Protection & Property: Apotropaic Markings on Rural Andorran Buildings

 

Protection & Property: Apotropaic Markings on Rural Andorran Buildings by Martin Locker
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Why, you might ask, would I read this book; a dry, academic monograph about carved markings on doors in rural Andorra? Well, because, reasons:

1. I love Martin Locker's fiction and I admire his brain, so I thought, why not?
2. My adopted ancestry (my father was adopted by a Basque immigrant married to a Swedish immigrant) is from the Pyrenees Mountains, straight west of Andorra.
3. I minored in historical archaeology as an undergrad, so I have some intellectual interest in the field. I *almost* went to graduate school for historical archaeology, but instead opted for African history.
4. I love supporting small presses.
5. Martin is a penpal of mine. So, forget about objectivity - alright, I'll try my best.

As one would expect with an archaeological monograph, this is not edge-of-the-seat reading. However, as a writer, it did spur some ideas that I've noted and will likely use or integrate into my fiction, as occasion arises. But outside of its utility, it's the principal of the thing that drives me.

I just recently celebrated a birthday. I am no longer young, though I don't really feel all that old, either. I suppose over five and a half decades treading on this planet qualifies one for "middle" age, maybe a shade over that. I am, however, "old skool". Yes, I can do technology - I use it all the time in my work, even including using AI to do some of the dirty work for me (crunching numbers, creating graphs, and collating results, for example - I'm a procurement manager for the North American division of a very large German company, if you must know). But in my personal life, on my own time, I have made a concerted effort to digitally minimize, simplify, and go analog whenever possible.

Part of that is nostalgia, I admit. I was a child of the '80s, so the internet and smart phones came about when I was an adult. Now, pardon me for sounding like an old man when I say I miss the simplicity of those days. "Things" were slower and less complex (whatever you think about the Large Hadron Collider shutdown. Less convenient, for sure, but us Gen-Xr's kind of pride ourselves on having done hard things and suffering some character-building cuts and bruises along the way.

What does this have to do with Locker's book? One thing: This book is a record of the last gasps of a dying life, that of rural peoples living in the mountains carving pentagrams and crosses, stars and flowers, into their doors and nailing Izard feet and eagle skulls to their entrances in order to avoid curses, witches, and otherwordly entities. Call it folk magic or superstition or what have you, there's something totally metal about having a pentagram carved in your door with an eagle skull nailed underneath it, I don't care how old you are!

So, after a long cataloging of some frankly boring stuff, the concluding chapter lays it all out: this is a record of a world that will quickly be lost as people replace old doors (some possibly dating back centuries) with new, modern doors. It's a snapshot of cultural time. And the older I get, the more valuable I find these things.

Indulge me and let me share an example. Back in the '80s, of course we had video game arcades. Yes, some of us had an Atari 2600 at home (who can forget Pitfall?), but for most, going to the arcade was the place to not only play a wide variety of games, but to meet friends and . . . deal drugs?

Yep. A lot of them. Dime bag for a roll of quarters, and everyone knew about it. You could tell who had something to sell because they were walking around with pockets absolutely full of rolls of quarters, I kid you not. There was an entire underground economy. Yeah, that dude doing edibles while playing on his Switch - his grandfather was doing that a loooong time ago. And when I tell people who didn't live in the 80s about that, they are, to a man (or woman), surprised. Those of us who hung out at the arcades and were a part of that economy? We know how it worked. And it worked. There was a brisk trade that kept both video arcades and dope dealers working. A closed-loop economy right under everyone's noses. I wish someone would do their PhD thesis in sociology and economics on the subject. Fascinating stuff and I saw it with my own two eyes. Heck, I was a participant. I do find it funny that the beginning of the War on Drugs (thanks, Nancy Reagan) and the end of the video arcade (deferring to home consoles) coincided so strongly. Correlation isn't causation, I get that, but what a strange tangling of timelines.

Fifty years from now, no one is going to know this fact, this thing that was such a part of many teenager's lives in the early- to mid-80s. Worth knowing? Maybe not. But that piece of cultural history will be lost in obscurity, overshadowed by the Cold War, Reaganomics, New Wave Music, Cabbage Patch Kids, and Princess Di.

At least Locker gives us something worthy of deeper study. This is the handbook for this historic-archaeological micro-niche. And that's something worth preserving.

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The Eigengrau Oracle Deck

 Eigengrau n. The dark grey color seen by the eyes in perfect darkness as a result of signals from the optic nerves.

I just received my most recent spontaneous did-not-plan-on-buying-anything-at-all purchase, the Eigengrau Oracle Deck. Whether for Art or for Working, you can't go wrong. This is a beautiful artifact.

You can pick up a copy here. Recommended.

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Daughters of Apostasy

 

Daughters of Apostasy by Damian Murphy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I don't think of myself as a fan of Damian's work, so much as a devotee. There is something of the sublime that frequently speaks to me from the pages penned by him. Reading Damian's work is not so much a "mystical" experience as a "preparatory" experience, a view of an initiation from afar, full of anticipation. I often ask myself when I read his work "when am I going to become a part of the story, or when is the story going to become a part of me".

