The Explosion of a Chandelier

 

The Explosion of a Chandelier by Damian Murphy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Like any good sleight-of-hand, even the publisher name, "Occult Books," is a deception, at least in the popular conception of what "Occult" means. Here, I think it's wise to refer to the original meaning of the word: hidden from view. You won't find wild sabbats, goat sacrifice (virgin or otherwise), or sulfur and brimstone here. No, this occultation of of a more refined sort. Something far more interesting (and sinister in the trickiest of ways).

What we have here is an exploration of the imagination and the manifestation of the imagination into the "real" world. This world is filled with subterfuge and the already-mentioned slight-of-hand. It is labyrinth whose walls shift. A game where the rules change in unexpected, winsome ways. But it's a make-believe which breaches the wall to that-which-is-hidden. These games and labyrinths create thin cracks in the zones that contain realities.

You'll recall this from your childhood, the imaginative playfulness and discovery of places undiscovered by most of society, the unveiling of the "truth" behind individual identities, the understanding of the true mechanism of seemingly ordinary objects that are much more than they seem on the surface.

Some of us are lucky enough to have survived into adulthood with those same revelatory faculties intact. But we have to work at it. It's a gift, to be sure, but a gift that has to be wrested, nay, stolen from the universe.

The Explosion of a Chandelier is a carefully-encrypted guidebook on how one might access such gifts, if one is bold enough to sieze them! But, like Damian's other works of a similar ilk (The Exalted and the Abased, The Academy Outside of Ingolstadt, and Abyssinia all jump to mind), those who are not accustomed to seeking for hidden things, who have forgotten the very real power of imagination, or who lack the courage to sieze the scepter that cracks the barriers between realities . . . well, they simply do not, cannot, and will not Know. On the surface, they will read a story about young men living in Spain during the age of anarchic revolution, a story about hotels and keys and bombs and chandeliers.

But, trust me, there's much more in there, SO much more! Hidden between the words, behind the pages, and most importantly, inside. Look inside! Don't let your reading eyes deceive you. Or, actually, please do!

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On Poetic Imagination and Reverie

 

On Poetic Imagination and Reverie by Gaston Bachelard
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

How does such a slight book pack in so much insight? I think there's a corrollary here between On Poetic Imagination and Reverie and the works it uses for it's examples. Bachelard is careful and particular about using such examples, but is able to expand the readers understanding and appreciation with only a scant selection of representative samples. This fact mirrors his insight into the works themselves, works that don't speak to the reader, but speak with the reader, works that invite the reader between the letters and words immerse the reader in a hidden world that breathes behind the page.

For example, Bachelard cites Poe's "A Descent into the Maelstrom":

On a theme as slight as falling, Edgar Allan Poe succeeds in providing, by means of a few objective images, enough substance forthe fundamental dream to make the fall last. To understand Poe's imagination, it is necessary to live this assimilation of external images by the movement of inner falling, and to remember that this fall is already akin to fainting, akin to death. The reader can then feel such empathy that upon closing the book he still keeps the impression of not having come back up.

Conversely, he states:

The picturesque disperses the force of dreams. To be effective, a phantom should not have bright colors. A phantom lovingly described ceases to act as a phantom.

Which reflects one of the most common charges levelled against Lovecraft,/a>. With his overly-long descriptive passages, Lovecraft holds his terrors too dear, robbing them of both their cosmic aspect and their aspect of horror. This is why I find Aickman's horror so much superior. It is not what is said or how it is said, it is what is unsaid, but apparent to the reader who is paying close enough attention, that generates the real horror. It is the implication, the throbbing background "sound," rather than the brazen crash of trumpets that draws the reader in to be embraced by dread.

And this applies to other human emotions, joy, loss, love. It is more lasting to use an image to imply the unsaid, to, rather than impress the reader with words, to invite the reader through unspoken cues to become embraced by the implications that only images can foster. As the old Deep Purple song says "it's not the kill, it's the thrill of the chase".

The ideal image must seduce us through all our senses and draw us beyond the sense that is most clearly committed.

