breathing: in, out. in, out.

Understand, it's different than normal thoughts of death. The wondering about where we go after, if anywhere--that's standard operating procedure. The myths and metaphors and all those things we can consider using academic reasoning, nodding our heads calmly, our loved ones waiting in the other room.

I'm talking about the actual stark reality that the way you perceive everything ends and the feeling this realization brings. This bed is no longer a bed, the dresser belongs to another reality, and if you close your eyes they won't open again. When you get so frightened as you climb into bed that by the time you pull the sheets over you, you are stiff as a board. You think: this I is no longer I. If go to sleep I won't wake up. You think: this is silly, I'm going to go to sleep now and when I wake up in the morning my bladder will be full and my left shoulder will ache and I'll get out of bed and go brew a pot of coffee and feed the cats.

But can you be sure?

Death is inevitable, of course, and you know that intellectually and emotionally. But you have so much left to do! So when you do wake up the following morning even the sleepstuff caked over your eyes becomes a miracle, a gift worth studying. I am here once more! You and many others. Yes, some left overnight but you were not one of them, not this time. Your morning piss never felt so good. All the machinery still works, and by the time the first cup of coffee is consumed, it is running just as smooth as it can be. Even the aches and scars are things of joy, proof that you are alive.

But what if? What if you don't wake? Do you see the stars or blackness? Dummy--you won't see anything, your molecules dispersed and disintegrated. The thin thread holding consciousness together dissolved. Not even horror has figured out how to approach this; most works end up with someone experiencing the unknown through their human perception. The human consciousness can't perceive things any other way, which is why every work of art examining the infinite ultimately falls short.

Heaven would be *awful.*

Still, the fear. It returns as the day fades. Dinner is consumed, dishes done, plans laid out for the next day. Plans that assume you will be here the next day. These plans, they are a defense. You can't die if you have plans for the next day! Nope, nope. Take your bath and brush your teeth and replay the day in your head. It was good, wasn't it? Every day you breathe is a good one. You won't stop breathing overnight, really. Oh, those dreams might get dicey and you'll never shake that feeling that everything is falling apart while something beyond your comprehension is bearing down on you...but you'll still breathe, and you'll wake up, and it will all be ok.

Hopefully.

seven things that make my world a better place

Sometimes you just want talk about the things that bring you joy and inspiration. The things that make the world a better place. I find, though, that it’s difficult to convey how much you dig something with words, especially if it really moves you. Yet I want to say something about these things I love and thus this idea was born (also yesterday’s post was all about something that sucks so a little balance will be nice.) The entries will be short; a scholarly treatise this will not be.

Why seven? It’s my favorite number. Couldn’t tell you why. And the why doesn’t matter anyway. Check out the items on the list below (at least those that you are geographically able); maybe you’ll dig ‘em, maybe not. This may or may not become an irregular feature. I may or may not be noncommittal today. What I do know is that I unabashedly love and admire these seven things:

It Follows. The best horror movie of the millennium, rivaled only by Let the Right One In. “We’ll figure it out,” says the little sister to the big sister repeatedly, and in those moments more is said about love and friendship than a billion rom-coms. The performances are exceptional. My first viewing brought tears to my eyes and the film loses none of its power upon repeated viewings. I’ve been known to lament the lack of good, character-driven horror movies in the last twenty years; here is one that stands with the greats. 

Livia Llewellyn’s Engines of Desire. I bought this book when it first came out, loved it, and re-read all of it over the holiday break and loved it even more. Three stories, “Horses,” “At the Edge of Ellensburg,” and “Engines of Desire” pack a gut punch that is as fierce as anything I’ve read in the last ten years; the rest of the stories are great too. She’s got a new collection coming out this year on Word Horde Press and there’s not a book due this year I’m more excited about. I’m also quite enjoying her Patreon-supported erotica project.

Agalloch’s Not Unlike the Waves and Bloodbirds. Ok, technically that’s two things but they are both on the album Ashes Against the Grain so that counts. There is no current band that inspires me as much in the cinematic scope and emotional texture of their music. I rotate through all of their works continually; these two have been calling particularly strong the last few weeks. My writing is primarily inspired by music as opposed to other writing; I strive to write stories that move me like these two songs do. Epic and beautiful, this is music that captures the elemental forces of nature and sweeps you along. “And all of our shadows/are ashes against the grain…”

“Wolf of Hunger, Wolf of Shame” by J.T. Glover. This wonderful tale is a perfectly paced fable about perception and identity (two concepts I’ve been ruminating over a great deal of late.) The syntax, in particular, is a marvel. Though I’m fortunate enough to call the author a friend, said friendship by no means influences my enjoyment of “Wolf of Hunger, Wolf of Shame”: the story stands entirely on its own. Available in Weirdbook #31.

