable mind, your fits of rage.

Forgive me these postcard destinations;
You dreamed in exact places: Ponts, Jerez,
A rundown cottage in Sierra Nevada.
I dream in the smudged colors
Of a map left out in the rain.

Growing up, I feared venturing far
From my neighborhood, from my parents.
I dreaded exposing myself to risky experiences.
In my mind, I saw my mother’s stern face,
Ready to scold and ground me
For daring to struggle against the vines
She had wrapped tight around me.
Roam the breadth of Spain? Travel the world?
Such adventures felt as distant as the stars.
I was convinced that even as an adult,
I wouldn’t organize something so troublesome.

But that year, I stood in the blazing Roman heat
With my teenage son beside me
And my daughter’s small hand grasped in mine,
Gazing up at the façade of the Pantheon,
Its towering Corinthian columns glowing faintly,
Burned by the merciless July sun;
Its triangular pediment pockmarked, scarred,
By twenty centuries of plunder and weather.
I longed to appreciate its grandeur in solitude,
But a throng of tourists choked the square.
A listless guy stood dressed like a centurion,
His helmet adorned with a plume of dyed horsehair.
The muscle cuirass concealed the flab
Of a modern man suited to a desk job.

The Pantheon didn’t belong in this post-apocalypse,
Among the disoriented survivors of the 21st century,
Who lacked the knowledge to recreate
The sunlit glory of their once eternal past,
And who had lost the will to rediscover it.

Well, what did you think about the sights, Izar?
We never had the chance to escape together,
But I carried your memory to Rome.
I hope you enjoyed the trip.

In my little corner of the world, whenever I could,
I escaped to the freedom of an isolated bench
Along the wooded lane containing your memorial stone.
There, beneath the sunlight filtering through branches,
Hunched over a notebook, I poured my memories of us,
Capturing in words every detail I could remember.
I discovered that writing tricked the brain
Into gilding moments and affixing them to its cells,
Regardless of their authenticity.

Drawing, writing, they couldn’t save me;
They just helped me endure this lonesome life
For yet another day.
But maybe the right words could save
What remained of you.

In my heart, a secret garden bloomed.
Pollen sparkled on iridescent flowers,
Their petals fanning out like peacock feathers.
In this floral realm where time stood still
And death could never enter,
You, enshrined within a poem or story
That wouldn’t fade, rot, nor be reduced to ashes,
Could live eternally.

Author’s note: the songs for today are “This Is the One” by The Stone Roses, and “Sit Down” by James.

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 17 (Poetry)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura2 Comments

You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.

Do you remember, Izar,
That one time in the basketball court
Of our old primary school?
Your hair looked like honey.
Pale wisps floated about your face.
You glanced up at the sky and said,
“The sun’s right above. Look!”
While shielding your eyes with one hand,
With the other, you gestured toward the hoop,
And the round, golden sun,
Glowing with midday heat,
Swished through the net.
You grinned triumphantly at the perfect shot,
The work of a godly markswoman.

In my memories, in my dreams,
Our teenage selves, wild and free,
Dressed in the sun of summer,
Roamed iridescent streets together
Under a sky layered like an oil painting.

One day, after a shower,
I wiped the fog off the mirror
To reveal a man’s naked body
Glimmering through the vapor.
The once lean-muscled figure,
Sculpted laboriously in the gym,
Had softened under the looser skin
To a layer of resigned flesh
That gravity insisted on dragging downward.
With both hands, I grasped my gut,
Stretching it as if to rip it open
And let the aging machinery spill out.

I locked a tortured gaze with the mirror,
With that cold-eyed stranger
Whose wrinkles carved on his face
Deepened each passing year.
His hair and stubble were flecked with gray.
The flaws I scarcely noticed during the day
Beamed back as if lit by headlights.
Every trace of my youth had eroded away;
I had transformed into a middle-aged man
That you, forever eighteen,
Would hardly recognize.

A rapping on the front door shattered the static haze.
When I opened the door, I faced an apparition.
Your chocolate eyes glowed with affection,
Your smile showed off your crooked teeth.
Rainwater slid down your sleek red jacket,
That framed the Evangelion T-shirt underneath.

You had finally returned from the beyond
To replace my dust with your stardust.
I hugged you tight, lifting you off the floor,
And you wrapped your legs around me
While giggling like a girl in love.
“How long has it been?” you asked.
“Far too long.”
“Will you come with me?”

In the corner of the street gleamed
Your beloved Aprilia Red Rose,
Its fuel tank painted yellow-and-white.
High-rise chrome handlebars,
A padded leather seat with visible studs.
Exposed engine components turned the Aprilia
Into a rugged and warworn mechanical beast,
Ready to race through the landscape
With its raw wounds laid to the wind.

As I rode pillion on your bike,
Its throaty rumbling vibrated through the seat.
I rested a hand on the thigh of your jeans,
And felt the firmness of the flesh beneath.

You swerved onto Navarra Avenue toward the highway.
The road ahead lay empty, an invitation to speed.
We passed by an endless procession of ghosts,
Whose whispers blended with the engine’s rumbling.

The low, crimson sun raced toward the horizon,
Stretching wavering, unnatural shadows.
My heart pounded, my breath came in gasps.
Dread clawed at my mind: we might never arrive.
Even as you speeded,
The destination receded farther and farther.
“We’re never going to get there, are we?”
“Where is there?”
“Wherever it is we’re going.”
Your whipping hair framed the profile of your face,
And your lips curled into a sad smile.

Back when you told me you were quitting school
To pursue the goal of becoming a motocross racer,
Should I have convinced you to continue your studies
And to use your spare time to train,
Even at the cost of seeing you less?
That one time in your parents’ apartment,
When your father stomped out of your bedroom
While threatening to go beyond words,
If I, instead of just comforting you,
Had confronted your old man,
Even at the risk of ending up bruised and bloody,
Maybe I would have intimidated him enough
That he wouldn’t have marked you
With a red handprint on your cheek.
If I had instilled in you the fear
That you might ruin both our lives
By crashing during one of your reckless stunts,
Maybe you wouldn’t have died so young.

I see you back on April 27, 1999,
When you scratched flakes of paint
Off that basketball pole.
The wind tugged at your ponytail,
And shiny raindrops dripped
From the soaked tips of your hair.
You turned your youthful face to me
And revealed your plan to leave.
For a moment, I panicked;
Would you untether yourself from me?
But you asked me to run away with you,
To drift through Spain on your bike
Like pirates on the open sea.

I said I would follow you anywhere, didn’t I?
When I replay that night in my mind,
Sometimes I see myself answering you,
And other times, I assumed you knew the answer.
Had I answered enthusiastically,
Promising that nothing and no one could stop me
From accompanying you to the ends of the world,
Would you have chosen to speed through the rain?
Did I let you die thinking I had abandoned you?

Author’s note: the song for today is “The Wait” by Built to Spill.