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Samalio Pardulus

 

Samalio Pardulus by Otto Julius Bierbaum
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The word "transgressive" is a trite over-used, particularly in academia, where it seems anything is okay to write a thesis on, so long as it's "transgressive". In all honesty, the word is losing its meaning, losing its sting. In my experience, I've seen this phrase used anachronistically in historical and literary theses, in particular. We've made the word blase, boring, even, in the 21st-Century, and imposed it on many texts and circumstances that don't really deserve the word.

Then along comes Otto Julius Bierbaum's Samalio Pardulus. Given that it was first published in 1908, before the horrors of World War I stripped away all innocence (now THAT is a transgressive event if there ever was one!), this work is a prime example of why the word was invented in the first place. Another word that has lost all meaning nowadays, "blasphemous," also describes this work quite well. The corruption of the Christ and Madonna figures in Samalio Pardulus own artwork, along with his un-natural love for his beautiful sister, qualify the work as both blasphemous and transgressive. As with all such "good" examples of such works, the ugly, the evil, and the dark are not only portrayed, but eventually they corrupt those who would have earlier fought against such things (as part of the moral order and how things "ought to be") so much that the erstwhile innocents not only accept the morbid drippings that fall from Pardulus' table, they practically feast on them, in the end. As Messer Giacomo, the initial art-teacher for Pardulus, states "Art is the worst snare of evil". This story sets out to prove that and does so, quite convincingly.

Alfred Kubin's art, always a welcome addition to any book, in my opinion, serves to provide dark glimpses into the scenes and artworks described in the tale. These were not added until the 1911 edition, well before the war, but with a sort of mood that makes one wonder how prescient Kubin was about what was to come in a mere three years. While reading and admiring the art, I thought of the toleplaying game Never Going Home in which the horrors of World War I unleash hell on Earth. This work feels like an initial foray, a peek into what was to come, lurking in the interstices of "good" society.

This is well worth your read. And with the inexpensive, simple, and beautiful editions that Wakefield Press provides (again and again and again), you should feel like you're stealing it when you buy it. You may lose a piece of your innocence.

And that's the perfect mood for this book.



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Sky ov Crimson Flame by Dunjon Magic

 

First off, thank you to Thorin Thompson for this little magnetic wonder. For those not in the know, the musical genre known as "Dungeon Synth" is, well, just what it says it is: Synthesizer music about and for dungeons. You don't have to play Dungeon Crawl Classics or Dungeons & Dragons to enjoy it, but it helps.Truth be told, you've probably heard this genre before and didn't even know you were listening to it. I would consider the opening lines to Ozzy Osbourne's "Mister Crowley" to be proto-dungeon synth. And if you've watched any really bad late-'70s or '80s fantasy, science fiction, or horror movies, you've probably unwittingly heard the genre before. Why "really bad"? Well, the technology for music back then isn't what it is now. If you're a Generation-X nerd like me, this is the sort of thing you wish you could have played on that cheap Casio-tone your mom bought to practice church hymns on because your family couldn't afford a real piano. But you only wished you could reach the heights and depths of Dungeon Synth. Simply put, you could not. The technology wasn't quite there unless your name rhymed with Ron Rarpenter and had a movie-level budget to buy all the best synths.

Thanfully, technology has progressed and become more affordable to the masses. Queue in mid-90's Black Metal and the need for creepy, melodic intros to more raw, powerful music. This is where the Dungeon Synth movement really began to take hold. I don't have the time or the wherewithal to trace the history of Dungeon Synth. Others have done this (I strongly recommend this reddit post on the subject). 

So what do we have here? Thorin has created a soundtrack for his Sky ov Crimson Flame adventure for Dungeon Crawl Classics (free quick-start rules are here!). It's as creepy as you would expect (I mean, look at that cover!) with an air of menacing mystery. Would I play this in the background while running Sky ov Crimson Flame? Of course. Would I play this in the background while running any weird or eerie dungeon crawling adventure? Absolutely. Would I just listen to the awesome music for the sake of listening to the awesome music? I'm doing that right now! Strongly recommended for your macabre moods!

And I would strongly recommend picking this up. Don't worry, non-cassette-player-owners. You can get the digital download over on Bandcamp. What are you waiting for?

