Louder Than Love

As a writer, I deal in myth-making. What is more fundamental to story making than myth creation? One could go so far as to say every story is a myth. I have actively spent a large part of my life creating and participating in myths and myth-making. As someone in his mid-forties, I've long witnessed the cultural events (especially pop culture) of my younger years turn into myth. It's a cycle that's as natural as breathing, perhaps accelerated in this era of mass media culture, but a process that has been going on as long as there have been humans.


I honestly did not realize this as I began writing the above paragraph, but today marks one year since Chris Cornell passed away after a lifelong battle with depression. I guess I must have known subconsciously, because today I found myself reflecting on the myth of grunge, or more specifically, how grunge itself fell victim to very myths of self-destruction it initially railed against. Except that's not true, not really. Grunge was in part a reaction against the shallowness of mainstream rock music, but these bands were full of rock stars. They were just shaded differently. And then the shading went totally black. Grunge's cultural moment can be discussed from a distance now, safely in its myth, but for me personally it's still all too close to home. I don't believe I'll ever have that distance.


1992-93 were arguably the peak years of grunge (at least as far as its cultural impact--the actual scene in Seattle was well into its dying throes by then). In 1992 I graduated high school, in 1993 I lived and worked on my own, college not being a path I could pursue until the end of 1993--and which would only last one semester. I had numerous interrelated demons (depression, anxiety, substance abuse, relationship problems, etc.) Grunge music not only spoke to me--it saved my life. I'm not being dramatic, it truly did. It made me feel less alone, and the darkness inherit in it was a darkness that I well understood, a familiar friend. There were other bands that spoke to me in that time, but grunge (along with Metallica) prevented me from trying to take my own life on more than one occasion. It is one of the greatest gifts art can provide--bringing light and empathy into the darkest corners.


And then the leading lights started dying. And there was nothing glamorous about it. If the famous "27 club" deaths (Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin) had been pitched as almost romantic to those of my generation--live fast, die young--then the violent, bleak deaths of Cobain, Staley, Wood et. al. felt anything but. These deaths would have a long tail. Cornell's death last year shocked me in a way that none of the others did, because I'd bought in to the second, related myth: that of the survivor. That if you somehow made it through the 90s and got the professional help you needed, you had the tools and everything would be, if not fine, at least survivable. I projected my own narrative on it, as we so often do with artists we admire, and that narrative helped me in my own life.


But it's myth. All of it. Surviving is a day-by-day process, and sometimes, tragically, people don't make it. The hurt and darkness that drives so much great art and makes it relatable doesn't vanish. It might recede, but it will always be there. And that's why we need each other. It's why we need love and support, but it's also why we need tools to deal with it. Those tools are out there. You are never alone.


My children have grown up on grunge music and they love it, but it was already a thing of myth when they were born. They know how much it means to me personally, and I've done my best to be open and honest and puncture any lingering rock star myths around it. These deaths are not glamorous and never were. There is nothing romantic about it. The music is beautiful and will continue to resonate. The one advantage my children have is distance--for them, it is about the art and nothing more. As I mentioned above, I don't think I'll ever get that distance, at least not entirely. The sadness at losing so many powerful artistic voices feels personal in a way that's hard to explain. It's not nostalgic--when things are purely nostalgia, they are safely locked up. This music has never been far away and is still a part of my daily life. It is one of my tools for surviving. I so wish it could have helped those who created it for longer than it did.


I'm grateful for the voices from this music that are still here, and I mourn those that didn't make it through. And I can't say it enough: there are people out there who can help. You are not alone. You are never alone. Reach out, as difficult as it might be, and get help if you need it. There are more shoulders to lean on than you realize.

Publication: Truffle Oil in Trembling With Fear

My exactly 100 word short story Truffle Oil has been published in the 03/25/18 edition of Trembling With Fear. Trembling With Fear is an offshoot of The Horror Tree, an invaluable resource for horror and weird fiction writers. I'm extremely excited to have my "drabble" published in TWF and to see it next to the other awesome stories in the 3/25 issue.