Revelatory experiences aside, one must (absolutely must) admire the craft of his work. There is an obvious love of the subject matter, setting, characters, and strange circumstances that the characters often find themselves in. One can almost feel the author feeling his own way through the labyrinthine maze hidden carefully away in his citadel of thoughts. But, reader beware, you are walking alongside a trickster and a thief whose sleight of hand can leave you dazzled by illusion or, even worse, your own delusions.

But you need not fear demons (outside of your inner fiends). You are safe, as you read, even as his characters sometimes are not. You have the luxury, particularly in the present volume, of simple elegance to see you through. I'm referring, of course, to the restrained (yet seemingly decadent, especially for such an inexpensive hardcover limited-edition) eloquence of presentation that Snuggly Books seems particularly skilled at. A salmon-colored cover (at least I believe so - I have hue blindness to some extent, so maybe I'm just seeing it as such) with a simple illustration of three women (two nude, one a spectral figure) on the front by none other than Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec seems hauntingly appropriate for the stories in Daughters of Apostasy, whose main protagonists are women. And what a variety of characters!

As usual, Murphy's vision here is a series of inner visions of cosmic consequence. Trespass becomes initiation into an imaginary city hidden in the bones of the physical world in "The Scourge and the Sanctuary". Christopher Wren collides with Huysman's, but Murphy's work is all and none of these. The key is in the story itself:

The fictions we partake of, as with the fictions we create, bear consequences for each of us that lie beyond the understanding and control even of their authors.

An ever-changing labyrinth of a hotel, spurred in its metamorphoses by seekers of gnosis, is both setting and character in "Permutations of the Citadel". It's a lavish tale full of mystery and misdirection, a lair for tricksters, initiates, and those seeking the other side of the mirror. Add a little playful devilishness and you have what Wes Anderson might be if he was to ever take his subject matter seriously.

"The Salamander Angel" is a journey of several pilgrims into and out of regions beyond the veil of this world. There's a kind of Hegelian dialectic of the divine and the blasphemous, a looping together of heaven and hell through the travels, intentional and accidental, of oneironauts, occultists, and tricksters. The (anti?)heroes charge and stumble their way through "above" and "below" in their epic quests. This is an extremely powerful tale. Handle with care.

"The Book of Alabaster" is a somewhat surprisingly-emotive story that starts by pulling the nostalgia strings (at least for this teen of the '80s) before winding its way into an enfolded reality of simulation. What is reality and, as important, when? Most important of all: the mystery of The Programmers remains, or, as one of my favorite obscure songs from the '80s asks "Who are the unwatched men"?

Oftentimes, the "previously unpublished" story in a collection is the weakest. This is clearly not the case here. If you desire to sup at the table of "The Music of Exile," you'll need to pay for entry; make a sacrifice. The price is well worth it, that I can guarantee. But be prepared to discover what is hidden and then to hide what is discovered. This the initiated know.

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Ossuary of Dreams: Twenty-Five Tales of German Horror and Weird Fiction

 

Ossuary of Dreams: Twenty-Five Tales of German Horror and Weird Fiction by Robert Grains
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

My kids are great. They're all adults now, so to call them "kids" feels a little disingenuous. But my kids are great (and my wife and grandkids, too, I must add).

"So why," you are likely asking yourself "are you leading off a review of a collection of weird horror fiction with 'My kids are great'."? Well, here's the deal. At around Christmas time, I do a bunch of massaging to my Amazon wishlist. Before you go ballistic, I try to order my books direct from publishers or, even better, directly from authors, so get off your high-horse for a second. I keep that Amazon wishlist to help my kids with Christmas shopping for dear old dad. One of the biggest issues with this is a recency-bias. If I see something new and shiny and it's getting near Christmas, I add it to my wishlist.

Such was the case with Ossuary of Dreams. I don't remember why I added it to my list last minute, but I did. Maybe it was the cool title or the even cooler font on the cover (no seriously, I live that font), or maybe I read a review about it that impressed me . . . I don't know. But, added it, I did.

So, this might be a sort of apologia to my daughter, who bought me the book. Kiddo, I really do appreciate the gift. It means a lot to me . . .

But I gotta give this one two stars.

The collection had its high points.

I found "A Walk in the Morning" to be a highly effective story.

There are echoes of Dhalgren in Grains hurtling-toward-the-collapse story "Our City at Night," but with a strong injection of occult forces. Here, I found that I prefer Grains at longer word counts. It gives his voice needed breathing space and makes the flourishes more emphatic and impactful.

I rather liked the unfolding-apocalypse (with a dream-time glimpse into the pyrrhic acknowledgment of respect to the lone survivor, imparted by the new God of this world) portrayed in "The Golden Age". I, for one, embrace the arrival of our robot overlords. This was an effective story, paced perfectly, with an air of reverent restraint that fit the tale to a tee. Well-played, not-quite-terminator.