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Dhalgren

 

Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The older I grow, the more I realize that my childhood might have been exceptional. Not exceptionally good, mind you, just an exception to what the "normal" American child experiences. I was raised as an Air Force brat. Born in Germany, lived in The Philippines, Italy, England, and all over the US (Texas, Minnesota, Nebraska, Wyoming). Since the commencement of "adulting," I've lived in Pennsylvania, California, Utah, and Wisconsin. This shiftiness, especially in the first eighteen years of life, led to forming and cutting friendships and love in rapid order. I have no idea what it's like to have a "hometown". That just doesn't exist for me. I keep contact with a select few people I knew as a child. And even though I've lived in Wisconsin for nearly thirty years now, I still feel like a wanderer on this planet.

In all these journeyings, I've come to appreciate places for their unique mood, style, atmosphere, amusements, and shortcomings. When I visit a new place, I like to soak up the ambience and get to know the place. Cities, in particular, have personalities, I've found. My favorites are Oxford (UK), Vienna (Austria), and Madison, Wisconsin (US).

I've also met some strange characters in my life's wanderings. When I was young, I had more time and freedom to get to know individuals who lived out of the mainstream of society. Freaks, geeks, punks, goths, metalheads, gangsters, ex-soldiers, mystics, chronic alcoholics and drug abusers, the chronically mentaly ill, the homeless, other wanderers. The list can go on and on. I find humans endlessly fascinating and endlessly frustrating. I have a love/hate relationship with the human race. For the record: mostly, I love 'em!

I find that my experiences have everything to do with Dhalgren. Everything.

I'll be honest, I was shocked at how much I related to many of the characters in this book. Because I knew them. Some I still know. I won't name names, but the carnival of personalities in this work are almost all people I've met. It's an ugly bunch, with a lot of deviance from social norms. These are "my people".

But the real main character in this story is not the protagonist, who has forgotten his name and is simply called Kid throughout. The main charachter in this story is the city, Bellona.

Like any city, this work of psychogeographical semi-apocalyptic fiction is not particularly "linear". In fact, the last section's typeset is intentionally non-linear, with "asides" that contrast sharply with the other text in its immediate vicinity, a choppy fluidity between space and time-lines, and an aggressively experimental layout. Much like a city. In fact, I'd say this is one of the greatest works of psychogeography I've read to date.

And why "semi-apocalyptic"? Before I answer, let me point out that my Dad, an avid and voracious reader of science fiction (I owe that addiction to him), had this book on his bedside shelf for many months. I don't know if he ever finished it, but it eventually disappeared some time in the early '80s. So when I began the book, I was expecting all the regular tropes of science fiction, but something of a higher intellectual train than the pulps. Well, I was altogether wrong. Dhalgren is a semi-apocalyptic work, a story set in a city that has become a sort of pocket dimension, it's own entity, while still existing in a decidedly non-apocalyptic America. It's a place that time and space didn't forget, really, but a place that time and space set aside for its own little apocalypse. Something like "The Zone" in Roadside Picnic, or like what happened to the planet of Tekumel in the Empire of the Petal Throne universe.

In Bellona, things have become . . . disordered. Imagine that the late '60s and early '70s never ended, but that law and order were simply absent. It's not utter chaos - people still gather in groups, some in communes, some in gangs, some in ultra-luxurious compounds, some in . . . utter denial of the situation they are in (they try to maintain a "normal" lifestyle, despite the crumbling city and social order). Yes, there is violence, but there is also love and loyalty. As Depeche Mode used to say "People are People". And so it is in Bellona.

But Bellona is a jealous city. It doesn't let go so easily that one just walks away. Something undefined and strange compels many people to stay, though some do "escape" . . . if they avoid the forces that have been put in place to contain the decay of the city from escaping into the rest of the world. Well, it's not so mystical as it sounds, but as in many cities, people find it difficult, sometimes impossible (because of ideology, economics, or relationships) to leave.

Is the city alive? Maybe, maybe not.

Are the people who enter it under some kind of geas that doesn't allow them to leave? Possibly.

Will everyon who reads this work enjoy it? I doubt it.

Is Dhalgren a great work of experimental science fiction? Absolutely.