In the coming weeks I hope to build an actual author website; it's mostly a function of finding the time and making sure I don't lose the content of this blog. While this publication is my first since I appeared in several print issues of Splatter about a decade ago, I hope it won't be my last. I only started submitting again two years ago, and I haven't submitted very many stories. I'm aiming to turn that around this year.

Thank you to all who have supported me. It is humbling and deeply appreciated.

Wave Propagation

Here is what I will not say to you: let's go down to the sea. Here is something I will never ask you: do you remember? I might ask you if you can feel the contours, but don't worry if you can't; they are wobbly, like radio waves plucked by unseen hands. You were the one who threw the rock in the sawmill pond to teach me about wave propagation. It was not the first time I didn't understand what you were explaining, nor would it be the last. But I understand now.

Here is what I will not say to you: let's go down to the sea, where darker mysteries await me. Throwing a rock in the sea does not create a wave. The wave is already there and it will eat the rock, along with anything else stupid enough to penetrate its surface. Here is something I will never ask you: what did it feel like? You can tell me if you like, but I will not ask. I will offer you shelter with me in this dreary oceanside room but I don't expect you to join me.

Here is what I will say to you: hands can push with the force of rocks penetrating water. I don't need to say this to you, but I will.

When It Becomes Clear

My wife cannot hurt me.
My friends cannot hurt me.
My parents cannot hurt me.
My in-laws cannot hurt me.
My co-workers cannot hurt me.
My financial advisor cannot hurt me.
My boss cannot hurt me.

The cats, the turtle, and the fish--none can hurt me.
The barista in the cafeteria--she cannot hurt me.
The guy delivering Amazon packages to my door yesterday--he cannot hurt me.
The elderly lady in lavender who bumped into my shopping cart and then
  apologized profusely--in no way can she hurt me.

Only my children can hurt me.
They wield a power all the more dangerous because
  they do not know they possess it
  and if they ever deployed it
  it would be by pure accident
  by pure unawareness
and this makes it more devastating
than any planned attack
could ever be.

I could, if needed, walk away from most anything or anyone.
But before such power
I am unguarded, helpless
  as a newborn who has yet to take their first breath.

Review: Blackwater

You are likely familiar with the late Michael McDowell’s work, even if you don’t know the name. As the screenwriter for Beetlejuice and The Nightmare Before Christmas, his storytelling formed the foundation for two deeply beloved films that are still popular today (my daughters, born well after the original release dates, adore both films.) Beyond film, though, McDowell was a prolific author of paperback originals and was best known for his horror tales, most of which were published from the late seventies through the mid-eighties. Sadly, this work never achieved the popular acclaim it deserved, and fell out of print by the end of the decade. Still his name remained revered amongst genre fans, who recognized his writing ability to be well above the norm. No less than Stephen King called him the best writer of paperback originals in the era, and after reading several of his books, I’m understanding why. Thanks to the fine folks at Valancourt Books, his work is being made available again and I hope this time it finds the audience it deserves.

I want to talk today about Blackwater, which I just finished last night and which is one of the most purely enjoyable reads I’ve experienced in recent memory. Originally published as six novellas over a six-month period in 1983, this story of the Caskey family ranks among the finest achievements the genre has produced. The Valancourt edition gathers all six volumes into one nearly 800-page novel, and I think this is the way to experience the story. I have to wonder if it wouldn’t have faired better had it come out as one full-length novel in 1983 (it’s not like the 80s were strangers to bloated paperback novels—not that Blackwater is the least bit bloated.) I read it over the course of a month, letting in unwind its spell a little more each day.

