Monday, October 31, 2016

Tales of Horror: The Dark Man


When I was a boy there was a black man that I would see. Out of the corner of my mind, hidden behind trees and corners. He was there in my house, in my life. I would hear him walking up the steps of my father’s house in the dead of night. And I would hide under the covers. I would see him in my dreams. The choker, one that would suffocate me with a stare.
                This man was not black, as in African American, or even a man at all. I should actually refer to him as The Dark Man, because his purposes for me were never clear, but always hidden. I would lie awake at night. I would pray that he would go away. But I would feel my body run cold, even if the blankets were warm. Even now as a man I wrap my arms around me, as if by instinct, grounded by the child-like belief that mere covers could save me from a being dark, ancient, and powerful. How would you know this, some have asked me. I know because it told me so. This dark man was a demon. One that haunted me in the night, a taunting dream that would lie in bed with me, whisper threatening lies in my ears. Words without a voice, ones that echoed in my empty unoccupied mind.  Many of you don’t believe in demons, or manifestations of evil. They are the guilty conscience that hangs over us like dark clouds in the sky, most say. Until this night, I’ve never written about the dark man. I was always afraid of him coming back. I have a family now. Lord forgive me if I were to invite such a thing back into my life. But now that the light is with me, the dark man comes back less and less. The dreams are less real now. If he ever came back, it would never be the same.
                There was a night in July, when I was 10 years old. I had recently come home from an informal reunion in Sonoma County, north of San Francisco, where the hills are made of gold and from the earth pours wine. The specters of long dead miners and Chinese rail workers haunted the hills, their legacy paved over with boutiques and high class restaurants. I was lying in my bed at home, my brother sleeping soundly next to me. The Dark Man was there. The night light did not flicker. The air was not frosty or cold. There was no ghostly herald or cultic preamble in cartoonish languages. He was there, lying next to me, heaving rattling, emphysemic  breaths. And what I remember, so clearly, so unequivocally, its words. “Ahh… don’t be like that.”
                I froze. I wanted to cry.
                It rolled over me, on top on me. Every muscle tensed on my body.
                My eyes closed tight, he told me a little about himself.     
                “I’ve been alone, so alone. Sentenced to the depths of Hell, without respite and closure, a soul that asks on those passing through what came of their legacy of my life. I owned a house at once, hidden away in the forests of Bavaria. I had a cart and some sheep, my small cottage. I lived alone, skinning and tanning pelts under a cold distant sun that would pierce the canopies of my grove with shafts of goodness finding me in the depths of my loneliness.
                “A woman, young with fair skin and supple breasts, with fiery red hair and green eyes would come to me, and only me, to sell milk and bread once a month. We would talk for a few hours. I would pay her a little extra for her services and she would go her way. With longing eyes she would look back, but they hid her pity well. Pity for an old man of the forest that knew no one, and none knew him.
                “The clearings would keep the time of year, shading the earth with autumnal foliage or the colorful levity of spring. I would watch through my window built of fine glass that I found on a wrecked carriage near the road overlooking Berchtesgaden. The grass would bend under the weight of the snow, and every morning I would see the tracks of lesser creatures foraging in the night. A fire lit in the corner I made to remind me of older days, when I knew my son, and when he knew me.”
                The creature reached out to me, forcing me to see through its eyes. I shook my head but I was still. I cried out to shout but I was made silent… 
                I saw the old man walking through the clearing, looking with tired lonely eyes at the rabbits. He would lift his hunting bow, aim, and collect his kill. Rabbit stew every night, always. Stringy morsels seasoned with crushed black pepper and salt from the mines near town.
                Again the woman would come on the months end. He would sleep with her, collect her salt, and she would leave without tasting the rabbit he caught.
                “I was unremarkable in death as I was in life, a simple soul with simple needs. When you see me in your dreams, I will suffocate you! Look into my eyes.” I didn’t need to see them again, because I had seen them many times before in my restless nights. Dreaming of dark rings housing sinister, cruel eyes.
