Waiting for the Dog to Sleep

 

Waiting for the Dog to Sleep by Jerzy Ficowski
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It should come as no surprise that Jerzy Ficowski is possibly the world's leading biographer of the great Bruno Schulz. Not only did Ficowski write the definitive Schulz biography, Regions of the Great Heresy, but one can hear echoes of Schulz's distinctive voice bordering the edges of Ficowski's short fiction, collected here in Waiting for the Dog to Sleep. Throughout my reading of the 28(!) stories in this volume, I found myself drawing frequent comparisons to Schulz, Kafka, and Calvino, and some of these stories should be spoken in the same breath as these greats.

That is not to say that Ficowski does not have his own voice; he does. But in order to entice readers to this book, I can't avoid the comparison. This work will sit comfortably - on its own - amidst works by the authors heretofore mentioned. Alas, this comprises all of the short fiction Ficowski ever wrote. He is much more well-known as a poet, and his poetic stance is reflected quite strongly in a few of these stories. At other times, his work is extremely straightforward and unadorned, which suits the stories in which ornamentation was not only un-necessary, but inimical to the goals of the narrative. Ficowski allows the form to follow the story, not allowing his own predilections to smother the necessary work that his words perform.

There is a wide variety here ("Something for everyone to hate," as Stepan Chapman used to say), and a lot to love. These pieces are all short and easily digestible, but some of them leave a long-lasting aftereffect, a lingering literary flavor that "sits well on the tongue," as they say. Here are my thoughts on each of the morsels:

The first story, "The Artificial Hen, or the Gravedigger's Lover" hovers somewhere between magic realism and surrealism. It's a strange, uncomfortable space. Most of the stories in this volume, I've found, fall into this strange liminal space between strange liminal spaces. Sometimes hewing toward more stark surrealism and at other times toward a warm magic realism a'la Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

"The Passing Settlement" is about what's right there in the title. But what's there is not quite what you think. A charming little bit about one of those "blink and you'll miss it" places in the middle of nowhere (which may well be the middle of everywhere).

"Old-World Entomology" is a short, concise gut-punch about moths, ancestors, memory, and futility. A three page long existential masterstroke.

Daydream? Ghost story? Liminal magic realism? It doesn't matter. "Recreation with the Paralytics" is a numinous tale, in any case. It will lull you into its own sacral reality, chestnuts, wheelchairs, and all.

"Proof of the Existence of Saint Eulalia" is, as the academics are wont to say "transgressive". Equal parts wicked and clever, this tiny tale packs a lot. Almost a prose poem, though without so much filigree. The sort of story about which a writer (this writer in particular) would say "I wish I had written it myself". And I do.

"The Pink House, or the Desert Sentries" is the sort of story that sends literature majors scrambling for hidden meanings and symbolism when maybe, just maybe, the author was simply telling a story with no meaning . . . which, of course, carries hidden meanings. It is, in this way, a tricksterish story. Ficowski channels Kafka herein, and the academics start sprinting for their podiums . . .

It's funny, when I read the next tale, I had just had a conversation with my wife about the traces we do and don't leave behind when we die. This story, "Chorzeluk," is about making a memory mountain out of a molehill and the proposition that it's sometimes best to let silence speak for itself.

"Before the Wall Collapses" is a small slice of a small slice of the world, an urban trap, of sorts, as much psychological as physical, inhabited by the narrator's grandfather.

Ever wonder what it might feel like to be a victim of the Dungeons & Dragons spell "Otto's Irresistible Dance"? I have. The answer might be found in "Tango Milonga," a tale of magic realism that evokes Italy Calvino in all the best ways. That really is the highest praise I can give to a story. I am hoping there are more like this in Ficowski's collection, but this could carry the whole book! The price of admission is worth it for this story alone.

"Window to the World" is a window on frozen hope and the helplessness one faces in the face of cold, strong winters, and the inevitability of death. This could easily be a short Brothers Quay film. I might add that the Quays (my favorite directors) are, not surprisingly, mentioned in the translator's notes.

"The Sweet Smell of Wild Animals" is magical realism par excellence. This story would rank up among Millhauser and Calvino's best. A fantastic fantastical story (replete with obligatory clown) of an unexpected train ride to a zone of liminality between city and circus, mechanics and magic. An amazing tale of tails.

I keep using referents to magic realists most readers know. It can't be helped. "An Escape" brushes against Kafka's territory or that of a very, very restrained Solzhenitsyn. I wasn't as enamored of this story as others, but it is still well-realized, with a Rod Serling-esque cliffhanger ending.

Existentialism by way of an attempt to fade into non-existence is the theme of "Mimesis". Where best to hide? Or, rather, best to hide as what? What happens when one disappears into . . . a piece of architecture, for example? And what of the pull of such an act on others. One must be strong or dissolve.

"An Attempt at a Dialogue" is a psychogeographical dreamscape of a story with a strange hauntological twist that teases the edges of time-travel, questioning both past and present and the (false?) notion of selfhood. It leaves philosophical quandaries far beyond the limits of the ink on the page and even beyond the strangeness that the story infers.

To call "The Joy of Dead Things" a "nice" story gives the wrong connotation. Maybe "comfortable" is the word I'm looking for, but only to those of us who love to walk through sleepy, dilapidated towns, unkempt ruins, dirty side streets, and ancient overgrown cemeteries, physically-realized dreamscapes. If that's you, then you, like me, will feel comfortable with this story, "soothed" even.

In "Outskirts on the Sands," we find a narrator who constantly, stubbornly, thrusts himself into the past, intentionally avoiding the present until a girl, an amalgam of all his pasts, gently compels him into the present. But the pull of nostalgia is too powerful, and he loses his present, ironically, to a new future. Another strongly psychogeographic work.