This is a quiet horror novel, and in fact you could almost argue that it’s not horror at all, save that the main character may or may not be a river monster of some sort. Blackwater is the story of Elinor Dammert, discovered after a major flood in the only hotel in Perdido, Alabama by Oscar Caskey. The saga of the Caskey family, Elinor’s entrance into it and her gradual ascension to the role of matriarch make for the first half of the tale, with the second half focusing on what happens to the family once she becomes the matriarch. Taking place over roughly 70 years, the tale does not focus on Elinor alone, though she is clearly the engine and never far from mind. It’s a Southern family saga, part soap opera, part horror tale, part small town portrait. The characterizations are deep and exquisitely rendered, and this is where the book shines. The supernatural elements are largely in the background, integrated into the story and only occasionally claiming the spotlight. You could argue it’s more of a dark fantasy novel than anything, but even this feels wrong—the supernatural elements are never the point of the story, yet they are essential in a completely unassuming way, if this makes any sense. This book falls into several genres while belonging to none. That was probably a hard sell.

But it is a horror novel, and one that may be too quiet for the modern reader. There are scares, and they are effective. However, your mileage with Blackwater will entirely depend on whether you fall in love with the Caskeys, with the gentle Southern rhythm of their lives, and if you enjoy going along even when “nothing is happening.” I did, and this is why the novel is a masterpiece to me—because I rarely cared if “something” was happening, I was too busy enjoying my time with these folks. During the day, at work, I’d find my mind drifting, wondering what the Caskeys were up to. Complex characters all, and even the ones you aren’t supposed to like are charming in their way. By effectively foregrounding the family story, it makes the occasional note of horror much more terrifying and jarring. The horror can feel amoral, even though you come to understand that these acts were done for love. Yet Blackwater is truly all about the family. As a portrait of a matriarchal family over several eras, well, I’ve read none better.

It’s not perfect. In his wonderful introduction to the Valancourt edition, Nathan Ballingrud points out that African-American characters are given short shrift, even in their most important moments relegated to reacting to the events of their white employers. This may be accurate for the time period portrayed, but, given how subversive the book is on many other levels, not giving a better-developed, more complex role for these folks is a missed opportunity. There are also a few points where it feels like McDowell may have rushed a bit, not fully developing certain situations and plotlines (I wonder if the publication schedule had anything to do with that.) One thing that I suspect may be a stumbling block for some is that Blackwater never really reveals what, exactly, Elinor is. Oh, we certainly come to understand that she’s not human—honestly, you’re gonna know that within the first pages—but in an era of origin stories and overexplaining, I appreciate not having that filled in. It’s a far more powerful experience that engages one’s imagination on a deep level. If McDowell had not been such a talented author, the approach would likely fail. But he was, and it does not, at least for this reader.

As the story reaches its climax in the latter 100 or so pages, it does so with a grace that I can’t do justice to here. I found myself dreading the end, because I didn’t want my time with the Caskeys to end. These characters had become close to me, and I had to stop reading at one point last night because my eyes were full of water. Just a speck or two of dust, I’m sure. Blackwater is a grand achievement, a wonderful, wonderful book and it’s going to be hard for anything else to top it this year. The Valancourt comes with a beautiful, entirely appropriate cover. Please consider purchasing it if you’re able. It’s well worth it and supporting projects like this ensures more worthy but overlooked authors won’t be lost to the sands of time.

Seven Things: Rain

Today it is raining. Heavily, endlessly. This is why I live where I do, this rain. It resonates in my bones and my heart. When I forget, and I often do, rain remains me of who I am. The dimensions of my life are housed under skies that shift from grey to black, but never find their way to blue.

This edition of Seven Things features seven things that are tied to the rain in my mind. These seven things I’ve lived with for a large portion of my life. Some of them are only ghosts now…but ghosts that live deep in the heart. Each item below is nearly impossible for me to write about. Each item below has kept me alive.

Screaming Trees—Sweet Oblivion

This album came out in 1992. Even though I was dead broke, I found a way to get a copy. It immediately became my favorite album. That has never changed. If you want to understand what the Pacific Northwest really feels like—the rain, the forests, the long drives—this album will tell you.