"The Portraits of the Baron," the second-longest work in this collection, was, admittedly, very enjoyable. I loved the deep dives of esotericism here and the ending, while predictable, was satisfactory and held an ironic twist. This is the strongest work in the book.

"Metamorphosis" is an apocalyptic horror story somewhere between Clark Ashton Smith and China Mieville, wherein the narrator embraces the inevitability of change on the cosmic level, accepting fate with a philosophically stoic attitude that masks the shock of an undeserved fate of extreme horror.

So, there was something to like the collection. But, as Stepan Chapman used to say, there's also "something for everyone to hate".

I didn't hate most of the other stories. They ranged from "meh" to "I want to lem this book," but few of them went to the extreme of me wanting to do physical harm to the actual object. I reserve most of that hatred for one book in particular, which I'd like to see burned off the face of literary history. So, I didn't hate any of them that much. But there were some in there that I just kind of wanted to punch in the mouth.

I think that there are two fundamental problems, for me, with the work. First, the absolute fascination, nay, worship of overwrought and just plain faulty description drove me batty.

For example:

. . . a rumbling like from a squadron of unleashed poltergeists in the entablature.

This phrase has so many problems, I can't even begin to enumerate them. Well, maybe I can, but I really don't want to. Suffice it to say that I have more questions than answers about what is happening here.

Unfortunately, this was not an isolated incident.

Secondly, the overuse and downright abuse of adverbs had my inner editor clawing at my innards the whole way through. I honestly wanted to scream at times. Instead, I sighed heavily (I wince at having used an adverb here - is there no escape?!?) so I wouldn't wake up my wife. the "ly" ending now makes me twitch whenever I see it, like an abused puppy. It's going to take a while before I can see it without twitching.

Finally, I think that while the translation is mostly very good, you can also tell, in places, that it is a translation. I speak conversational German, and I know how convoluted German sentences can get. I don't envy anyone translating such a work of purple prose from German to English. The effort was good, but it is inevitable that there are some hiccups, and given the often awkward phraseology, they really show.

Had this been my first weird fiction rodeo, and had I read this, say, thirty years ago, I might have felt differently. But I can't, in good conscience, say anything beyond "it was ok," hence the two stars.

As always, your mileage may vary.

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Lost Estates

 

Lost Estates by Mark Valentine
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I'm not shy about my opinion of Mark Valentine as one of the best writers of strange tales penning today. Or maybe he's "quilling," yes, that seems more like his protagonists, most of them people who you can't help but like, from the book collector of "Worse Things Than Serpents" to the four quirky mystics of "The Readers of the Sands" to the curious amateur historian of "The Fifth Moon," his protagonists are just so darned likeable. I think this intensifies their rather strange encounters (some of them downright horrific). I'd like to think that they reflect aspects of the author's personality, but you know where that gets us when assessing fiction. And, having never met him, I can't say if these are projections of his inner life or not, but if not, he does have a convincing way or portraying people, like myself, whose curiosity can get them in a bit of trouble, innocent as they may be. And perhaps that's why their various discoveries and predicaments carry such a sense of immediacy. I could easily see myself, or people I know, blissfully blundering into situations with the beyond that they can barely comprehend, let alone deal with in any kind of meaningful way. These are not stories of highly-competent detectives who flippantly "figure it all out". If you want that, I'd point you to Valentine and Howard's excellent The Collected Connoisseur or his Herald of the Hidden . No, these are not the same as the highly-competent Connoisseur or Ralph Tyler, these are rather ordinary people with strange interests thrust into extraordinary circumstances. And I am all for it. My notes for each story (with some post-note-taking embellishment as always) are here presented:

"A Chess Game at Michaelmas" is classic Mark Valentine, but with an air of folk magic, like sage hanging heavy in the air, a consecration to a sort of tale that Valentine has avoided, or at least minimized, in the past. It's a new "look," but with the same rigor and steady hand that Valentine practices so well. The horrific element is quick, a flash in the pan, but it turns the tale completely, capturing the reader.

Valentine is a connoisseur (note the lack of capital leading letter - see above) of rare and strange books, and "Worse Things Than Serpents" has this avocation on clear display. The wandering narrator enters a bookstore called "Brazen Serpent Books" wherein he finds a rare book, not a grimoire or antique tome, but a book that piques his interest. His presence at the bookshop, in turn, piques the interest of something else. Something he doesn't want to take an interest in him. No one would . . .

How to place my finger on "Fortunes Told: Fresh Samphire"? I can't do it. I'm reminded of a recent substack post by Matt Cardin about the need for mystery in writing. I told him he's gonna love this Robert Aickman guy I heard about. This story is much the same. A mystery. But not a mystery to be solved, a mystery to be savored. Let the prose poetry wash over you and wander for awhile. But don't get lost along the way.