A weirdly- beautiful story, the imagery of "My Forest" is going to stay in my head for a long, long time, particularly the fantastically gorgeous apocalyptic closing scene. I would love to quote it, but I don't want to spoil the dark beauty of it all, one of the most simultaneously moving and disturbing images I've seen painted with words. So many hints and implications . . . I can't get over how "ripe" this little tale is. I think I'm in love with it.

"Aunt Fruzia" can be killed off by a salacious story involving a nun, we learn. A domestic dinner story gone wrong (because the narrator just can't help himself from provoking his aunt). The analogies of dinner were so good, I'd prefer to take them literally. But that's cannibalism, and cannibalism is a no-no, kids.

The one disappointing story in the collection for me was "An Alliance". Is the alliance in "An Alliance" really an alliance at all? Or is it just spousal spitefulness? There's probably an analogy in this story, but I'm not seeing it.

"Gorissia" (as the Romans named it) is a village in which the people embrace the final embrace, that of the grave. It's a story as old as time, as discovered by the narrator, an archeologist noted for his previous Neolithic discoveries. And the story will continue on in perpetuity. The archeologist is, in essence, robbed of the fruits of his profession.

"Intermission" is a story of war, during which the line demarcation living and dead is all but erased and only fear can save you. It is an autobiographical tale of Ficowski's participation in the Warsaw uprising.

By the end of "They Don't Ring at the Bernadines'," Ficowski slips into, or rather ascends into full surrealist mode. This story of religious figures versus their adherents approaches, but doesn't quite cross the threshold into all-out absurdity. The restraint is apropos, given the story itself.

I was waiting for a story that would touch directly on the holocaust, and in "'Cause He's Stupid and 'Cause He's Abram," I begrudgingly found it. As you can imagine, it doesn't end well. In this sad case, ignorance truly is bliss. The story begins with the following paragraph, just to give you a taste of Ficowski's writing ability:

He had a molting beard the color of hempen harl, his frayed canvas clothes were made up of holes and cracks painstakingly sewn together. Niemira from Lesne claimed that Abram had stolen those rags from his field scarecrow and was now parading about in them. Possible, but if so, Stupid Abram hadn't taken them to make himself frightening only so that he would have something to wear: without them he was already fairly frightening, though more naked.

You can probably gather that Ficowski shows a wry humor, even in his portrayal of the most horrific of circumstances. I thought of the masks of comedy and tragedy strapped to each other often as I read this book. Sometimes the wires get crossed, and it makes for a heady mixture of emotions.

"Post-patrimony" is a deep dive into psychogeography, how the inhabitant is tied to the habitation and the fragile relationship between the two. When one dies, the other decays, and yet there is something irreducable at the heart of place, a kernel of immortal being that persists, a Genius loci that may take a familiar form.

"Stumps" is one of those strange stories whose strangeness resides, coiled up like a snake waiting to strike, in its utter banality. An ordinary day with one out of the ordinary element (in this case a beggar) that sends everything sideways, forcing the narrator to look at the world in an even more strange way: loaded with meaning amidst the ordinariness of living.

"Signs of the Times, or Diction" is too slight. While I can appreciate stories that only hint and infer, I'd like at least a thread to follow. Yes, this narrator has no thread, that's the point of it all. So, while clever, this story only pans out as average because it's too brief to take full hold.

"Spinning Circles" may be close to perfect, the fabled perfect circle sought after by the Greeks. A wanderer who hopes to reach The City, despite the entries awaiting him, follows his spinning hoop, the last holdover from his distant childhood, only to learn that the circle, which has a mind of its own, will never take him back to where he wants to go. Or will it? Where does the circle end, if it ends at all?

And here the collection ends. I must note that Twisted Spoon Press is starting to impress me. I only have two data points at this time, but what I see is very promising, indeed. I strongly recommend picking up this collection as a start, especially if you are partial to Central and Eastern European authors in translation. I am becoming more and more enamored of this niche, and Ficowski's collection is a very strong example of the sort of writing I've been finding from that corner of the world. Go get yourself a copy!



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The Trickster Goddess of Family Cervidae

[Trigger Warning: Dead animal mention and photo]

 I'm going to get a little personal here. Don't like it? Go somewhere else. Take me as I am, as they say. Here I am:

Back in 2019, the company I worked for was bought out. Now, one of the companies I had worked for previous to that job went through three different buy-outs in five years. Yeah, not a great track record. I left that company before it sank, and oh, did it sink. It's gone. Dead to the business world. A has-been. Even the IP has been flushed down the toilet. I watched as the investors made mistake after mistake, had the heartbreaking task of handing out nearly 40 pink slips to people, some of them good friends, because the investors made some really poor business decisions, and when the third buyout happened and I saw the company culture that was being imposed there, I took off. On my last day, when I walked out (and I literally walked home the five or so miles, because I knew I'd need that long walk to clear my head), I felt like I was sitting on a cliffside overlooking the ocean, and seeing a cruise ship, on fire, slowly sinking beneath the waves. I was right. That's about how it went down. So fast-forward a few years, and I find I'm in the middle of yet another buy-out. Only with this one, I was assured that my job was not in any danger, that while there were now two buyers, where there had been one previously, that my position was safe as houses, as they say. 

They lied.