Mark Lanegan—The Winding Sheet

Mark Lanegan was the singer for the Screaming Trees. In 1990 he put out this, his first solo record. When I heard it for the first time, I’d never heard anything that spoke to me so truly. This was no adolescent power fantasy nor chronicle of adolescent confusion. This was the beautiful sound of the rain that never stops. This was the sound of every myth this dark backwater holds. This was the sound of the people I knew. It was the first album I refused to play for other people, because it was too sacred and I knew I could not explain. I still can’t. [His second solo album, Whiskey for the Holy Ghost, is possibly even better and just as important to me. I can’t do justice to it either.]

Raymond Carver

The reaction I had to The Winding Sheet would be repeated the first time I read a Raymond Carver story one year later. The story was “Cathedral” and the class was the first college-level English class my rural high school had ever been able to offer. I was so moved by this story I went to the teacher after the class to tell her how much it spoke to me. The teacher, a strongly religious lady, wrinkled her face in disgust and said: “I hate that story, but I had to teach it. Here, I have a copy of the collection it’s from and I don’t want it. But I think you need it.” She never knew what a gift she gave me in that copy of Cathedral, and when she was murdered a few years later, my heart hurt. Raymond Carver’s work is one of the core foundations of my artistic life, and his stories have been my constant companion. For me, there is still no better short story writer. He is falling out of fashion, his work belonging to a different time—but in an overstimulated world, I will always need his ability to say everything with a stoic few words.

Cigarettes

I quit smoking in 1995, shortly after I got married. Prior to that, I smoked a lot. I miss it. A lot. It was comforting to me, making the world a place I could reflect on or just be still in. It is a terrible habit and I would never claim otherwise. But I still mentally smoke a pack a day, and it’s a ghost I do not wish to leave. Should I ever be given a diagnosis that I have a limited time of life left, the first thing I will do is buy a carton of cigarettes.

Whiskey

I don’t think I need to explain this one. Just leave some for the Holy Ghost.

Moonstone Beach Motel at Moclips, WA

This is where I discovered the ocean, at the end of the world. There are no words for the experience. I seldom get there these days—the last trip some five years ago—but it is no stretch to say I think of it every day. It figures prominently in my writing, though rarely named. And yet: still no words. I have never been up there alone, but I’ve come to recognize it doesn’t hold that power to others I’ve shared experiences there with. If I could just stop the noise long enough, I’d go up there for a week alone. And hope that it rains, and rains, and rains.

Twin Peaks

Speak to me not of the recent revival; good or bad, it will always be a different thing. The original two seasons, the best two seasons of TV ever produced, captured the darkness and beauty of a Pacific Northwest now largely gone. First on VHS, later on DVD, I’ve never been without the complete show and I can still shut down everything and disappear into it, especially when it’s raining outside. 

The Blue Door Incident

I’ve seen the blue door just once.

It was a warm summer night. It had been roughly 36 hours since I last ate anything, but I had cigarettes. In those days, that was enough. I sat cross-legged on the worn mattress that served as a bed, my body a thin slice of electricity. The mattress, covered by the only quilt I owned, sank beneath my weight. The air in the apartment pressed down on me, a physical sensation at odds with the tingling sensations running throughout my body. I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, the blue door was in front of me, just inches above the mattress.

A warmth enveloped my head. I stood up slowly, afraid if I moved too fast the door would disappear. It was a pedestrian door, a standard closet model you might see in any living space. The only thing unusual, besides its location, was the striking color blue it was painted. Azure: a middle hue, not so dark as navy, not so light as sapphire. Not a crack in the paint job, not a streak or smear. Still, it was merely a door. Are we ever interested in the door? No, only what lay behind it. I realized there was one more unusual thing about this door: it had no doorknob or handle—not even a mark upon the door to indicate where one might once have been.

Standing now, I stepped off the mattress and looked on the other side. The door looked the same. Azure, no handle, no distinguishing marks. Ok. My body hummed, vibrant with electricity. My veins had become powerlines. Did it matter what side I opened the door from? I had no context with which to approach this question, any more than I did for any question involving the door, since it couldn’t actually be there. That it was there rendered all but the most basic musings moot. I returned to the mattress, reasoning that I should open it from the side that initially faced me. I didn’t know if I had conjured it, but I didn’t know that I had not conjured it either.

