On perpetually drowning in the waters of solitude

Secretive bands, reclusive writers and sculptors and artists. Cults and cult like activity. Cults that are not just religious cults but that revolve around something that is totally unusual, like a set of sculptures or a pop star or a stock symbol. Anything like this. The public delusion. The masses pulled aside and into their heads. Hyperstition. Mass hysteria. Our capability to lie to ourselves, to create a great lie, so many great lies layered on on top of another. How we see other great lies and find them to be so ridiculous, rail against them, rage against them but then settle back happily into our own lies again and again. How this is not some aberration, but just the human condition. How this is not some fault, but just the way things are, just the base state of human society. How these lies have always existed, more or less, how their strength and influence and variety grow proportional to the size of a society and how we can easily look back and see them, and study them and critique them but are still ignorant (not even willfully, more like inherently) of our own. How the recluse can be a sort of delusion of one, or how solitude and isolation are perhaps the only way to fight against this, that only in solitude and isolation can be found the remedy, the antidote, the serum, the truth, the evasion of these delusions, of these lies and myths and insanities. 

Art, as it almost always must be—at some point or another—generated in solitude (the lone painter, writer, sculptor, director) is perhaps the only other escape from this. In another’s solitude, conveyed through sufficiently well made art, can we get a glimpse into this mind state. Of course not all art does this, in fact much of it falls into the old patterns, the old mass delusions. But that art that is created totally in solitude? Agnes Martin, Thoreau (even though his solitude was more fiction than fact, more veneer then vessel). Two examples, one good, one bad, but the heart is still there. Wordsworth and Stevens on their endless walks. Perhaps a window or the passing road, another voice far off, but so, so far off. The brief image of another body, but just a head or tuft of hair and then nothing. The wind, the rain maybe. Then the sun and the sun forever. The night sky. Ansel Adams and the endless west. A single body lodged in a place with no anchors. And then whatever you want to call it, so close and so near. The Carthusians, all of them. So many with words in their hearts which they know will be spoiled in the telling. The endless rage of the hermit, a rage born out of love and confusion. The door so close, and the door open! Trying to push back the noise, trying to outrun the noise. They sink and seep. We rub against each other like stones, but some stones hard and others soft. It is endlessly fascinating because it is endlessly exhaustible. This is because the hermit loses themselves in their solitude. The don’t focus on themselves, they focus on everything else. They lose focus. Being around others we find or form the boundaries on ourselves. We have these boundaries put into place. This in not an inherently bad thing, it is conducive to some things but not others. Beckett alone in his mother’s room. He had to be alone. If she were there he’d have had no epiphany. The epiphany can only come in solitude, the epiphany can only be found in perfect and absolute emptiness and emptiness. A single person in a room lit only by the low light of the rising sun filtered through a thick layer of clouds. It seems so dark but so much light can be let in there. Even the smallest sounds take on the weight of a great creature. Even the smallest changes hold a monumental gravity. 

Institutions are inherently antagonistic to this sort of thinking, to this sort of work. It might now seem so, but it is the case. We are drawn to these institutions out of fear, out of confusion, out of a thrashing and grasping. Like a drowning person. But the drowning is the thing. The drowning is the challenge. One must fully drown first. One must drown eternally in the solitude to enact something worthwhile, something great.

There are no sayings that can do this justice. No words or wisdom needed to support this. At every moment the true artist must feel the pain of the drowning and say: ‘This is what I came here for’. They must say, ‘I am doing my job, I have done my job. I have drowned in solitude and let the waters filled my lungs and died to the world.’ One must be totally inundated, but revel in the pain of solitude and the silence of the waters around them. It is the only way.

To grab at a life raft is to abscond (and this can only happen for a short while) from their true duty. It is to give up the work for a short while, to paddle at the surface, to waste energy struggling, kicking before the waters take over again. Perpetually drowning in the waters of solitude.

'Gallaher Calls' to be published in Dim Shores Presents #1

Very excited to announce that my weird, literary horror short story 'Gallaher Calls' will be included in Dim Shores press' 'Dim Shores Presents' #1.

https://mailchi.mp/ddf96ab02d35/dim-shores-update-2429057

Positive review of 'The Plague Victim'

In what might be the first ever 'review' of my work (really a comment on a blog post) D.F. Lewis has some very kind words for my story 'The Plague Victim' in this year's Nightscript.

You can read read Lewis' thoughts on 'The Plague Victim', and all the other stories in Nightscript V, here: https://dflewisreviews.wordpress.com/2019/10/04/nightscript-volume-v

Nightscript V is out!