I found myself, at fifty years old, unemployed for the first time in my life. I diligently looked for, and found, a good job doing purchasing for a major player in the food industry (why not? I had just been "let go" by the water industry). This was in late 2019. Covid happened, and I found myself working from home, which was a good thing, because unlike many of my friends who were out of work, I found myself waking up at around 7, rolling out of bed to get started at 7:30, working through to 5:00 or so (I may or may not have taken a 15 minute lunch during that time - some days I did so, most I didn't), eating dinner, then getting back on for another 2-4 hours, depending on how crazy the day was. This went on for many months. Every day, I checked in with my boss for a call, maybe 20 minutes or so, to report on what I was doing. This was fine, as we needed to communicate regularly, given how absolutely insane the food industry was during Covid. People discovered they could actually cook burgers at home, and our customer base (the meat industry) went stark raving mad with production. One of our customers, also the world's single largest producer of beef, was running at 400% capacity. So anything that required preventative maintenance, like motors, for example, which I bought, was wearing out four times more quickly than usual. And I'm here to tell you that the meat industry doesn't like the idea of buying spares until their machines are down and they are suddenly losing $10K an hour - then, and only then, they'd think "we should have bought a spare". Duh. 

Covid came and went. But the stressors didn't. Long story short, I found myself, last winter, burned out and extremely sensitive to criticism. I was putting in "all the hours". I was pushing to get everything done that needed to get done. I made some mistakes, as one does when one is over-worked and burned out, but nothing critical. In fact, in the last year, I saved my company upwards of three times my yearly salary in one year of purchasing negotiations. I paid for myself and then a lot more. The numbers were clear as day. I received praise from the plant manager and international director of sourcing for my work. And yet, the pressure never let up. 

It was in the midst of this pressure cooker that I was driving home from work one night on a stretch of country road, and I saw a deer jump out onto the county highway. I was going at about the speed limit when I slammed the brakes and the deer jumped off the road, but I thought - and I was right - there's got to be other deer nearby.

Then, there she was. She bounded out and in a split second, I knew I was going to hit here. I knew also, that when hitting a deer, it's a bad idea to have your brakes clamped down, as the deer is then more likely to go under your car and tear up everything on the underside. So, I let off the brake and hit her at about 40 MPH.

As I saw her body fly up over my hood and fill my windshield, I thought "this is it, I'm going to die". Then, miraculously (for me, at least), she kept going up. I think my car met her rump just as she was bounding upward, as deer do, and she simply flew over the top of my car - completely over the top - and landed in a ditch behind me. 

I didn't have the wherewithal to do anything but glance back. I didn't see her. I had no idea if she had survived or not. My car was crumpled and I was shaking like a leaf. My airbags did not go off, for which I am very grateful, and any whiplash I suffered was minimal. After a panicked call to my wife ("I just hit a deer. I have no idea what to do. I've never hit a deer before.") and my wife's calming response that I should call the insurance company, I did that. Then I called 911. The Walworth County Sheriff's department arrived, and the deputies were awesome. They checked on how I was doing, asked what happened, of course asked if I had my seat belt on at the time of the accident ("I was raised in the military. You ALWAYS have your seatbelt on when you're raised in the military!" - they laughed at that), then checked my car. It was munched on the front, but drivable, and there weren't any fluids leaking. 

The police gave me a card with a case number and told me "if you get pulled over for only having one headlight, just give them this card and you'll be fine". Then they got in their SUV and backed up behind me, maybe fifty feet or so, shone their spotlight into the field to check for the deer, I presume, then drove off. I made it home, of course, took the car in and eventually it was totalled.

To say this was a stressor I didn't need is an understatement. But I kept coming back, in my mind, to that moment that deer rose up and filled my windshield. I was strangely calm when I thought "I'm going to die". I wasn't panicked at all. Endorphines are wonderful gifts! But I kept coming back to that thought. "I'm going to die."

Of course, I've thought that before. My deepest philosophical explorations (if they can be called "deep" at all) have been my delves into Existentialism. I've faced the possibility of death a couple of times before (once having narrowly avoided being in a fatal airplane accident - the plane taxiing behind me ended up being hit by a microburst on the tail of the plane on takeoff, flipping upside down, and killing all 16 people on board, I learned upon landing at my destination - and I've been shot at at close range once, as well). But this one was weird. I was so calm. Almost like I was just receiving a message: "I'm going to die".

Needless to say, this got me thinking a LOT (and driving much more slowly and cautiously at night in the country - yeah, I've become "that guy" at night. So, go around me if you're in such a hurry) about my then-current situation with work. I was not happy. In fact, I was much more unhappy and not mentally-well than I could have admitted to myself before the accident. And I had been putting up with a lot of stress and what in a later conversation I figured out was extreme micro-managing, and I had had enough. So I started sending out job applications. I had been approached by head-hunters before, but had told them I wasn't interested at that time. Now I was interested. I needed a change and I needed it bad. After sending out eight applications, I had two offers. in comparison, when I was "let go" at the job previous to my last, I sent out 65 applications and ended up with two offers.

Since I left my job and took the current job I am in, I've spoken with a few employees at the place I left and have discovered that others felt the same way about their experience there. I won't go into details, but the culture there is . . . languishing, shall we say? Two nights ago, I was sitting on the couch just staring at the closet door, feeling at peace. My wife asked what I was thinking about, and I said "I'm thinking about how I'm not panicked about going back to work after this long weekend. And how I didn't have to work on my days off, like the last job." I realized that, for the first time in a long time, I was at peace. No, this job isn't perfect - no job is. But it's much better than my last place, MUCH less stressful, and, frankly, just as rewarding. A side note - this job is a ten minute drive from my house. We're now a one-car family, which, while it requires some juggling, actually makes life feel a lot simpler, in some ways. And I'm close enough that I've been able to walk home a couple of times, when my wife needed the car. It's actually helping me be more fit. Four mile walks will do that for you. 

And the weird thing is, I have this dead deer to thank for these, dare I say it? Blessings. This might sound morbid and perhaps a touch cruel, but I feel like she sacrificed herself for me, in some ways. Yes, I feel badly about hitting her and killing her. I'm not mad at her, though. In fact, I'm extremely grateful, truly, honestly thankful. I think of the old myths of trickster gods that would sometimes lead people to the edge of danger, where they then found some sort of reward for their endangerment, narrowly escaping the potential for that Final failure. I've seen the pit of doom, and picked up a gold coin on its edge.