I gently placed my hand middle-left on the door and pushed. It swung open.

What I saw was water and sky. The water went in all directions, emerald green and oblique. The sky was clear, light blue, and met the ocean on the horizon. All seemed peaceful and empty. Though I could not prove it, my electrical bones told me there was no life in that sea, and my electrical bones seemed to know more about what was going on than my rational mind, which was at a loss for the whole incident. I stared at the sea for a while, waiting for something further to happen, but nothing did. I leaned through the opening, keeping my knees firmly planted on the bed. The air was a tad cooler through the door, but I had no difficult breathing. In fact, the warmth in my head was spreading down my body, de-buzzing my shell and allowing my breathing, which had been coming in short sharp bursts, to steady.

I thought to touch the water, but kept my hands at my side.

I pulled my head back in and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the door was gone. I’ve not seen it since, though I’ve thought about it on occasion through the ensuing twenty-five years. If you would ask, I would dismiss the whole incident as a hallucination, brought on by too little food and too much warmth (the preceding day had been quite hot, getting close to triple digits.) I accept this explanation, and I know it’s false. False because the nature of reality is far more subjective than we generally allow ourselves to believe, and false because the door was not a lie. Just because I did not and do not understand the door or where it opened to, does not mean it did not open to a truth. The rational explanation allows me to get out of bed in the morning and do things. The rational explanation lets me sleep most, but not all, nights.

Take apart the fear and clean out the arteries. How does an atheist define soul?

Can an atheist have a visionary experience, without ascribing it to a higher power? If the atheist attributes the experience to something unknown, does that something unknown become a higher power? Processes are happening across the universe at this very moment, witnessed by no one. We still do not know what dark matter or dark energy is, even though—at this moment—we are reasonably sure it exists.

It is true that in the preceding two years leading up to the blue door incident, I’d done a fair share of drugs. It is also true that in the year leading up to the blue door incident, I’d gone from an intense crush to having the crush returned to being in a relationship, the first truly serious one of my life. Love is a drug, as the saying goes. Love alters perception. Triggers chemical reactions.

When the blue door incident occurred, I was in the midst of a two-month window where I was largely drug free. I was stone broke, jobless, living alone and in a long-distance relationship (my girlfriend some 200 miles away, and I had no transport or money, visits were rare.) I wrote a lot: letters, poems, stories. I read a lot: fiction, music journalism, philosophy, religion. I walked a lot: miles every day, around the decaying, empty and sometimes sketchy parts of Spokane. I had no phone. I was the most invisible I would ever be, the most alone, and perhaps the most free. Everything was worthy of exploration.

At the time I could not call myself an atheist; I remember deciding firmly I was an agnostic after reading one particularly passionate passage in Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot that set my heart racing, bursting with joy at the wonder of it all. An agnostic didn’t have to be noncommittal, I thought—simply open to ideas. Certainly to evidence, should one ever manage to prove the unknowable. I didn’t want to risk giving up the idea of ecstatic experience. I also was beginning to falter in my belief that I would not live long, and in those moments when the light managed to shine through the cracks, I wanted to perhaps hedge my bets a little.

But the blue door was not an ecstatic vision.

It was just a door, azure blue, that appeared slightly above my mattress and opened to an empty world. Did it exist in “this” world? I was the only one in my apartment; there would never be any independent verification. I didn’t want to accept it on faith, yet I seemingly had no choice. Accept or deny. It happened, or it did not. I came to realize over the following years that this is a dangerously limiting perspective.

It should perhaps be mentioned that I was only a few months removed from a drug-triggered nervous breakdown and so my definition of reality was a bit shaky. Not in terms of seeing things that weren’t there, or talking to ghosts, or anything so melodramatic. What gripped me was the fear that such a state as I’d been in during my breakdown could randomly happen again. What if my heart is beating too fast and I can’t control it? What if I can’t talk, my mouth gluepaste and sewn shut with wire? What if I die? What if I think I’m dead but I’m not? Etc. In this alone, empty time, I was doing my best to confront the fear. To acknowledge it, even respect it, but not let it have control. Intuitively I grasped that if I did not do so, I would never build a life for myself or believe myself to be worthy of love.