As I read "The House of Flame," I kept thinking "this sounds like it was almost lifted directly from Machen's Hill of Dreams," only to find that the story was written for a volume in homage to Arthur Machen. I have to admire that it even matched Machen stylistically; no easy feat. But then I ask, for the first time ever, "did Valentine do anything new here"? Maybe not. But to be blunt, I don't care. This is still a worthy and well-crafted tale, and maybe it will lead others down the Machen road.

"The Seventh Card," like its protagonist, ambles along at a slow pace, languidly moving, then melding with a soft sense of the strange, not sudden or harsh, but gently enveloping him (and us) into a softly spoken, but inevitably odd new reality.

I'm not fond of the title "And Maybe the Parakeet Was Correct," but I am quite fond of the story. A side-passage into sports journalism leads to a side-passage into a sport that has no heroes, only villains. The stakes here might be much higher than your standard football match and there is no willing audience and no cheering. On the contrary, no one wants to be a part of this match, though some must. If you've ever walked down the wrong alley in the wrong neighborhood - and I have done this many times in my travels - you'll relate to the awkwardness and dull sense of background dread in this story.

"Laughter Ever After" strikes a hopeful tone for a book collector's story. And it's set in Biggleswade, not far from where I lived in England. It's on the dull side, but that's kind of the whole point of the story.

"The Readers of the Sands" is a strange, yet subtle tale, the sort of story that balances in a razor, but never falls one way or another. It is a quiet tale of four individuals, each with an affinity for sand, each with their own insights and talents, all of them distantly cognizant of something Other in the shifting patterns, something sentient and, perhaps, inimical to them, individually and collectively. I think this story, surprisingly, has stuck in my head the most out of all of the stories in this volume. It was one of the least horrific of the stories, or perhaps one of the more "triumphant" stories, but this contrasts rather sharply with the strange ouvre of the tale, a sort of, well, shifting, slithering something that underlies . . . well, everything. Maybe it's the ontological questions that arise long after the story is read that have captured my lingering attention. I shall have to go read it again and again, as there's something expansive beyond just the events portrayed here. Something . . . I don't know . . . just . . . more.

What starts as a dry, treatise on pub signs and their origins slips from the academic to the folksy to the downright hallucinatory. This is a path that Valentine sometimes embarks on, but doesn't always finish the journey. Here, I am glad to say, we are plunged into phantasmagoric visions that might drive the bookish seeker after fact and data completely over the edge of madness. I was happy to dive off that cliff and swim in strange waters.

I suppose every short fiction collection has one - that previously-unpublished piece with an amazing title and mysterious premise that just doesn't quite connect with the reader. "Lost Estates" was that for me. A "minor piece" as the literati say. It just didn't jive with the rest of the collection, which is strange, given the story is about the creation of music, at it's heart, maybe even ironic, if unintended.

The next tale, "The End of Alpha Street," has the signature marks of Valentines work that I so love: a warmth of character, a hint of witty humor, a fascination with the outre and the neglected sides of life, and a mystery left mysterious. The story is eerie and yet so human; the juxtaposition pulling the reader in, even while alarms are going off in your head. But is there really need to be alarmed? Maybe.

Take "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad" and add ten layers of sinister intent. James was just scratching the surface, but Valentine goes all in, even if his protagonist is incredulous. If you think King John wasn't evil, your naivete won't save you. This is folk horror taken to the next level by Valentine's deft hand. A nod to James, but a story that is completely Valentine; well, outside of a sprinkling of The Bard's work. Five stars for "The Fifth Moon"!

I can't end without mentioning the absolutely beautiful presentation here. The dust jacket is, obviously, striking, but strip that thing off for a minute and just admire the even-more-striking hardcover. The aesthetic of this book is complex in its simplicity. Swan River keeps producing elegant hardcovers in limited editions that one must keep one's eye on, lest they sell out and you are left with a gaping hole on your bookshelf that could have been filled with a true gem. I've regretted missing more than one Swan River title, and I plan on snatching them up more often. If you're on the fence, splurge!

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A Token Derangement of the Senses

 

A Token Derangement of the Senses by Damian Murphy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I never ceased to be amazed by the way I feel when I read Damian Murphy's writings. The settings change, the circumstances of exploration and discovery (always a theme) change, the characters change, yet there is always a specific feeling to a Damian Murphy story. That feeling is indescribable, incommunicable, if you will. And even if I could communicate it, I don't think I'd want to. It's a resonance that must be, by its nature, within me and no one else. But I hope that other readers can feel their own resonance with his work. I sense that many do.