The next day, after the accident, I drove my wife's vehicle in to work. On my way home, I made sure I drove home that SAME way I drove when I hit the deer. I considered it a sort of banishing ritual, undoing what had been done the night before, closing the circle. Besides, I needed to get some confidence back about driving at night! In fact, I drove past there many times, as I drove home to tune up my resume, get applications in, and do phone interviews. 

I looked for the deer each time, but didn't see her carcass. We had had some nasty snowstorms, and if the deer was indeed killed, it was in a steep-ish ditch off the side of the road, covered in snow. 

Strange that late on February 18th, I submitted my application to the place I eventually ended up working for. On February 21st I was called by them and had my first phone interview. On February 22nd, the snow had temporarily melted, and on my way home I saw something I had been looking for since January 4th, the night of the accident. I took the following picture:

Coincidence? I don't think so. The older I get, the less I think there is such a thing as coincidence. Meaning is where it's at. And maybe it's all we've got.

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Vouchsafe Incarnadine

 Subtitles in a book are often, at best, unhelpful, and at worst, misleading. But the subtitle of Douglas Thompson's Vouchsafe Carnadine, "A Metaphysical Thriller" hits the nail on the head. Leaving the genre identity aside, I will vouch for Thompson's ability to craft believable dialogue that leads the reader to understand the depths of his well-defined characters. The three-headed protagonist of the story, Raymond Tierny, a brilliant scientist recently deceased, Maria, his lover who receives his letters in spite of his death, as if beyond the grave, and Helen Tierny, Raymond's jilted, but beautiful and brilliant wife, is . . . are . . . a sort of organism of complex connections, as one can imagine from a bizarre love triangle. 

Thompson's writing is "clean". There's no purple prose, no alliteration, no fanciness. And, though I do normally prefer some poeticism in my prose, this works out just fine. The story itself is strange enough that the clarity of writing here helps things along, allowing the reader to focus on the action and, more importantly, the philosophical implications of of the ongoing epistolary exchanges between Maria and the dead Raymond. 

At it's heart, Vouchsafe Carnadine is a love story, but an incredibly strange love story wrapped on the bones of a thriller. The heard of the story, however, has to do with the metaphysical propositions of what is possible with quantum physics. So, as I hinted at earlier, this story is anything but straightforward. But it is, after all of its emotional and investigative twists and turns, rewarding. 

Of course, the artwork is gorgeous. This is, after all, a Mount Abraxas book! Spendy? Yes. Worth it? Also yes.

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Blood and Sun: Love & Ashes

 When the opening strains of "Resurrection Charm" pummeled my ears with the same majestic brooding that evokes every folk-horror movie you've ever seen about the continuation of life beyond life and all its incumbent sacrifices (Read: Wakewood, The Wicker Man, and Robin Redbreast), I knew I needed more. Blood and Sun (aka Luke Tromiczak and a bevy of temporary musicians) are not, however, horrific. I used the term "majestic brooding" and I think that's fairly accurate. There are emotional highs and lows throughout, with wistfulness, longing, and triumph melted together like the stench of whiskey and pipe smoke in a far-off pub. This is heady stuff, at times beautiful, at times bruising, but always buoyed up from below by Tromiczak's outstanding baritone. If you're a fan of Nick Cave (as I am) or Johnny Cash (also a fan), you will find a warm, dry, dark place in these vocals. But if I were to describe the attitude, I would not say this was "folksy," but, rather, "metal" or even "punk". Not because of any iconoclastic fist-shaking toward society, but because of it's decidedly individualistic stance, feet firmly planted, fists on hips, assured, but with a core of vulnerability that will be shared with those who are considered worthy of it, and only those fellow-souls who have weathered the maelstrom of life's vicissitudes. It's the ground held between law and chaos, a firm neutrality proteced by a storm-cloud of experience. 

Besides the firm attitude, resonant vocals, and musical adeptness, one must reverence the near-sacred poetics of the work. The plaintive, yet (hopelessy?) hopeful lyrics of "By What Road," evokes an inner story that many of us, myself included, have felt deeply but been unable to express. The sense of loss and adventure in "Madrone" fill one with wanderlust, even if  (or especially because?) the path is one that is forced upon oneself. There's a sense of being carried aloft atop a storm that reveals an incredible sunset in one direction and a simultaneous sunrise in another. 

My mention of Nick Cave earlier is not an accident. Imagine Nick Cave, but instead of wearing a tailored suit on a metropolitan stage, imagine him dressed in worn tin-cloth clothing hiking through a brambles in the Carpathian mountains, and you'll get a taste of the Blood and Sun ethos. 

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The Frost Crabs of Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

 Mount Abraxas Press again astounds with a novella from the heretofore-unknown-to-me Michael Uhall, The Frost Crabs of Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, subtitled "A Novella of the Wierd". I've expressed my admiration for the selection and beauty of Mount Abraxas books (some of them having been written by yours truly) many times. I have, in one of my earliest entries ever on this blog, lauded the novella form. I've read and loved my share of books with arctic themes or set in the arctic.  And though the depth of my studies in philosophy is extremely limited (though I have read more than what I've posted about here on this blog - notably Deleuze, Kant, and the Existentialists, including Sartre), I do enjoy hovering around the edges of philosophical works. 

Here, Uhall presses all the right buttons. Like he's mashing the control board of the paragraph above. This has come as a veryvery pleasant surprise. Even the physical object is a notch above the extremely high quality of production I expect from Mount Abraxas. The cover is heavier than previous covers and with sort of a waxy finish that I absolutely love. 