“I was not always like this. All souls fall from paradise to the crags of perdition, marred by the tumultuous journey down, striking the rocks of the interior creation, the space between worlds where those long created before man dare to walk. One day, while seeing to my sheep, I looked up from my toil and, across the clearing, a young man with calloused hands and wiry beard watched me. The face so familiar, so precious, masked by the pain of a life bereft of paternal care, I beheld my lost son.
                “That is how all good things start, with such energy that prolongs the period of good feelings. Together we built another room on the cottage. We cut lumber together, sawing with dull tools and fastening with rusty nails. Many times I fell to my knees in exhaustion, no longer young, but my son continued. I saw to it that he was well fed, and inside a feeling, a forgotten sensation of affection warmed me better than my cottage fire. My son, he should stay longer he said, as the snow will fall again and the leaves are withered and falling once more. And with bitter tears I cried aloud ‘I’m sorry, Hanz! I’m sorry for your mother, for everything.’”
                The Dark Man forced its hand across my face. I felt nothing but its emptiness. I squinted under what felt like a hundred pounds of pressure. And it showed me more…              
The woman returned after the snow melted, late but she came eventually in the summer months, driving a cart up the shadowed trail to the cottage. She was weak also, and when he saw her, he saw the rotund belly swathed in red cloth, a leather corset crudely cut in half with a cutlass holding up her bountiful breasts. He knew what it meant and said nothing. In her hands she took his, holding them up to her face. She smiled and told him that she would need another room to stay. He laughed, uncertain of what to say or do. And what was there to say? Long ago, as a young man he remembered the feelings, the prelude to excitement and fear, of anticipation and anxiousness. He thought shallowly then, considering that he would have to go into town to buy milk and bread from then on. Utility possessed him, purpose filled his lungs with the damp air of the forest floor. Across the field, the son came out of the forest carrying over his shoulders pails of water to run the new forge. The father, he looked at his son befuddled and the son nervously beheld the woman.
                “The cottage grew over the winter. That was an early snow. Father and son digging in the ice while she waits inside; we prepared for the long season. I knew that soon the child would come. I did not see her watching through the window. Sweat in the cold winter air steaming off both our backs. We gripped our shovels tightly, revealing our strong rope-like arms. Both tawny, but strong. She coveted him, watching me in my old age, finding me… wanting. It was not long until I found her one night with him in our room, stroking his erection as they lay together in secret. And my fullness, the spirit that lifted me so high, higher than the birds of the sky, poured out of me, into my hands, and gave me strength to kill the boy, with tears in mine own eyes as she watched.
                “She did not get far, so close to the fruit of our labors. She died in the snow as she fled.
                “I could only imagine then how the questions slowly came to be asked, how the forge burned brightly, deep within the trees without orders for steel, how the milk grew sour and the bread stale in wait at the market, how the people came to confront me, how they found me wearing her bones around my neck, and how they came to strike me down. And so my soul was torn down through oblivion to the depths of Hell, to the Second Circle, let to roam the dreams of those that seek light beyond the forest depths.”
                The Dark Man snarled, but I screamed. He floated away, seeping into the ceiling above. My brother awoke next to me in a start and made a face in disgust. “God! Shut up! Mom, what’s wrong with him?”
                That was the first and only time the Dark Man spoke. It would come here and there throughout the years, with diminishing passion at each turn. How he would rake my body with his claws, stop my blood still with spiritual malaise. Taunt me in the morning, terrify me in my youth. I would not lie if I said that I remember hearing the sounds of his steps through my mother’s home. The creaks in the night. The sensation that he was behind me. And yet, in all this, I sensed that its menace had climaxed at the moment of personal disclosure. As I became a man, as I chose my path to go to the university, the Dark Man became less real, and merely a bad dream. But I still remember the first days, before I accepted God’s protection, when I would hide in the fluorescent fountains all around me. Its memory surpassed its presence, which was, in many ways, more terrifying that the genuine reality of the creature.

