A New England Haunting

I can not more fully appreciate why Stephen King uses rural Maine as the basis for so much of his horror. New England is, potentially, the most terrifying place ever. The imagery of darkness slowly climbing up from the east as the sun disappears into the west, with the steeple of a church silhouetted against the fading light, surrounded by pines that stand in grim silence, untouched by the rapid approach of fall and winter...

I just woke up from a nap where this very scenario was playing out. I had traveled to a small town to get something, I cannot remember what. What I do remember is meeting terrifying people and nearly being driven off the road by some demented individual and being hounded down the streets by cult-like psychopaths.

All in all it was the sort of nightmare that leaves you feeling pretty horrible upon waking up. I looked out my window with sleep still fresh in my eyes and saw the fading light, a scene very close to the one I had just left.

I still feel uncomfortable. I need a hot cinnamon bun, a blanket, and a good movie to wipe this feeling away.

Of Doctor Wats

Another quick hat tip to one of the greatest men in history, Dr. Richard Hill Varnum Wats.

I used to think my dad had little patience for people and I suppose, like anyone, he DOES have little patience for people who fritter away his time or their own. Nevertheless, it seems every time I see dad, he's eager to help someone out. The list for the favors he's done me alone is practically endless and no doubt he could have taken a cruise or two with the time and money (For time = money) he's spent trying to help me find my way in life. Through every blunder and failed attempt, dad has been there to help me climb back onto my horse and look for a new endeavor. Without spoiling me - at least, not TOO much - he's managed to make sure that I never go without the necessities of life while making sure that I understand that anything else must be worked for.

Side note: Mom has been by his side through these sorts of lessons. They both have always offered a means by which to get the things I want. I've come to truly respect this method. I had friends who were paid to do simple house chores and while it frustrated me initially that my parents wouldn't offer me the same treatment, I'm now glad that they didn't. Paying your child to clean his room seems a bit odd to me, now.

As I've grown older, I find it more and more fun to sit and talk to dad about things. We share many of the same interests, from music to boxing to business. One of my favorite past times has become sitting with dad late at night, watching CSPAN or CNN and discussing whatever topics they happen to throw at us.

I think Anderson Cooper has actually brought my father and I closer together.

What it Means to be Manly.

Sunny day spent in the shop
Remapping DNA of a car's chassis
Tiger Hair applied, " it's time to stop"

Declare war on a hornet's nest
Clad in anti-sting gear and armed
Soon hoist high, the Varnum Crest

Linger in abode of my rearing
Read the Wall Street Journal and watch TV
A trip to chop wood rapidly nearing



Working with Pops is always a good time. Sometimes I'm lazy getting around to it, but I really enjoy everything I learn from working with him. It's a lot easier to do now, too, since we can sorta mosey at our own pace and don't have to set too many time tables. I remember being frustrated as a child when I worked with him, because he was always trying to get a lot of work done and I was usually inexperienced in the tasks he had me set up for. This resulted in him having a shortened temper. I don't fault him for it, though. Managing a large dairy operation with some less than competent help is enough to put anyone on edge.

We have great times, now, and he's always happy to have the help. I'm hoping to make my way out to New Mexico again this winter. Though generally I prefer to laze about and just enjoy being away from Maine for a bit, I do enjoy putting in a day here or there of fixing up around the apartment or working in the wood shop with him.

Here's to Paps being cool.

" Ah, Venice."

I feel like saying that as I see the fading light of the sun coming through the leaves of the trees, gold through a colander. I'm home alone right now, which is nice to have once in a while. I very much enjoy the company of my roomate and friends, but I definitely need 'my time' which I really feel I can only get when I'm in a house alone.

It's chilly tonight, a bit more so than last night. Nonetheless, I am enjoying it and though I left work feeling like a three course meal of haggard, plentifully garnished with grumpy, that has all melted away. I am becoming pleased with the progression of 'Untold Text', to the point that I even feel giddy while writing it, despite it's dark contents.

I've been pouring over the works of Edward Gorey for the past few days, using his dark imagery as inspiration and mood-maker while i write. I remember watching Mystery with mom and I always LOVED the opening. It was practically the best part, (unless of course Jeremy Brett was playing Sherlock Holmes. I'm convinced there is no a single soul on this planet who could ever portray dear Sherlock in such brilliance.) Coupling Gorey's work with some classical pieces I downloaded, I have little lack of inspiration while I write. Hopefully, my discipline will share this degree of presence.

Again, no story clips tonight. I'm too busy walking on beautiful to mar it. It's a beautiful mix, beyond my windows, of a Mediterranean sunset and dusk falling over farmland.

Well played, God.