I'm glad I journeyed there. Though it was rough going, at times. Very rough going. I myself was, for a time, trapped against my will. But, as with many of the places I've seen in my life, I would return, if only for a visit.

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The House of the Moon

 

Benjamin Tweddell has a gently diabolical touch. Whether it is the claustrophobic-um-ecstatic The Veneration at Polwheveral Manor or the decadent apotheosis of A Crown of Dusk and Sorrow Tweddell's tone floats freely between the sacred and the obscene, from light to darkness and back again. The House of the Moon is no exception. Tweddell's literary chiarascuro, for lack of a better term, contrasts hopeful light and hopeless darkness as dissonant foils to one another, but also, behind it all, pieces of the same completeness, ends of a spectrum, rather than a stark duality. 

As with all of Mount Abraxas books, the production values are outstanding, but in this case, I think the publishing house has outdone itself. This is absolutely exquisite in form and execution. This little work is a treasure, especially with the deft hand of Luciana Lupe Basconcelos at the pen and brush. Her works are the gems on the crown here.

As with Tweddell's other work, a looming building looms large in this story. Here it is the titular House of the Moon, so-called by those who see beyond it's facade as an empty, if disquieting, Cavendish Hall. Julian Ashford moves to the estate of his recently-deceased mother and sees a mysterious, beautiful, yet sad young lady near the grounds of Cavendish Hall. He discovers, in time, the secrets of the House of the Moon, the identity of the young lady, and his mother's own connection to the strange edifice and its inhabitants. This is a moody and seemingly serene bit of poetic prose, until a certain point, where Julian's perceptions about the place and his place in the universe are shattered. To say more than that is to give too much away, but I end with one word of warning: be careful when looking up into the night sky and staring at that blackness between the stars. You may learn something about reality that you aren't ready yet to know. And rather than reality coming crashing down upon you, you will be lifted up and swallowed by it.

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Beloved Chaos That Comes By Night

 

Make no mistake about it, one of my favorite Mount Abraxas authors is Jonathan Wood, whom I have never met, but whom I have made a mental picture of, without one shred of evidence. 

When I lived in England, I knew a man whose name I don't recall. He was a US Marine Vietnam Vet who had retired in England, not far from RAF Chicksands, where I lived at the time. He's got to be dead now, or if he is alive, his liver should be studied for the furtherment of medical science once he finally does give up the ghost. Yes, he did a drink a bit. I know, because I joined him on a few benders. Note: Kids, don't drink. I gave up drinking 35 years ago and it's one of the best things I've ever done. Anyway, this un-named alcoholic vet was slightly portly, dressed in nothing but sweats, and lived in a very dark little cottage "in the country". He was a jovial man, but he definitely had his demons. I don't know anything about his education, but he was eloquent, with a wide-ranging vocabulary, and he told the most sordid and morbid stories (did I mention he was a Vietnam Vet?) about his days in the military with such poesis that I could sit enwraptured, listening to him for hours (being lubricated by Southern Comfort probably helped). As I said, he was a joker, but he had a grim side to him born out of the horrors he had seen. 

This is how I picture Jonathan Wood. I'm certain that my assessment of the man falls well outside the realms of reality, just like the visions we make in our head of someone we've spoken to on the phone several times, but never met in person. But until I meet Mr. Wood, this is the image I will have.

That vision is a result of reading his writings. They are eloquently grim in the best of ways: poetic and hopeless, like being buried in diamonds that sparkle so beautifully, but they cut, oh, they cut.

Some of Wood's works err on the side of poetic brilliance, while others wallow in the mire. But there is a certain cognitively-dissonant hegelian synthesis that arises out of the seeming chaos.

Beloved Chaos That Comes by Night starts on the brilliant side, but devolves into, well, chaos, in the end. At the beginning one is buoyed up by the prospects of a young playwright who is honing his craft and, in the end, we see a hopelessly desparate man that has been bullied, used, and abused by others (and, one must add, as a result of his own desires) to the point of barely thinking of himself as human as all. This is a story of the potential for great gain diseased by the tragedy of great loss. It is about the warping of dreams into nightmare, a true horror story devoid of ghosts, but full of monsters of one's own (ignorant) making.

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