                In these times, I am not afraid of the Dark Man any more. But I know he is still there, somewhere, praying for death. Should I feel sorry for him? No. What good is the Dark Man to me, but the memories of youthful trepidation? Yet I am thankful. I’m my studies on theology and the demonic I have reasoned that such soul would be allowed to hate me because the Dark Man’s presence teaches me what it means to languish unchallenged in loneliness. For so long I had wrapped melancholy around me like a blanket, to shiver bitterly, to deny the charity of friendship to others and myself. The Dark Man cursed me when I was young with its sadness. I could never curse another to bear mine. And now, in my office, on this word processor, I want you to know what happened to me. Melancholy like a good book, or an engrossing film can be so gratifying. Some revel in it, crushing themselves in a vise. But like a monkey on my back I have worn the Dark Man and put him off, never to wear him again. One day I will forget him, and then he will finally be just another shade in the pit.    

Monday, October 17, 2016

Sequart Memories

I was at the comic book store Saturday picking up a floppy (or single issue, to those who aren't familiar with comic jargon). It's something I've only recently started doing, knowing full well that I would soon have boxes of ad-filled, twenty-something paged, incomplete story arc, relics. It's funny because I actually love reading them. I never thought I would say that. But it occurred to me, walking back to my house, that I was on the cusp of a personal revelation, one that I certainly wasn't expecting then, of all days.

There was a time when I was reading comics very actively. I was working with Sequart Organization as their Webmaster and Managing editor, attempting to build the fame of Sequart and establish it as a reputable place for comics journalism and scholarship. Little did I know, it already was, but it was nice to think I had something to do with it's fame at the time. There were many initiatives and projects I undertook. Why I did them escapes me. My only lasting legacy from Sequart is my anxiety disorder and my moments of complete  mental collapse that still plague me to this day. Somewhere at Desmond's cabin (a friend of mine, one that you should read and follow!) there is a pile of Sequart merch from SDCC 2014. Julian still has a press list I  built of academics, a 6 month project where I cataloged every non-profit academic institution, picked over their English department websites, and had my manager run a web-based info blast. (We got a few responses, certainly not a worthy amount.) I learned a lot from the experience, notably that it's hard to sell comics scholarship. 

I think that here is where I made the connection in my mind about the nature of anything that is creative. In the sea of genres, art-forms, and media types there is a subjective line in the sand between so-so manifestations and quality ones. There are some really shitty comics out there. Many of them don't challenge creativity or convictions. It's just a bunch of shit. But in the quagmire of shit there are vindicating articles of art that are really good. When I was at Sequart I would write articles about the noteworthiness of a series, elevate its form to death-defying heights, when in reality it wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. Like my fascination with beer transitioning to wine, I have moved from comics to novels. Though there are some good stories worth revisiting. 

I think if I could go back and tell myself to avoid Sequart I wouldn't. I wouldn't tell myself about the incoming panic attacks, or the compromising, though valuable, conversations I would have with Julian (who I still love and appreciate to this day), or the slow rift it would create between one of my good friends in part due to the liberal education I  would receive from my contributors and colleagues. Comics have indeed taught me more about art, spirituality, film studies, and myself and what I want to be. I've learned about those that I idolize, their flaws and dreams. I've realized the difference between myself and Neil Gaiman is very little. We are just two creators in different life stages and places. I no longer envy him, but admire him. 

Alan Moore would say, cynically I imagine, that his tenure in comics did nothing for him, that it was all wasted effort. (He lacks the critical distance from his work that is both moving and personal.) But I know that comics have affected me in many ways, mostly good. At the end of the day, are they worthy to pass on to my children? Of course. But are they worthy to be embodied? To draw identity from? I don't believe so....


XOX



PS:
I wrote quite a bit today while I was drinking tea. 

Saturday, October 1, 2016

I'm Not a Woman, But Can I Write About Them?