A Token Derangement of the Senses, unlike just about everything I've read by Murphy, takes place in the midst of war, and is told by one of the soldiers. Yes, soldiers, or at least those who appear to have served in the military at one point or another, can be found in other works. But this is the first I've read that takes place on the field of battle . . . but it's a strange battle, one you would not expect, where the enemies are not so obvious (though they are caught in the throes of The Great War), and the front line is less a line and more of a liminal zone between ordered civilization and the chaos of destruction. It is a place of secrets and subliminal communications, where some spaces are permanently sealed off from the rest of the world and one is unable to enter by mundane means. Much is, in a word, Mystery. And it's weaving between these hidden places, these occulted structures, that I find that feeling described earlier. You must journey there yourself to find your feeling, your resonance.

This volume also contains "Wittgenstein," a short piece, also set in a time of war, penned by Alcebiades Diniz Miguel, the man and motor behind Raphus Press. It is of a more philosophical than magical bent, contrasting the high-mindedness of intellectual knowledge against the blood-and-mud reality of combat experience and its aftermath.

The book itself is, as with many Raphus Press books, dignified, with a whiff of fine art; solid, refined; correct to its contents, but elevated out of the trenches, despite its subject matter.

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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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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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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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The Hellebore Guide to Occult Britain

 

The Hellebore Guide to Occult Britain by Maria J. Pérez Cuervo
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Next time I'm in the UK, this book is coming with. The unstoppable crew at Hellebore have created a mostly (though not completely) comprehensive guide to magical places in teh British Isles. Sections are divided geographically, so you can pull this Baedeker of the bizzare wherever the ley lines have taken you and have a Virgil to your Dante.

The book itself is a handy size and seems well-constructed, which you'll want if you're taking it with you. Most of the place entries have a postal code listed, so if you can interpret that (or ask a local postmaster), you'll be good to go. Entries range from megalithic tombs to occult bookstores to locales tied to famous practitioners of magic (though one should take any location related to Aleister Crowley as questionable because, you know, Crowley).

Now, I have two slight complaints. First, and this one is small . . . too small . . . the print is too small! This is the case especially in some longer, colored text blocks. Pardon the old guy with eyes that are going bad who are interested in this subject matter. There are thousands of us, I'm sure. Might want to consider bumping those fonts up a point and doing a slightly longer book.

Earlier, I said that this book was mostly comprehensive. Of course, not everything can be covered in an almanac such as this, but I noted two glaring ommissions of which I am personally very aware. I won't go over details in this review, but if you read my blog post on The Priory at RAF Chicksands and The Devils Quoits, you'll see exactly what I mean. The weird thing is that Clophill Church, which I mention in my blog post, and which is DIRECTLY tied to the Chicksands Priory (albeit by an undergroudn tunnel - I kid you not; I've been in that tunnel myself) is mentioned, while the priory is not. I don't get it. The very reason that people went to Clophill Church to put up satanic graffitti and sacrifice animals was because the church was physically tied to the alegedly haunted priory. So why no Chicksands Priory? It's not about accessibility. You can arrange a tour of the Priory with the non-profit that cares for it. I don't get the ommission.

I won't spend much time on the other one, The Devil's Quoits, in Oxfordshire. Sure, it's hard to find (my wife and I got lost looking for it at first), but it's a beautiful megalithic structure that has been researched rather well. maybe it's because the archaeological dig that revealed the full scale of the Quoits was only done in 1945, so it doesn't have the old magical associations that, say, the Rollright Stones do? Again, I don't fully understand.

Perhaps one can slip index cards in with one's own entries where the Hellebore guide is missing them?

Still, it is enough. Not complete, but enough. If you are lucky enough to live in the UK, you really should buy a copy. And if you're visiting and looking for the magic of the isles, you definitely need to take this with you to read on the plane flight over. It's a long flight, trust me. Be prepared.



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The Tome of Ravass Bhavatan

Once again, Mount Abraxas press churns out an amazing set of booklets, this time in the series The Old Ways Remain. These are a similar format to The Doomed House of Abraxas series, one of which I penned myself. These are short, very-limited editions of weird/dark/doom-laden stories by various authors, printed on heavy cardstock and illustrated with some of the best dark artwork out there. This one is illustrated by Vhan.

The Tome of Ravass Bhavatan is an existentialist occult work by Christian Riley. Riley's work is new to me, and a pleasant surprise. I find his prose . . . let's call it "Indigo". It's not quite purple, but it's on the far end of the spectrum from bland. There's a reverent, telestial quality to the writing which takes a second to shift into, but once you're in, you're in. In tone, it's highly redolent of the French decadents. 

The story itself focuses on the discovery (and repeated rediscovery) of the titular Tome. It's a dark academic's dream, the find of a lifetime, and one that promises previously obfuscated secrets that have been hidden for centuries. The strange and twisted history of the book is presented when Harold, the protagonist, discovers a copy of the exceedingly rare work in a place he never expected to find it. As the story goes on, one wonders if he found the book, or the book found him? We see his immersion in the work and its workings in a clever literary trick that results in . . . well, a trick. The sort of trick that a god of mischief and chaos might play. It's a wonderful ending that subverts previous dominant narratives, leaving the reader a bit of a sting, but a sting worth taking.