A Lovely Day

Though I did not accomplish nearly as much as I had intended to today, it was a splendid day off from work. I busied myself with cleaning the kitchen and relaxing, doing a bit of writing here and there. The gray clouds that had started the morning off were soon carried away by a stiff breeze and the sun manifest itself to warm what would have been an otherwise chilly September day.

Though it's cooled off considerably tonight, there is a summer feel to it all. I feel like sitting on the porch, talking with friends and enjoying the sounds of summer. I can hear the serenade of crickets coming through my window, carried on what's left of a cool breeze. It washes over me with a sense of nostalgia as I think back to playing in the backyard, the sun's light waning as he lazily drifts behind the horizon. Children giggling and shouting as their feet become stained green from the freshly mowed grass. We're hoarding the clippings that dad just mowed, as though they're some form of currency. We attempt to steal one another's in a variation of 'capture the flag'.

I'm leaving out a story clip tonight, for I fear the dark nature of it would disrupt the otherwise tranquil sensation these memories conjure.

To my siblings, I hoist my glass and toast to happier times, when the burden's of the world did not touch our shoulders. To my parents, I give thanks for protecting us and raising us as best you could in these latter days.

Inspiration

It's always odd to me when inspiration strikes. It's an interesting sensation when your mind suddenly decides to squeeze the kiss of a muse through the brick wall that has held your imagination captive for so long.

So here's some more writings.


An Untold Text (continued.)

Of Lamia

I furrowed my brow at the title. Was I about to embark on an early version of some sort of fantastic fiction? Perhaps a rewrite on the classical mythos?

I write these words in the hopes that some will come to understand the horrors that have been unleashed upon the world. To understand and, I pray, put an end to them. I tremble even as I write this, for it was my own foolish actions that have given birth to the evils I will speak to you about. Such a wretched being am I. Could I, I would take the full measure of her

wrath upon myself, but alas, all I can do is offer up my mind to those who may stand a greater chance.

I sat back and rubbed my eyes, glancing at the clock on my desk. As the last sentence of the translated text echoed in my mind, I could hear the well-to-do's leaving the theatre, their exclamations for the brilliant masterpiece they had just watched echoing up in the night air. I frowned again, standing walking to the window. What was this that had been sent to me? It made no sense. Such fiction was not written in the time period this book seemed to have come from.

I felt a queerness as I looked at the leather bound book, the light of the candles at my desk putting on a dance of light across the yellowed pages. I wished that Mister Irewood had lived nearby so that I might have inquired as to the origins of the book, or at least how it had found it's way into his possession. Several scenarios played in my mind as I tried to rationalize the existence of the writing. Perhaps this was some touched individual's attempt at macabre humor.

A soft knock at the door stirred me from my thoughts and I quickly moved to my desk, tucking away the translation and the book together. I gritted my teeth, for I always felt brief rush of anger whenever interrupted in my work. I crossed the floor to the door and opened it, trying my best to dawn a sleepy smile for the person I knew to be on the other side.

She smiled sweetly and stepped in, " I hope I'm not interrupting anything, darling."

I closed the door behind her and embraced her, " of course not, Madeline."

She was dressed in her work attire, that of a serving girl. Her corsett was laced low, allowing her cleavage to show, and her dress had the sides cut up to the knee to let any who desired to gaze upon the fishnet stockings that clad her legs. Black curls spilled down around her shoulders and face, framing the blush-painted cheeks and crimson lips.

She kissed me, the kiss of true lovers. There was no falsehood behind her gesture, no implication of charity or masking true feelings. Her lips, painted for the pleasure of others, were for me alone. I had read hundreds of texts over the past ten years, most older than my grandparent's grandparents. Some were composed of madmen, others the learned verse of praised scholars. In all such readings, I had never amassed the knowledge required to tell me why such a precious creature as Madeline could learn to love such a frail husk such as me. Why question the luck I had been blessed with?

As she let the kiss finally break, she glanced to my desk, looking at the paper wrapping and twine crumpled and pushed to the corner. Her eyes then crossed to the stove where my small iron pot still sat with some of the tonic I had brewed for the pages of the book. I cursed myself silently for my sloppy job of cleaning up after myself.

" I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were working tonight," she shifted her weight towards the door.

" Have I ever asked you to pardon yourself for my work?" I said with a forced smile, still slapping myself mentally.

" But you hate to be interrupted..." she began, taking a step this time.

I grabbed her hand, " and too long have I been away from your presence, darling."

Her smile let me know my words had the desired effect. She stepped away from the door and crossed the room to my bed. She sat on it's edge, reaching down to unlace her boots.

" You work, my love. I'm afraid a night in these boots has wearied me plenty. I won't disturb you." she said, smiling as she looked up to see my eyes riveted to the dark line of her cleavage.