Reuben’s Brews. Seattle is a ridiculous treasure trove for the beer lover; you can’t throw a stone without hitting a dozen craft breweries. Reuben’s stands above the pack. Every beer is lovingly crafted with an exacting eye for the science involved in the brewing process. Reuben’s is the one brewer that I will willingly try beer styles I don’t care for, and more often than not I’ll enjoy those beers. (And if I don’t, it’s simply a palette thing, not because they aren’t excellent beers.) You haven’t experienced craft beer until you’ve had Reuben’s Roggenbier or Imperial IPA or Roasted Rye IPA…or any of their beers.

Mondo Digital. My go-to site for grindhouse and weird cinema. I’ve found a few gems thanks to this site, and I enjoy their reviews, which do a nice job of letting you know just enough about a film to see if you are interested, as well as prepare you for the quality of the actual DVD/Blu-Ray. I also appreciate that, unlike most free sites, they aren’t loaded down with a bunch of ads that render the site unreadable. The white lettering on black background does burn my eyes after a while, but that’s a small price to pay for such a rich resource.

House of Psychotic Women: An Autobiographical Topography of Female Neurosis in Horror and Exploitation Films by Kier-la Janisse. There are five film books I love beyond reason and revisit frequently. Three are by (or edited by) Stephen Thrower: Nightmare USA, Beyond Terror and Eyeball. Fourth is Tim Lucas’ weighty marvel Mario Bava: All the Colors of the Dark. House of Psychotic Women is the newest entry on this list, and an absolute essential one. Rather than repeat myself, I’ll be lazy and link to my Goodreads review. A truly unique voice that brings a sorely-needed perspective to the world of horror and exploitation films.

sylvia plath picked her nose

If my memory is correct, I read once that Sylvia Plath picked her nose when writing, particularly if it wasn’t going well. That really stuck in my mind, not just because of the “ooh, gross” giggly kid factor, but because it is a profoundly humanizing imagine of a writer usually buried in a mountain of myth. When we think of Sylvia, we think of her searing, dark poetry, her combustible marriage to Ted Hughes, her tragic suicide. We don’t think of her picking her nose, but you know she did. We all do.

               

I think I’m at a crossroads with my writing. I’m exploring different options about where to go and what to do with it next, and of course I’m continuing to write as I do so. Except that I’ve not written much in the past week, saddled with a lethal combination of writer’s block and the negative editorial voice in my head that says I never have and never will write anything worthwhile. That’s a fun voice, isn’t it? I don’t know how much stuff I’ve started and stopped/deleted this week. I found myself staring at the screen this afternoon, absentmindedly picking my nose (you knew this had to tie together somehow.) Which doesn’t fit in my image of a writer hard at work, honing his craft. But if Sylvia did it…and I’m sure Carver did it…King, Campbell, Murakami, Ligotti…I’m sure they all have/do pick their noses and stare at a blank screen/paper from time to time. They are humans made of the same organs as I. It’s their work that is mythic. The writer is never mythic, no matter how fascinating or dull their life may be. They did not transcend their bodily limitations. Their bones hurt and skin itched and they felt despair. Science tells me this is a fact. Negative editorial voice says “yeah, and that’s the only thing you have in common with any of them—y’all got a spirit locked in a sack of meat.”

That’s fine, negative editorial voice, because I don’t want to have anything in common with them. I want my own voice. And it gets damn hard to hear when you are shouting all the time. No one likes a know-it-all, and I’m beginning to think you don’t really know all that much. It’s easy to oppose everything. It’s harder to stand up and work to overcome your own limitations. So maybe you should put up or shut up, get out of the way of the muse you seem so weirdly terrified by, and help build something worthwhile and unique.

excerpt from "flesh against concrete"

This is an excerpt from a series of short pieces, 3-5 paragraphs long, that I've recently started work on. Flesh Against Concrete is the working title but I suspect it will change. Currently I'm envisioning seven total pieces, but that could also change and probably will. This is piece number four. It's tempting to post all four that are complete thus far but it's best to see how everything develops. I can say that the other three pieces are by turns erotic, dark and disturbing...this one is a bit of an outlier. 

IV.

They keep lists of the last. They keep them on the walls, the tables, the floors. They keep them in the sky and in the ground, in the darkness and in the light. The lists are carved and sung. The lists are written in water and blood, semen and ink.

The last before death: the last book read, the last person touched. The last time making love, the last time cooking a meal. The last food tasted, the last bath taken. The last kiss, the last hug, the last sleep. The last time driving a vehicle. The last time shopping in a grocery store and the last item purchased. The last song heard. The last time rain is felt on skin.

No list is ever erased. There are no boundaries to contain the lists. They swell and shrink, shiver and sink. They change forms and bleed into each other while remaining distinct. Those creating the lists do nothing else. They have their work and think of nothing else. They have light when they need it and darkness when they do not. They have limbs and writing implements, they have flesh and stone. They have vast, empty space and tight, collapsed matter. They have what they need.