 

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The Ring of Truth

 Fiddler's Green Peculiar Parish Magazine has been producing a wonderfully elegant, downright enchanting series of zines, of which The Ring of Truth is the most recent. 

Yes, this "zine" is not your common photostatted punk zine. Far from it, in fact. This really is a piece of art - and it is beautifully illustrated by Alice Cao's fine linework. 

The text itself is composed of a wistful literary reminiscence, extremely well-written, about Marsh's first childhood brush with the magic world and his later (succesful) attempt to invoke a window to that world by means of a magic circle. Following this is a practical guide to creating a sacred space AKA a magic circle (which really need not be a physical space at all). A "Further Reading" section provides a brief, but focused bibliography on the subject matter at hand.

Saying much more than this would spoil your enjoyment of the book and some of the little discoveries to be made therein. The magic is there, but you need to find it yourself. I suggest drinking some Ginger Beer out of one of Trevor Foster's wonderful skull mugs as the perfect, almost magical, complement.

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The Book of Antitheses

 

The Book of Antitheses by Jobe Bittman
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Massive trigger warning: If the practice of magic, extreme violence, and/or strong sexual themes offend you, skip this review and never, ever read this book. Now that that's out of the way . . .

Lamentations of the Flame Princess again presents one of the more obscene and transgressive roleplaying game works out there. Say what you will about LotFP, they have a brand identity, and they unapologitically stick with it. This is not a book for children or the easily offended - not. at. all. If you're looking Saturday morning cartoon Dungeons and Dragons, this ain't it. Now, I'm guessing that if you read this far, you are not easily offended. But you might be a child. After all, I started playing D&D when I was 9 years old . . . a long time ago. As a preteen and early teen, I was enamored of the game. And, yes, it did introduce me to some . . . alternative ways of thinking/viewing/believing. And, yes, the bare-chested illustrations of the harpy, sphinx, and others were *ahem* attractive to this young man and, I'm guessing, just about every other young man out there.

So, while the Satanic Panic was overblown, there were some elements of truth to it. The original D&D game was filled with Devils and Demons (sanitized into "Tanar'ri" and "Baatezu" in some later editions) and there were, occasionally, straight-up occult elements in the game (c.f. the booklet of monsters and magic items module S4: The Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth - which is, incidentally, my favorite module of all time).

In The Book of Antitheses, Jobe (yes, I know him - more on that later) fully embraces something that I've realized in my later years - the ritual nature of roleplaying games. Whether you believe in magic or not, you must admit that playing RPGs is highly ritualized. Gaming groups typically meet at a set time and place (even if said place is virtual), surround a table (again, sometimes virtual) and delve into a realm of imagination, fate, and, (dare I say it?) faith. We create alternate personas, much like an initiate into magic arts, we oftentimes concentrate to a state of near-meditation, we use dice as divinatory or soothsaying tools and bind our characters (a piece of ourselves?) to the results. Often, we laugh and joke, which seems to contradict my argument until one notes that magical practice, by and large, is ended by "banishing" the ritual space so that the things summoned there don't creep into everyday life. Magicians engage with the demons, get what they want (or not), and banish the entities at the end of the ritual.

A few years back, these commonalities struck me quite profoundly. If I recall correctly, this thundering revelation took place in 2019. I was so struck by the thought that I immediately contacted several people who were gamers and who had a deep understanding of magic and the occult and set up an improptu online meeting. Two of the people who came into the discussion (I think there were seven of us total?) were Jobe Bittman and the person who would later write the profoundly-insightful foreword to this book, JF Martel (who is the co-host of my favorite podcast, Weird Studies). In fact, I like to think that I facilitated Jobe getting in contact with JF and having him write the foreword. Then again, maybe I am deceived by some whimsical spirit.

I also sat at the gaming table with Jobe at Garycon one year and played through a game he ran. Well, partially, I had to leave about halfway through, unfortunately. He began the session by letting those at the table know that they would be participating in a ritual exercise and that any who wished to not participate should leave. He then rang a clarion, a singing bowl, and effectively invoked and opening to the session. We then played an RPG with Jobe randomly determining how encounters would go, not by rolling dice and consulting tables (the "normal" way one would), but by casting a number of small objects ("charms," if you will) and "reading" the results to determine what would happen during the encounter we were involved with by examining the relation of the objects (each of which represented different persons or elements) to (or against!) each other. These seemingly strange methodologies really helped immerse us into the game and the imaginal plane (though he would argue that this "imaginal" plane was an actual real place, though it is only visible in our minds). We felt that we were a part of something, much as one normally does while playing an RPG, but more intensely, in this case. We had more "buy in," all-in-all.

And this is one of the techniques that is outlined in The Book of Antitheses, a step-by-step guide to gaming-as-ritual. Jobe claims that the book is a real book in a real place as real as the book you hold in your hand. In fact, one of the adventure threads involves characters seeking and finding The Book of Antitheses, which is, in reality . . . well, The Book of Antitheses!