During the blue door incident, I surprisingly never felt fear. The tingling, electric feeling was not one of anxiety—my body was simply extremely awake. I felt curious and perhaps a bit detached. When I opened the door and saw the water and sky, I felt I knew the place, and this allowed me to remain calm. I didn’t know the place, of course, not in this world anyway (dreams are a whole different matter, I can’t claim I haven’t glimpsed it while traveling those strange pathways) but I felt open, open to the very emptiness of the place. An emptiness that was somehow…warm. Like my soul had been wrapped in a blanket. My mind, for once, was quiet. Not running in a million directions, not full of endless buzz. It’s similar to the state I enter when the writing and creativity is flowing and I cease to exist for a bit. This was different, though. I was not channeling anything, I was not creating anything. I was observing, but I could not be sure if it was with my conscious mind.

I’ve never been a practitioner of meditation, though I am attracted to the idea in abstract. It could be argued that I was in some sense meditating that evening when the blue door appeared, just like it could be argued I was already in an altered state, depending how liberal one’s definition of those terms are. I certainly associate that strange empty warmth with such a state. If that is what death feels like, then death is not something to be feared (and fear loses its value; don’t all our fears boil down to death, either ours or someone important to us?) Of course, death is the process of vacating the body; physical sensations like warmth presumably cease immediately. Could it be some part of my soul (for lack of a better term) perceiving something my conscious mind has no framework for, and as such my conscious mind reached for the images and sensations that best translated this perception? A bit of mind/soul teamwork?

Ah, but now we are into metaphysics and treading dangerously close to New Age pablum. I’ve never owned a crystal, I’ve never chanted, I’ve never done woo stuff because I’m simply not drawn to it. An atheist can excuse it if they want (we are just talking in metaphors, love, good ol’ metaphors—we don’t literally believe it) but that’s not something I’ve been comfortable with on a personal level. The blue door was real, even if it wasn’t. It was a rehearsal for death, it was outside the scope of death. If I could untangle that paradigm…well, I worry that my conscious mind would break. And that is a fear I’ve never quite shaken, no matter how much I think I’ve made my peace with my breakdown.

I kiss the sun in fear. I never learned to swim.

I have an irrational fear of drowning (though I quibble with the term “irrational”; I mean, if I fall into the ocean I’m fucked.) I’ve had many dreams of drowning, it has frequently figured prominently in my creative output, and I can’t peer over the railing’s edge on the ferry. I can’t even get close to it. At the same time, I am fascinated by shipwrecks, by stories of drowning, and by deep bodies of water (strangely, I’m not obsessed with fast moving bodies of waters like narrow rivers or waterfalls.) Behind the blue door lay endless water: my fear and my obsession. I perceived a world I could not possibly exist in. It would be romantic to say I conquered my fear, but nothing changed. The water was a metaphor, then? Well, I can’t discount that theory, but I don’t fully buy it either. It was there. It was a definition of reality.

Take apart the fear and clean out the arteries. Changing the diet doesn’t guarantee clean machinery going forward. We will all die. We all hope to meet death with a measure of grace. This is not enough, to wait for death. We have a lifetime to practice grace and kindness.

And that is the one conscious change this incident triggered in me. Ever since, I do my best to greet each day with a measure of grace and say goodbye to each day with thanks. I do not always meet this challenge, and in fact my percentage is much lower than it should be. But I strive for it, every day. Atheists don’t pray, but we do talk to the cosmos. Some of us do so quite frequently.

I will never untangle the blue door incident. I don’t think it is meant to be untangled, at least not on a conscious level. None of us—not a single one of us—has an iron grip on the definition of reality. We all create our definition, we all create our worlds, and we could all stand to be kinder to our fellow travelers. A little warmth goes a long way.