But it's between the covers (or the layers of the Weltseele, as Nietzsche might say) that the magic happens. Maximillian Talcott, a Bostonian seafarer, of sorts, is ship-wrecked on tiny island and rescued by a strange submersible craft piloted by no less than the philosopher Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, who has replaced himself "back home" with a body double, an man plucked from the asylums, who has died, given the illusion of the famous philosopher's demise. At this point, I was more than a little worried that the novella would devolve into a pastiche of Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, with Nietzsche replacing Nemo. And for a few pages, this is exactly what seemed to be happening. 

Then the story . . . turned. And I wondered if Nietzsche had indeed died and the madman he spoke of was actually the man who stood before Maximillian. The book never explicitly rules this possibility out, and I thought it a brillian masterstroke, if only in my own mind. It might explain a lot, because this tale descends into madness bordering on horror, but with enough restraint that the Dionysian elements are tempered by an Apollonian restraint . . . but just barely. A "new" sun-god of a sort emerges, just as a molting crab emerges from itself. But this molting, this transormation, this growth is something much deeper than the mere physical shedding of an old form for a new one. There is an element of the numinous in all of this, which shocked and surprised me, which is something that is tough to do to this jaded reader. I am waiting to see what Uhall creates next. This is an auspicious start that shows some writerly "chops" that are to be admired. Highly recommended. But don't ever think about eating crab again. Ever. Forever.

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The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

 

The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The poet Rilke here constructs a supposed prose novel which is, in my eyes, a series of extended free-verse poems. I find myself closing the book (after revisiting a few key passages a second and third time) harboring the same feelings one has after visiting a world-class art museum for a day, say the Vienna Secession Building, the Art Institute of Chicago, or the Saint Louis Art Museum. One is amazed, nearly overwhelmed by the breadth of the work housed therein and left haunted by the lingering ringing of the brain and eyes from being assaulted by so much beauty at once. One doesn't often think of the curation of the museum: the hard work done by those behind the scenes who labor to present the work of the artists, performing a sort of sacral homage to, or even worship of, the works. Of course, the best curators do all they can to let the artwork speak for itself. They disappear, are unseen and un-lauded, but it is their presentation that lets us enjoy the works to their fullest.

I use the analogy deliberately, as Rilke here presents a series of literary/poetic "portraits" of events from the life of Malte Laurids Brigge. If you're looking for plot, you won't find much of it here. But you will find several vignettes, in no particular order, from scenes of an obsessive unrequited romance to family drama to a very well-done ghost story that set my neck hairs on end with it's sudden unexpectedness. Rilke is a curator of these beautiful, often dark scenes, but also the creator.

It is strange, then, that through Brigge (and we cannot know if the author shared the character's observations), he seems to question whether a creator is necessary at all for drama, in particular and, by implication, all art, even the work he is writing at that very moment.

All of my poems . . . originated in a diferent manner, and so they are not poems. - And when I wrote my play, what a mistake I made. Was I an imitator, and a fool, that I needed a third person to describe the fate of two people who were making things difficult for each other? How easily I fell into the trap. And I ought to have known that that third person who is present in every life and every literature, that ghost of a third who has never existed, is quite without meaning, and must be disavowed. He is one of the pretexts of Nature, who is always trying to distract humankind's prying attentions from her inmost secrets. He is the screen behind which a drama occurs. He is the noise that precedes the voiceless silence of true conflict. One has the impression that every dramatist to date has found it too dificult to speak of those two who are in fact the crux; the third, precisely because he is so unreal, is the unproblematic part of the task, and they have all been able to deal with him. From the very start of their plays, one senses their impatience to bring on this third person. They can hardly wait. Once he makes his appearance, all is well. But how tedious it is if he is late: nothing whatsoever can happen without him, everything comes to a standstil, drags, and hangs fire.

There are shades of Samuel Beckett here, a precursor, perhaps, to the disappearing narrator of his (in)famous trilogy Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnameable. But in the end, Brigge abandons the notion of abandoning creators and concludes that all that is left for him is to write.

And write he does. Beautifully. As one might expect, the words are carefully chosen, but with the "novel" form, Rilke is allowed more leeway in his choices. He is not as constricted in his word choice, not beholden to the multivalent nature of poetry. He is allowed to breathe a little, and while I am enamored of Rilke's use of words in his poetry (particularly auf Deutsch), there is something to be said for being able to ease into this work without so much cerebral demand.

That is not to say the work is easy. Far from it. The displays that Brigge (i.e., Rilke) constructs are not presented in an overall exhibition that follows any sort of discernable order. The narrative "jumps" through time and space; so much so, in fact, that many have rightfully called the novel plotless. If you've followed my reviews or blogposts, you'll already know that I don't mind and, in fact, sometimes prefer books and stories that end without clear resolution, so plotless books are merely a reverse-extension of such endings. I don't mind not having a plot, but those who do will really struggle with this work and it's "jumpiness". But if you're one to wallow in beauty and big ideas and not feel compelled to have an end toward which you are driven, you'll do just fine.

Note that the lack of plot does not mean that there is a lack of progression. On the contrary, as philosophical queries blossom from Brigge's pen and the answers beckon from afar, one can see a simultaneous growth of a man coming to grips with the inevitability of death, even as he shrinks from societal norms, eventually casting those "norms" aside altogether, at least as a philosophical exercise, flattening the supposed hierarchical distinctions between mendicant and monarch. Ultimately, Brigge becomes answerable only to (insert your favored name for God here) for his writing. But in seeking divine approval, he (and we) falls short of favor, a mimetic travesty of the great "I Am":

Outwardly, a great deal has changed. I do not know how. But within and before You, Lord, within ourselves and before You who look on, are we not without action? We do discover that we do not know our part; we look for a mirror; we should like to remove our make-up and whatever is false and be real. But somewhere a forgotten piece of our disguise still adheres to us; some trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows; we do not realize that the corners of our mouths are twisted. And thus we go about, a laughing-stock and a demi-being, with neither a real existence nor a part to play-act.