Several other techniques are outlined here, as well. The thrust of all of these is this: When running a roleplaying game, don't use pre-existing structure as a crutch. Toss aside those adventures that have a numbered encounter that shows exactly what is "in the room". Let fate decide for you! You'll never have to prep again, so long as you have a good grasp of setting, non-player character personalities and motivations, and "resonances".

This last piece is important. A resonance can be anything from a rumor to an event. The gamemaster should have several one- or two-sentence descriptions of possible or even probable encounters for a given area. This doesn't mean the old "wandering monster chart," though monsters can be a part of the lists. It is important that these lists are NOT numbered, like the wandering monster charts of yore. The gamemaster needs to decide which element presents itself to the party based on intuition and, potentially, casting the charms as outlined above. The presentation is much less proscriptive than say, rolling a "4" on the chart which gives "1d6 ogres," which sometimes gets ridiculous, even when such charts are tailored to the environment in which the encounter takes place. Resonances are much more loose and free than this, allowing the gamemaster to divine which of the potential events, rumors, interactions, etc., will happen at any given time. it's a much more nuanced approach than the old tables.

The last half of the book is composed of an "adventure," though I hesitate to use that term. There are several locations, several non-player characters with strong motivations, a cultural milieu with conflict brewing just under the surface (waiting to explode at any moment), and a couple of potential "problems" that the party of adventurers can try to resolve. There are multiple possibilities here that can only be explored at the table. No need to worry if your players have read the adventure ahead of time - it won't help. There are just too many variables and the stochasticity of throwing and interpreting the charms ensure that you will never run the same adventure twice, even if nothing has changed with the book itself.

There is also a section on monsters that give more insights into their motivations and ambitions, along with, yes, a stat block (LotFP stats).

I'll end on a side note. In my Dungeon Crawl Classics game this morning, one of the players' characters spun some crazy yarn (this happens every time we play) and one of the other players (but not his character, this was an "out of character" comment) said "I think you're just making crap up". To which the response was:

"Dude, it's ALL made up!"

et sic est


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The Veneration at Polwheveral Manor

 The Veneration at Polwheveral Manor by Benjamin Tweddell

For the uninitiated, Mount Abraxas produces some of the most beautiful books out there, featiring dark, "weird" fiction in very limited editions unlike anything you will find anywhere else. I've had a few of my novellas published by Mount Abraxas and I am continually amazed by the quality of physical artifacts that they produce. Getting a new Mount Abraxas title never gets old. 

The auctoral lineup for Mount Abraxas titles is one of the best-kept secrets in the weird fiction world. One will frequently find books featuring the work of some of my favorite contemporary authors, including Damian Murphy, Mark Valentine, John Howard, and Adam S. Cantwell. They are always beautiful books, exquisitely written, with strange twists and turns of an almost reverential quality. The Veneration at Polwheveral Manor holds this standard high. 

The story takes place sometime in the mid-20th Century and considers the retreat of Jacob Thurman, an ex-military medical man who is stricken with bouts of blindness, into a dreary cabin away from civilization. Here Jacob hopes to retreat from society, dreading the inevitable next fearful attack of blindness and, eventually, the permanent loss of vision. Here he discovers Polywheveral Manor, an old manor house whose caretaker, Julius De Monte, is a scion in a long line of guardians of a holy (or unholy?) relic: the remains of the Blind Seer, Saint Eusebius. De Monte, it is rumored, was once blind, but now cured, though doctors have no explanation for how the cure took place. 

Going into more detail than this will spoil the story, so I shall forbear. 

The atmosphere and mood of the piece is a throbbingly dark, overhanging cloud until the revelatory end. I'll be honest that I found some of the emotional turns just a touch disingenuous, but this is only because we are given such a short time to know, to really know, the main characters. The characterization was not bad, not by any means. On the contrary, it was quite good, yet seemed a bit sudden at times. This is my only complaint about the book, and it is only slight. The work is brooding, which one might expect, given the subject matter, and one can find themselves easily immersed in the depths, particularly with Jacob's plight and the grim prospects for his future. If you appreciate a frisson that can border on claustrophobic, you will appreciate this. 

Tweddell's style throughout is, as usual with his works, exquisite. His delivery is smooth, transparent when it needs to be, and drawing attention to itself when it needs to do so. The cover art, by Mysterious Four, adds to the mystery by evoking, quite intentionally, I believe, the cover of the first Black Sabbath album. "The Wizard," indeed!

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Strange Attractor Journal Five

 

Strange Attractor Journal Five by Mark Pilkington
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

"Eclectic" does not begin to describe the wide-ranging forays of Strange Attractor. The fifth installment is no exception. With such disparate essays, there's no place to begin but the start, so . . .