My short story 'The Plague Victim' has been included in this year's volume of the annual literary horror anthology Nightscript, which is out now.


Nightscript V can be bought as an ebook or paperback here.

'Drug Lung' and 'Some Eastern Demon' up at decomP

Two flash pieces I wrote, 'Drug Lung' and 'Some Eastern Demon', have been published at decomP

Some Thoughts on 'Midsommar', 'Hereditary' and 'The Ritual' and Folk vs. Cosmic Horror

The most effective, and scariest, works of horror are those that are so 'clean' that they could just as easily be considered nonfiction as fiction. Those that seem like like nothing more than a window into our own world. Ari Aster has taken two somewhat different approaches in his two films 'Hereditary' and the recent 'Midsommar'. Some thoughts on these films, as well 'The Ritual'.

This is one large central craft choice in a work of horror that has a significant effect in its execution: whether or not to expose the supernatural or metaphysical aspect of the horror. In 'Hereditary' we get this pretty decent dose of the cult's practices and beliefs (something to the effect of "'Paymon' has been conjured by the grandmother who has passed his presence down through her lineage in order to get those in her coven benefits, like good familiars etc..."). It is a cool premise. In 'Midsommar' the metaphysics (if there are any) are a lot more impressionistic. Presumably the gods and forces have a  Scandinavian Pagan origin, but as they elders point out, their book of lore is always evolving, always growing, and are channeled through the 'unclouded mind' of the inbred savant Reuben. The reason behind the sacrifices is vaguely described as perpetuating the health of the community (maybe allowing nine more children to be born into the community(?)) but the mechanism here is kept obscure. There is sort of this cinematic parallel to what the viewer is afforded: in 'Hereditary' there is a scene where Annie opens one of her mother's books and flips through, getting a vague idea of the metaphysics of the cult (and the world) which provided the viewer with some insight, but in 'Midsommar' when Josh asks to read their book of lore, is provided entrance into their world and tries to plumb the mechanisms of their cult, the elder 'closes the book' and prevents Josh from reading it (and while he does take some pictures he - and we - never get to view them) and the metaphysics are closed off from us.

Granted Paymon is never shown in his true form in 'Hereditary' but there are enough little sparks flying around to ensure that the overt supernatural is meant to be considered an essential part of that world. Of course, too, the proximate comparison for 'Midsommar' is 'The Ritual' another recent Scendinavian folk horror film wherein the monster-god is clearly seen a half dozen times and the supernatural is clearly invoked. Inn 'Midsommar' we are primed a bit to expect something in that yellow house, something beyond the bounds of reality. But when everything is said and done any supernatural elements in 'Midsommar' can be foisted off onto the psychoactive herbs and mushrooms that are freely distributed to the attendees.

This is an interesting decision, and 'Midsommar' prevail and suffers in various ways because of it. The story of the Harga - its history, past and future - never feet fully fleshed out. We don't know if the commune is seeking some 'omega point' or if they just want to perpetuate their happy way. In some sense it is more ominous than the coven in 'Hereditary', it has a sort of 'Stepford Wives' forced utopianism about it. On the other hand it is far less menacing than this group that is actively moving to bring genuine agents of hell to earth.

As practitioners of supernatural horror, we generally have to make this choice. Revealing the supernatural is playing a strong card, one that cannot be unplayed. It has dual effects: we pull the reader further from this reality, which inevitably makes the story less believable (though not utterly so, if executed appropriately). The card must be played very judiciously. But then playing this card well can add so much depth to a story. By not playing it, by keeping things open, there is room provided for interpretation on the part of reader. There is a lot of arguing back and forth that can occur, and the option for greater depth in this way. What would have happened in 'Midsommar' if 'the source' had been revealed more fully? Would it have added more to the movie or detracted from it? Granted 'Midsommar' is more of an image driven film (not relative to 'Hereditary' which is deeply image drive, but just in general).

In an image driven work like 'Midsommar' overplayed metaphysics can detract from the work, in the sense that the images take primacy and a lot of backstory can get in the way of the elegant presentation of the images. Stated differently: the images and the metanarrative can compete for the reader's attention, and a strong set of images will, or may, be muted by a strong underlying structure.