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Murder Mayhem Short Stories

 

Murder Mayhem Short Stories by Christopher P. Semtner
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This . . . behemoth was bequeathed to me by my daughter a couple of Christmases ago. After staring at its metallic cover for far too long, I finally took the plunge and began reading it eight months ago. I'm a slow reader, and I did a lot of other reading at the same time, so it's no surprise that it took me this long to get through this beast.

I was tempted to use the word "Leviathan" instead of "behemoth" above, but I co-edited Leviathan 3, so that would be confusing to say the least. After editing Leviathan 3, we had several reviewers who lazily defaulted to the age old "wisdom" that short fiction anthologies are, by their very nature, "uneven". I'll argue to my dying day that Lev 3 was anything but uneven. We loved these stories and were excited for each one of them to see publication, else they wouldn't have been included in the collection (and it wouldn't have won a World Fantasy Award, I believe).

Alas, sometimes the pundits are right. It's a rare thing when I find a short fiction anthology that doesn't have at least one disappointing story in it. Sacrum Regnum I and Sacrum Regnum II jump to mind as anthologies that are near perfect. But such gems are rare.

Murder Mayhem Short Stories is not one of those gems. But it's not terrible, either. It is, in reality, quite uneven. It does show that many stories that are considered "classics" are classics for a reason. Even after many years and many readings, they still shine. There were a few offerings here by "classic" authors that didn't appeal to me, but there are some amazing stories here, as well. On the contemporary front, however, I have to say that the level of literary worth was much, much lower, on average, than those of the "classics". It should go without saying, but I'm saying it anyway.

Here are my notes about each story. I'm sure I'll slay some sacred cows here, and some will consider my opinions dross. Those are the dangers of reviewing such an eclectic bunch of stories (although they all do center, more or less, around the theme of murder). So here are my notes (possibly slightly modified since I've had time to meditate on them and the stories):

The first story, "The Wendigo Goes Home," by Sara Dobie Bauer was, well, "meh". It's a fine story, but nothing all that original, if I'm being honest. Dialogue was fine, but characterization might have been a little stronger if the story had a little breathing room.

I think that "The Death of Halpin Fraser" is the first Ambrose Bierce story I've ever read. Though the dialogue is dated and a bit stilted, this was a solid story of madness and murder. For some reason I'm reminded of True Detective season one, though the cosmic horror here is only implied. It's a good little spooky outing, and I'd like to read more Bierce, which is a good thing because the next tale is also his.

Bierce's "The Moonlit Road" may be one of the most depressing short stories I have ever read. The clever use of a transcription from a medium gives us the ghost's perspective of events (after those of the innocent son and guilty husband are presented). The ghost's recounting is the most tragic of all. Bierce successfully subverts our expectations in an emotionally-impactful way.

Take Shakespeare's"Comedy of Errors," remove all the funny bits and replace then with tragedy, but keep all the elements of mistaken identity, and you essentially get Steen Steensen Blicher's "The Rector of Veilbye," though not half as clever as The Bard.

Michael Cebula's "Funeral" is very clearly not my kind of story. Revenge stories are not my thing, especially when the revenge is precipitated by child abuse. Just no.

At first, I thought the narrator of "Into the Blue" suffered a debilitating kind of synasthesia, but in time I figured out that Carolyn Charron was using colors for great thematic effect. A good story, only slightly too-much "on the nose," but not enough to throw the story off.

G.K. Chesterton's "Dr. Hyde, Detective, and the White Pillars Murder" might be one of the more enjoyable pieces of detective fiction I've read because it unashamedly mocks the very tropes of detective fiction in the actual dialogue between characters. The key here is subversion, and Chesterton is a master of it, flipping "the detective story" inside out, exposing all of its weaknesses; makeing a great story of it.

Wilkie Collin's "The Traveller's Story of a Terribly Strange Bed" might win the prize for weirdest title, but the story is exactly what it says it is "on the tin," so to speak. It's a little corny, but clever.

"Who Killed Zebedee?", another Wilkie Collins story, was . . . not terribly thrilling. It's a middling tale of murder with a not-very-suprising culprit.

Dickens being Dickens in his story "The Trial for Murder" slowly builds what becomes a sustained narrative about justice from the grave. The dead have much more influence than we might think on the proceedings of this life. The building dread sustains for a long time under Dicken's adept hand, but the twist of the pen at the end takes this story to the next level.

Dick Donovan, in "The Problem of Dead Wood Hall," proved decisively that an indecisive outcome is sometimes more interesting than a case that is neatly tied-up with an evidentiary ribbon. To quote Deep Purple "It's not the kill, it's the thrill of the chase". Satisfaction might be demanded, but the lack of full deliverance is a sort of deliverance itself.

James Dorr's "Mr. Happy Head" is a surreal tale of suffering, cruelty, and possession. The prose is intentionally simple and thus impactful. This is a disturbing tale that will have you reading between the lines to know exactly what horrific things are happening or have happened (it's difficult to tell which). Time and space and memory and acts slip and slide over each other, often greased by blood.

While easily predictable, th plot of Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Brazilian Cat" was satisfying. Yes, there distant rings of the Holme's stories, but that has to do with Doyle's writing style instead of anything that can be directly or indirectly associated with Sherlock. Besides, the crime scene was far too messy for the great detective to stoop to investigate this open and shut case.

Tim Foley's "Nineteen Sixty-Five Ford Falcon" is as creepy for its sales-pitchy narrator as for the story itself. An intriguing story, but not a very satisfying read.