Being crucified is not on my list to do. It is pretty impressive, though, if that's your thing. Could crucifixion be done as performance art? Maybe, maybe not. An "event" in 1968 is even more shrouded in mystery now than it was at the time the news made headlines, as explored in William Fowler's "Fact or Crucifixion? The Story of the Hampstead Heath Messiah". The world may never know what truly happened there, but do we really want to know anyway. This is the sort of happening that myths are made of.

Hmm. E. H. Wormwood (is that a real name?) examines the use of toads in witchcraft in "the Green Crucible: Speculations on the Cult of the Natterjack Toad". And now we know why witches often had toads as familiars. Hint: it has to do with the witch's ability to fly. Can you connect the dots?

"Haus Atlantis," by Karen Russo, is an intriguing ride through mythmaking, ultra-nationalism, and Nazi aesthetics (yes, there was such a thing, apparently), along with competing notions of the place of art and myth in society. A fascinating read.

Musician and writer Phil Legard's essay "Tree Spirits and Celestial Brothers" is a brief biographical sketch of the magus known as Charubel. I would like to have known a bit more about Charubel's connection with Gustav Meyrink, as Legard opens the essay with an anecdote about this relationship. Nevertheless, this is an excellent overview of what one might refer to as a working man's cunning man. While I'm praising Legard, you should definitely check out his musical forays as half of the duo Hawthonn. I strongly recommend giving their album Red Goddess (of this men shall know nothing) many, many listens.

Speaking of music, for those who think that electronic music has it's roots in the Forbidden Planet soundtrack (which is excellent, by the way), you'll have to dig a little further back for the truly earliest Electronica. This is exactly what Daniel Wilson does in his essay "Electromania: The Victorian Electro-Musical Experience".

The essay "On Losing One's Head: Musings from a Labyrinth: Acéphale, Bataille, Crowley and Seth-Typhon" is fantastic. This is the sort of thing I was hoping for from SA5. The other stuff so far has been good, too, but this is off the charts amazing. Christopher Jossife's "musings" on Acéphale provide a glimpse into Bataille's headless, godless religion. It was taken, in all seriousness, by (most) of it's members, not a mere surrealist bon mot. There was even talk and the offer of human sacrifice (Bataille offering himself as the victim) which, thankfully, didn't culminate in the actual act. Interesting that the dawn of WW II was a harbinger of the Acéphale's eve. One wonders if they helped unleash darker forces than even they know how to reckon with?

I minored in anthropology (with a primary emphasis on archaeology) as an undergrad and have a particular penchant for ice age art. So, I enjoyed Robert J. Wallis's essay "Cave Art, Sex and Death: An Archaeology of the Lascaux 'Shaft Scene'." The analysis is sound, from the viewpoint of comparative anthropology, and well-reasoned, with the usual academic ambiguities (which is not a bad thing, in this case).

I really need to watch Donald Cammell's Performance after reading Nadia Choucha's essay "Scottish Fairlyore, Occult Dulity and Donal Cammell's Performance". I'm intrigued. So intrigued by Choucha's analysis, in fact, that I might be sorely disappointed by the movie itself. Maybe I'll just imagine it for myself. "Aguirre's Performance," sort of like Jodorowsky's Dune, but only in my head.

Ghosts and shapeshifters have an ambiguous relationship with each other and the living in "Humans With Animal Faces: Kows, Tuts, Barguests and Other Shape-shifting Spirits" by Jeremy Harte. The vagaries are the interesting part, where hauntings are, perhaps, not hauntings at all. Or maybe so. Who can tell?

Chris Hill introduces us to an obscure (outside of Italy, that is) mystic in "'Gustavo Who?' - Notes Towards the Life and Times of Gustavo Rol; Putative Mage and Cosmic 'Drainpipe'.". Rol was an intriguing figure, to say the least, enigmatic in his humility and purported miracle / psychic abilities. An interesting biographical exploration of an interesting man.

Elvis, James Dean, and Kaiju are not the major focus of the screenplay "LET ME DIE A MONSTER" by Ken Hollings and David McGillivray, but they all feature prominently. It never hit the actual screen, but it's surreal enough that one would be tempted to see it, should some enterprising director take a wild chance on it.

The Brothers Quay piece "The Flies of Orta San Giulio" is what originally pulled my attention toward this volume of Strange Attractor. It is a very minor piece in the Quay's oeuvre, but it drew me in to this excellent eclectic volume, and that can't be all bad, can it?

So, Strange Attractor Journal Five: how does it all "hang together"? Well, it doesn't. It doesn't have to. I appreciated the divergent subjects and styles throughout, all of them interesting. It reminds me of the Monsters of Rock concerts at Donnington, UK that I attended as a kid. Except that rather than being wildly uninhibited, these monsters are cunning and calculating. There's a certain bacchanalian sensibility to the Pilkington's brainchild here, but also a steady hand barely restraining the weirdness herein. Here, one is in a liminal zone, on the border of something indescribable, something one must experience in order to appreciate the fullness of its meaning. Strange Attractor pulls the reader to the edge of the precipice and allows them to hold academic distance, or take the plunge!


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