'The Ritual' shows another, somewhat different take on this balance. The imagery is strong throughout the movie, having a sort of disconnected feeling at first, until near the end of the film where things congeal. The creature (described late in the film as 'a bastard child of Loki' who provides the rural group with eternal life in exchange for the sacrifice of outsiders) is only hinted at for much of the film but is then revealed, in full, in the last act where while pursuing the last living character. The film, in this case, seemed to suffer for it. While the monster is very cool - and pretty scary - by revealing its true nature, what it looks like and how it works, its lurking nature is replaced with a somewhat mundane explanation. It seems to to be bound by the confines of the remote forest in which it lives. In this case, the monster is 'bound'. It is not some cosmic entity that transcends the boundaries of the human mind, but one that is caught in the boundaries of human thought (inside the forest: unsafe; outside the forest: safe). This is not an uncommon trope folk horror, in fact it is sort of a hallmark of folk horror: when you are in the village you are bound by the village's rules, you are subject to the village's monsters, but outside the village you are freed from the village's traditions and can go about your way unharmed, unpursued. In Cosmic horror, almost by definition, you are never safe. The horrors are specifically unbound by human thought, because they are existentially outside of human thought, concerns and boundaries. A question arises: are folk horror and cosmic horror incompatible?

I loved this resonance in the endings of 'Midsommar' and 'Hereditary' this 'final room' with the bodies all blooming and rotten. The juxtaposition between the living and who we had thought were the dead, but are really the eternally living. Whether this is 'saying' anything or not is hard to decide, though it is a beautiful and horrifying image, the sort of thing that stick with the viewer long after the movie has ended. A dark alter. In 'Midsommar' the yellow house is burned down, the bodies (living and ritualized) are destroyed, or transmogrified into glory for the commune. It is a very folk horror ending, in line with 'The Wicker Man'. In 'Hereditary' the film ends on an ambiguous, or resonant note. Paymon is present in the treehouse with the cult and the bodies. Something new has come and the alter will persist even after the movie has ended. Its presence is present and inescapable. It is sort of a nod toward cosmic horror: the room is out there and it is also in us. It has planted its germ and it is only a matter of time before it spreads. We will never find the burned ashes of the yellow house in Halga: it has been tilled into the soil and it influence will stay there, the alter in the treehouse however is somewhere, and it is spreading. We may look for it and we may find it, but even if we try to hide from it, it is still there, somewhere, working its strange force.

The Dystopian Strangeness of being suspended on Twitter

I abhor these kinds of things, at this point pretty much on principle. I don't want to be one of those people that brags about not having social media, but I came to a point in 2014 where I realized they were not worth the effort and deleted Facebook and Twitter and maybe one or two others. It was a good thing.

I 'successfully' had a twitter account for maybe six months in 2013. I followed a few writers, a lot of dumb weird twitter accounts (is weird twitter still a thing?) and had the pinnacle of my social media fame when I just tweeted something like 'My favorite radical feminist is Andrea Twerkin' and got four likes.

At this point twitter feels almost like an anachronism. Like something that should be in the history books as having lived its life and now out to pasture. But there are a lot of interesting writers who post updates exclusively on twitter so, a few months back, I semi-grudgingly attempted to create a new twitter account, for the express purpose of following writers and journals that I found.

The process, of course, was very easy. I got on and went on a bit of a spree, following these folks that seemed interested. Shortly afterwards I was asked for me phone number, to validate my identity. Sure, fine, I put it in, but since I was in the middle of rural Utah I didn't have any service and couldn't respond to the verification code.

Twitter, being near the very bottom of my life priorities, was forgotten for a few weeks until I had phone service to verify the code. When I opened the page there was a notification that my account was suspended. If I remember correctly, it didn't actually tell me until I tried to follow someone, at which point the little banner popped up in the bottom of the screen. Again, low priorities, I forgot about it and figured it would resolve itself.

Yesterday I tried it again, filed an appeal, explained the situation which, I figured, was common and innocent enough that it would be sorted out without issue. How naive. I was informed, shortly after, in a terse and stern e-mail that my account had repeat violations of Twitter's policies (I had not sent out a single tweet) and that I should not attempt another appeal or seek further information.

So I am locked in this strange place, where I can see my account, click around on the page but am unable to send out, or receive any information (all the account that I followed have been unfollowed). I even attempted to deactivate the account, just, you know, sadly place my tail between my legs and limp out the back door. But the beautiful thing is, when I went to deactivate the account I was told that this is not allowed, because my account is suspended.

This, I feel, is where the absurd arrives. Unable to actually do anything, even the one benign thing I had hoped to do: learn about what other writers were up to, I am forced to wallow in shame at some sort of altercation. I'm not indignant. Life will go swiftly on without Twitter. It is just a strange place to be, turned away and locked out for no apparent reason, and unable to discover why.