"Mama Said" was far too simple with a telegraphed ending that did not surprise or satisfy at all. I appreciate the effort Steven Thor Gunnin put into getting inside the narrator's head, but I found it all so hackneyed. A forgettable story, sorry.

I'm still trying to figure out why Kate Heartfield's "Six Aspects of Cath Baduma" is included in this book. It's a fine high-fantasy story. Yes, it's gory and grim, but it just doesn't fit in anywhere here. Maybe the editors wanted to show "breadth" in the stories, but this is way out in left field. Still a decent story.

William Hope Hodgson's tale "The House Among the Laurels" is a short story about his famous detective Carnacki. It is an outstanding tale that keeps one on the edge of one's seat. I love this sort of "Occult Detective" narrative, complete with pentagrams, candles, and ghost-hunting equipment. I would gladly read a book full of these tales.

Another Hodgson story, "The Thing Invisible" sees Carnacki blindly searching in the dark for a ghost in a chapel and exercising his mind by way of . . . engineering?

At the beginning, I expected David M. Hoenig's "Freedom is Not Free" to turn into a Blade Runner pastiche. But Hoenig's plot twists took this in a different enough direction that it wasn't just a cyber-noir copycat. I really enjoyed this piece and it deserves to be considered on its own merits, which are high in my eyes. By the way, if you've even wonderd what the pineal gland is for . . . well, you'll see.

ETA Hoffman's "Mademoiselle de Scuderi" is, essentially, a disney princess story of a poor girl and her wrongly-accused lover escape the clutches of a well-meaning, but ruthless judge, by appeal to the king through Mademoiselle de Scuderi. It's complicated. And well written, if a little over-wrought and even more archaic than Hoffman's other stories (those I've read, at least). Still a good mystery.

Liam Hogan's "How to Build a Mass Murderer" is clever. It's got an interesting twist or two, but it didn't strike me as anything spectacular. Color me jaded.

Is Robert E. Howard's "Pigeons from Hell" a Conan story? It has a panther! And walking dead! And lots of gore! And . . . pigeons? No, it doesn't pass the Conan test, but it is a fantastic and horrific pulp read. There were some nice twists that balked at predictability. And he takes some not-so-subtle pot-shots at Lovecraft, which was funny (to me).

"The Two-Out-of-Three-Rule," by Patrick J. Hurley is a reminder that if something seems too good to be true, it is. I have to admit I hooked into this story about a bunch of roleplaying nerds pretty quickly. It was a good tale, solidly told, with some defiance of expectations. It wasn't a vampire story, which I thought at first. It's worse than that.

I could see the ending of "The Well" from ten miles away, but that still didn't spoil W.W. Jacobs' handling of a well-told tale (pun intended) that read like something straight out of a pulp-horror comic.

At first, while reading Franz Kafka's "In the Penal Colony," I thought "this may be the most boring, tedious Kafka story I've ever read". Thankfully, about 3/4ths of the way through, things got really, really interesting and increasingly horrific. The staid and true bureacracy as mental/emotional torture gave way to physical body horror, which suited me just fine.

I really enjoyed "Getting Shot in the Face Still Stings" by Michelle Ann King. It's a tale about time, persistence, and the patience of an angel. No, wait, the patience of a demon. I really enjoyed this snappy little story.

As colonial and condescending as ever, Rudyard Kipling delivers a simple tale in "The Return of Imray". A classic case of Orientalism, but still a good read.

"Shared Loss" by Gerri Leen just wasn't my kind of story. "Slight" is the word I'll use for it. Not my cup of tea.

I've read a lot of Lovecraft, including the present story, "The Hound". I know what's coming. And I know and am annoyed by how Lovecraft contradicts himself in the same text. But there's just something about his writing that "rings," that isn't apparent on the page. The writing no longer amazes me as it did when I was young, but it still "rings".

I have a soft (and invisible and squishy) spot for Lovecraft's "From Beyond". Bizarre as it is, and despite the mad ravings of Tillinghast (nice name, by the way), Lovecraft shows more restraint here than in other stories, and I think the story is stronger because of it.

K.A. Mielke's "Drive Safe" is just short of predictable. It's an okay story, but is kind of buried in the immensity of this collection. Maybe this book is too big for it's britches?

Edith Nesbit's "In the Dark" is chilling, a somber tale. Nesbit sets the tale up wonderfully with the opening paragraph (too long to share in this update). It's an entrancing riddle that unfolds in such a way that one is still left puzzled at the end. An aickmanesque story of the highest calendar, and I can't give any praise greater than that.

The other day, my son asked "dad, what's the word for when someone walls another person up to kill them? 'Immurementing'?"

My answer, which he knew I was going to say: "Amontilladoing". We both had a good laugh at Fortunato's expense. Of course, Poe's story, a classic, gets five stars (and a lot of bricks).

Arthu B. Reeve's "The Azure Ring" combines all the disciplines of chemistry, ethnography, capitalism, law, and detective work into one fabulously boring story.

Daydream? Ghost story? Liminal magic realism? It doesn't matter. "Recreation with the Paralytics" is a numinous tale, in any case. It will lull you into its own sacral reality, chestnuts, wheelchairs, and all.

As I began to catch the cadence of Alexandra Camille Renwick's "Redux" I thought "okay, I can tell where this is going". And I could. Clearly. Thing is, it was a tight story, so there's that.

A suicidal skin walker? Yep, that's what we have in Fred Senes's "The First Seven Deaths of Mildred Orly". Not bad. Not great.

Robert Louis Stevenson's archaic gait in "Markheim" is clunky, to say the least. This I a tale that shows its age, as well. But the internal psychology profile of a murderer is well-realized and enough to make the reader squirm in the seat a bit.