My second book happens to be the first one that will feature a “female” protagonist / antagonist. She isn’t really a woman, but an AI. Still she is supposed to largely reflect what a woman is and what women value. I’ve written before on the difficulty in creating authentic women characters. Frankly, I don’t know how other great authors like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman have done it. Traversing the gender gap, is something I, personally, think is impossible. Rather, we can get close to the other side, maybe within the casting of stones. Who knows? The future holds many possibilities.

I’m sure people have written about this before. There’s no reason to reinvent the wheel. Women are physiologically different from men and possess abilities that men can never realize. Social history aside, if we look at the here and now, women are doing things today that have never been done before. Currently, Hilary Clinton is running for president, something that 100 years ago was a laughable prospect among the American people. It’s a struggle for me to take that history and experience, the many thousands of years of anthropology, and condense that into a blog post. My meager thoughts on writing them are below.

I’m a big fan when it comes to animated sitcoms. Despite the cliché of the stay-at-home mom, or in the case of King of the Hill, a secondary earner, the women here server a role as a foil of the men. Even though Homer Simpson, Hank Hill, and, only recently, Jerry Smith, have many layers to their characterization, these men are undermined by their stupidity, which is mostly benign, if not occasionally selfish. I think men are pressured to be alphas, or various manifestations of masculine archetypes. Their decisions are made impulsively, citing a certain male intuition that is mostly wrong and self-centered. The women often clean up the resulting and inevitable mess. Why this is the default mode of writing males I can reasonably infer, but how the women act in return I find more interesting.


When I was writing about Mòr in Spirit of Orn, I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a sister. I grew up only with my brother, but in the families that I interacted with I noticed that older sisters tended to be those that people would go to for wisdom or insight. During adolescence, that relationship would become strained with sexual tension and infighting, resolving to a common understanding with mutual affection. (This is in the case of an older sister with a younger brother.) Conversely, in the relationship between a younger sister and an older brother is more martial, with the older brother protecting the younger sister, or feeling concerned for their wellbeing either implicitly or explicitly. In Spirit of Orn, Mòr is Conn’s younger sister. She is an aunt despite being of similar age to Conn’s son. She takes care of Conn and looks out for him in the midst of his grieving for his recently departed wife. The age gaps between each of the characters are far and wide, eschewing the nuclear family model for a non-conventional look of a family dynamic. Spirit of Orn was my first book, so I’m not surprised that my own characters were fraught with this kind of dysfunction. It likely mirrored my own angst I felt towards my family.

I wrote Mòr in a detached way. She is attempting to grieve in her own way and, in doing so, accepts the religion of the people in Orn. She also is firm in her believe that she can take care of Conn, only Conn can only fix himself and come to that conclusion on his own. I felt that Mòr also had her own sexual identity, not conforming to the mores of Skara Brae (which, at the time I wrote Spirit of Orn, were cavalier and hedonistic). She was very independent, trying to prove herself as a child, but also gave up those desires when she accepted the Orn religion because she no longer needed to. I feel that most women in literature are trying to prove themselves (as men also do). But this might be juxtaposing my own masculinity onto female characters.

The difficulty with my latest book is that my main protagonist is an outsider looking in. She chooses to be a woman. (Artificially intelligent machines are not organic and therefore have no gender.) She also chooses her own appearance, a scene that I am writing currently that I’ve labored over for the last month or so. The only experience I can relate to in designing a character from an outsider’s perspective is creating a character in a video game, an experience that is shallow and self-serving most of the time. My character will be doing what no one has done yet: embrace that identity permanently and decisively, while taking with her, the emotional and mental expectations of donning that persona. It makes me wonder if that is what a person undergoing sexual reassignment goes through. Honestly, my guess is limited by third hand knowledge.

I’m hoping though that the experiment bares good fruit. I want to continue to challenge myself as a writer. Expanding my written vocabulary and ability to describe gender are all on my list of things to grow in this year.  We’ll see what happens. There’s only 2 more left!


XOX