I smiled in return. I would have to take her generosity. As deeply as I wanted to hold her in my bed and make love to her, I had to devote my attention to the work ahead. There was a nagging, as well, as I tossed over in my mind the words that I had translated.

She finished undressing under my gaze, then climbed into my bed and within moments was asleep. I turned back to my desk, drawing out the book and the paper that held my translation and continued my work.

The hours burned away and I felt feverish. The words I read struck immense disharmony within myself as, in my mind's eye, I painted pictures of dark rituals, satanic dealings and the torment of the writer. More than once I would sit back and rub my eyes, to feel the perspiration on my brow. I had never encountered such writings. Legends had been a longstanding part of human history, but the legends written, even those by the ancient Greeks, were never so personal. The authors depictions of the scenes were of such dark detail that I felt my stomach churn at parts.

I watched in horror, though such a word does little justice to the
horrid feelings that coursed through me, as Lamia kissed the child upon
the neck. His innocence drained away with his life and I could only
imagine the agony the boy's parent's would endure upon learning of his
demise. What twisted my entrails all the more was the unforsakable
knowledge that I had brought about this perversion.

Otherworldly creatures born of unholy practices. Children stolen from their parents as they slumbered to be murdered.

On Winter's Coming Touch and Unwritten Futures

I can feel Winter coming. I suppose I should say I can feel Autumn coming and that knowledge means Winter isn't far off. Autumn seems almost as short as our Summers. The dark of night creeps in earlier and earlier each day and my sleep has become increasingly restless to the point that I seem to wake up four or five times a night now. This is an ongoing cycle and generally happens this time of year. The other day I was complaining to a friend of mine about not being able to sleep much and she said, ' Hmm, this is about the same time last year that you said the same exact thing.'

I remember enjoying Winter as a child. To some degree I can still see the beauty of it when the trees are dressed in their white gowns and I look out over Dad's fields of ice like some albino ocean. The short days eat away at me, though. The cold. The ever-hanging blanket of gray in the sky. I remember last spring actually cheering when I realized it was six o' clock and sunlight could still be seen.

I try to stay living in the now and enjoy what is left of a rapidly declining summer. Perhaps I should try and make one final trip to the coast and breath in some salty air before the shops all close up and begin their hibernation.

Nevertheless, here is a brief continuation of my last excerpt. The conclusion is unwritten in my mind, a future I'm still trying to ascertain. I'm sure an epiphany will strike at some point. Until then....

A Text Untold (continued. The first paragraph is a re-write of the last paragraph in the previous entry.)

Not tonight, however. Despite the little voice in the back of my mind telling me I could use a puff, tonight there was far too much work to be done. Atop my desk was a small package, bound with brown paper and tied with twine. It was addressed to me with a return address to a Mister Jonathan R. Irewood of Lennox, some five hundred miles away. I pulled the twine off gently then unwrapped the article within. It was a leather bound book and by the incredibly dry feeling of the cover, I knew it must have been old. Old and not overly well preserved, unfortunately. Mister Irewood had sent me the text- along with a hundred royal notes- to translate. I knew that if I tried to use the book in it's current state, the leather would crack and break. The pages inside were most likely dry and brittle, meaning they would crumble in my hands if I wasn't careful. Before I could proceed, I'd need to do some simple repair work.

I put a few pieces of wood in the fire and poked at the remaining embers until the flames began to creep up and darken the wood. While my recipe for paper hydration slowly cooked on the stove, I pulled a small bottle of oil from my desk as well as another glass container which held a lump of beeswax in it. I put a few drops of the oil on the lump of wax and began to slowly and gently massage the oil into the leather. The oil would revitalize while the wax created a seal to keep the moisture in. I would have to remember to send back with the translation strict instructions on the care of such books, as this process would not always work. Once leather and paper degraded, there was a great deal of integrity that could not be restored. This process would allow me to use the book for translation, but I would have to encourage Mister Irewood not to use the book for anything other than display.

I allowed the oil to set while I tended to the tonic on the stove. The next few hours were spent agonizingly pouring over each page and, using the quill of a feather, applying the tonic around the text. As I did so, I glanced at some of the writing and determined it was a form of Latin, though not the classical style so many scholars were used to. This was a more vulgar form, which would date the text to sometime before the 9th century, though most likely closer to the 4th or 5th at the fall of Rome. It must have been a copy of sorts, as there were very few actual books written in that time period. However, if it had indeed been copied, it was done so by hand. I could see the slight variances between letters. No type setter had done this.

The pages had regained some of their bend and I found I was less anxious about manipulating the pages. I pulled from my library - a couple of shelves nailed crookedly to one wall - a pair of manuscripts which offered some insight into the translation of Vulgar Latin and set to work.