Bram Stoker feeds the fuel for Edward Gorey in later years with his harrowing, yet somehow hilarious (to me, at least) "The Dualitists". I cringed, then laughed out loud. Am I a bad person for finding such a shock of egregious violence outrageously funny? Probably. I'll save you a seat in Hell.

Contrary to the excellent story preceding it in this collection, I just could not get into Stoker's "The Burial of the Rats". It probably "just me," but I never felt fully engaged with the story.

"Mister Ted" by Donald Jacob Uivlugt uses a tried and trite trope: the evil toy that commits murder. It's an old tale, gone thin by this time in western cultural history. But Uivlugt does a nice job of exploring the evolution of the protagonist's not-nice psychology.

Ethel Lina White's "Cheese" is a high watermark of neo-noir (in attitude, if not in the trappings). From beginning to end, it is sharp and powerful, twisting expectations and pulling the reader into its trap. It's a brilliant piece of fiction. Five stars. One of the best stories in this collection.

Sardonic, with a touch of grim humor, "Corpses Removed, No Questions Asked," by Dean H. Wild just didn't do it for me. Just not my thing.

Etiquette, murder, and the upending of propriety. What else would one expect from Oscar Wilde. Unsuccessful murder is the (dis)order of the day in "Lord Arthur Savile's Crime: A Study of Duty". As usual, Wilde mocks the stubbornness of the aristocracy in this grim comedy of manners that makes its point without being too blatant.

I'll admit that I rolled my eyes ten paragraphs in to "Fragments of Me". I thought "trite" and "hackneyed", which might be true. But Nemma Wollenfang does such an excellent job of tying out the emotional impact of Multiple Personality Disorder, that I ended the story truly impressed.

Tallying up everything, I count ten stories I put at "5 stars". That's a good bunch. I also have four "1 stars". You can probably see where this is heading: The average was, as you no-doubt guessed, 3 stars. I will say that the high points were high points. But the notion of short story anthologies being, on average . . . well, average, holds in this case.

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Blood and Pomagranates

 I have the privilege, once again, of having been published by the unstoppable Mount Abraxas Press. This time, I present toyou Blood and Pomegranates, a novella of the fantastic, wrapped up in luxury, as is usual from Mount Abraxas. Like all MA books, this is a limited edition, and I'm not sure how many are left, but you can find out by emailing the publisher direct at exoccidente@gmail.com. Usually, Ziesing's Books carries copies, but I don't see any there at the moment, unfortunately. 

Blood and Pomegranates is the tale of conjoined twins who carry the brunt of a family curse levied generations ago. After a journey into the bowels of the Earth beneath Renaissance Brindisi, Italy and an audience with The Five-Headed Emperor and his angelic eremitic herald, the twins, one a beautiful imbecile, the other a deformed genius, become enmeshed in matters criminal and arcane.

Here are some photos of the artifact itself:

And with that little bit done, it's high time I returned quill to paper! More to come, I'm sure!

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Heilung Ritual at Riverside Theater, Milwaukee, WI 20 April 2024

 I love music. Particularly live music. I'm not rich, so I have to be choosy about what shows I go to see. I do, however, have some bands on my "must see a live show before I die" list. These are, currently:

Sunn O)))

Om

Heilung

Bohren und der Club of Gore

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Well, now I can scratch one off that bucket list. On April 20th, I drove to Milwaukee, all on my lonesome, to see Heilung live. As soon as I saw that they were going to be playing Milwaukee, I assessed my finances and sprang for tickets. 

Let me start by saying that Heilung does not perform concerts. They hold rituals. You'll see this clearly in the video below (which I did not record - my point of view would have been about ten rows back from the stage - which I thought was a great spot to be able to see the whole show from, honestly). It all began as a classic "opening the circle" ritual, but with a strong emphasis on man's interface with nature (listen to the prayer): 

I did get this snapshot of the opening of the ritual, but I was too enmeshed in the ritual to take videos. This was an immersive event. Some of the howling and yelling you hear are me! 

As you might imagine, this "show" was trance-inducing and more participatory than any other show I've been to. And that isn't because the band was trying to get people to participate ("Scream for me, Cleveland!"). On the contrary, Heilung doesn't have to elicit anything from fans. We were all participants. Here are dome of the photos I took:

A couple "closer up" pictures of two of the main leaders of the ritual, Kai Uwe Faust and Maria Franz.

More shots of the ritual. You'll note that this show was not for children (and I didn't see any younglings at the show). Though the spear-women were, um, painted, they did not have tops on. Given that this was to reflect a bronze-age viking/germanic ethos, this makes total sense. But, fair warning, don't bring your younger children to a Heilung ritual! And if you're offended by such, stay away.

 

I am singling this picture out because it epitomizes just how beautiful a Heilung ritual can be. I passed up dozens of opportunities for beautiful shots like this because, as I have already said, I was "all in" on the ritual and the music and only allowed myself to snap a photo when something shocked me into a need to capture the moment. This was one of those moments.

These are the last two pictures I took, the second one being that of Kai drumming on a shield with a lit torch. This ushered in the closing of the ritual, which was a dionysian free-for-all with a din of screamingand howling, fire lighting up the night, bursting through the darkness, and body-surfing spearmen carried aloft by the crowd like heroes! 

On a personal note, when I bought the tickets, I did not know that two days after the ritual, I would be giving my two weeks notice at my then-current job. Given the circumstances that pushed me to leave that job for another, which I will explain elsewhere (but involve, at it's heart, a deer), this is a stunning convergence to me. In many ways, this event was a ritual that was, in part, for me, and gave me courage going into that uncomfortable conversation wherein I gave my notice. Am I finding meaning where it's not there? You decide for yourself. I know what I know and I feel what I feel. This was the closing to a chapter of my life that I am glad to leave behind. Thank you, Heilung, for providing the bridge between two worlds.

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