Books, Cults, Experimental, Famous Serial Killers, Hardboiled, Monsters, Murder, Mystic, Urban Legends, Vampires, Weird

From “The Men Who Loved the Dead” (Unfinished)

“Erich Fromm divided classes of men into the necrophiliac personality and the life-loving, seeing in the necrophiliac personality the roots of war, fascism, psychopathy and destruction. The necrophiliac personality is rigid, doctrinaire, fascistic; unyielding, exemplifying the sort of architects of oblivion that dreamed up Auschwitz, wherein Mr. Fromm was interred as an inmate.

The necrophiliac personality is depersonalized from his living cohorts, is focused on the ritualism of death and funerals, goes goose-steeping off into a future where women could very well be replaced by androids. The character of Patrick Batemen, from the novel (and subsequent film) of Brett Ellis’s American Psycho, might exemplify this personality, to whom physical perfection, material objects, appearances, surface, surface, surface…is the ONLY thing that matters. Emotion is frozen in an infantile murk; there is only an aching void to fill, like an empty stomach that can never be satisfied.

I must confess to perhaps being a necrophiliac personality.

I have little idea of how to finish this little pamphlet. (Perhaps a writer should not admit that.)

Should I close with a short cultural survey of necrophiliac themes? These are endemic in gothic rock music, such as Alice Cooper, Bauhaus, The Misfits, and in the sordid and generic vampire sagas pumped out by Hollywood year after year, to massive financial returns. Why is it that we wish to romance the dead? To preserve Elvis and Marilyn in the formaldehyde jars of our conscious minds, until it is impossible to separate their paltry, commercialized pop-culture images from the moldering earth in which they lie?

I am a necrophiliac personality, perhaps; so perhaps that is why I am drawing a blank.

To make love tot he dead, to possess the object of accursed fantasy, to transgress and cross that barrier between worlds, is perhaps to engage in a holy communion with another species, to know a purity of intent unknown to mortal bones. The thing itself, the fantastical image, becomes a sacred vessel into which the love and hope of a new tomorrow can be poured. To dance and dwell, forevermore, with the object of our most heated, forbidden desire.

To know this object as OURS, and ours alone. To touch the power of the necromantic spirit, to commune with THEM, a race hideously removed, yet hideously US, whose waxen, stiffened features become a crepitating time-vessel of the past moldering into the present.

This poetry of the grave CANNOT stop; nor, perhaps, can it be plumed for grave psychological nuggets. Does a “necrophiliac personality” truly exist in any objective sense?

The vampire bends to kiss the living, to make the Living as Food. In our current pop cultural references, the vampire is a sexy, sexualized being of eternal youth and vitality,a Brad Pitt or a character from Twilight.

In olden times when death was a closer companion to the living, the vampire was portrayed as a repellent leech who, slipping in the form of mist from his unhallowed grave, roamed village and countryside battening on the living.

Often, the dead relatives were the targeted victims. One story has a man, upon awakening, confronting the foul, stinking revenant of his father, who demands plaintively that he be given ‘something to eat.'”
–From “The Men Who Loved the Dead”

Books, Fiction, Holographic Universe, Mystic, New Age, Short Stories, Urban Legends, Weird, Young Adult

The Birth of the Sun

In the film Angelheart, actor Robert De Niro, playing a character based upon Satan, observes that the egg, in many religions, is a symbol of the soul. He then bites a hard boiled egg in half.

In the Hindu Upanishads, the creation myth is this:

In the beginning was “non-existent.” This nothingness soon, however, formed itself into a most perfect egg, the likeness of which, after floating in space for a time, broke in half. One half of the egg was silver, the other half gold. One half formed the earth and everything in it, the other half formed the sky.

The thick, membranous egg white formed the high mountains; likewise the thin, runny portion became the mist and clouds, the veins of the egg became mighty, rushing rivers. The fluid of the Sacred Egg became the sea.

And out of this was accomplished the Birth of the Sun.

(Source: The Portable World Bible)



Originally posted on Passages:

So here I am crawling through the weeds, watching this pulchritudinous beauty spread eagle across the yellow line of a two-lane blacktop, out in the middle of BFE. On top of her, some skinny pervert is pounding away, and in the distance I hear the faint rumble of a truck, so I make out this is some sort of suicide gig. Like, maybe they find the prospect of being smashed beneath eighteen massive wheels and dragged like squashed bugs in a slimy trail of their own blood…erotic? I don’t know. What do I know? I was a lousy voyeur.

It is bright and dusty, and suddenly I realize I’ve missed something because both of them are walking across the field, hand in hand, naked as the day God made them, and they are both long, pale specimens, and I follow, but at a discrete distance. The wind is hot and…

View original 541 more words


The Mystery of the Middle Verse

“His understanding is clearly muddled.”

I make they are talking about me. After all, they’re renting apartment space in the 400 square foot recess of my subconscious mind.

One of them has a sheet of paper. Points with his index finger at three fat verses of poeticals. I’m not even sure what they are. I can’t read the stuff for some reason.

“Verse one,” the kid intones blithely, “represent the past. His past I suppose, but in a more general way, OUR shared past. Where we’ve been, what we’ve experienced. This line, ‘…his foam-flecked face to wash the tide.’ He seems to be making some reference to the gradual erosion of ourselves in the never ending onslaught of time. Like pebbles on a beach.”

“Sandcastles washed away by time,” she agrees. Outside, trucks rumblyfart by in the distance, but things settle down into an eerie calm. Not even a dog to bark pregnantly, like some mysterious recording of animal sounds looped in the distance to fool the unelect.

“The middle verse is even more confusing. Listen, ‘…To earth and sky my visions sweep.’ Trite, really. But the Middleverse is the most essential. It is where we’re at, the NOW so to speak. Everything that is going on now, which, to us, seems looped. Like a recording we’re doomed to live.”

The confused young girl suddenly interjected, “So change the recording. You can do it, can’t you? Alter your consciousness, perception and focus equals reality? Doesn’t it?” She looked hopeful, at least, that he might pay her some sort of obeisance. After all, she was smarter than he was, even though he let on he was some sort of genius.

“Well, maybe. But who controls the signals coming in, is what I want to know. If I wake up, and hear a dog barking outside…I mean, I mentally picture a dog out there, I see a dog fenced in a yard. Does that manifest as reality? Is the sound and the image accompanied by the reality? Or is everything an illusion until it is accepted into the framework of our conscious mind? Reality must be an agreed-upon experience. Look, you’ve heard the old saw about the hypnotist and the apple, right? Or, wait, it was a wrist watch–”

“David Icke use to tell that one.”

Outside a woman yelled after her little son. Lawnmowers clipped by in the distance. Both of them now wondered how much of this was simply a prerecorded set of signals. Even the outside sweep of lawn and blue sky seemed somehow false now.

“Look at this line in Verse 3: ‘…a god unborn who now must die.’ What the hell did me mean by that?”
She shrugged.

“Who can say? Getting back to the wristwatch?”

He suddenly brightened. “Oh yeah. Anyway, this guy went to a party with a hypnotist. Dude hypnotized him–”

She smirked.

“It’s what hypnotists usually do.”

“Yeah, smarty, okay. Anyway, so he hypnotizes the guy that his daughter, who is in the room, is not actually there. So he brings the daughter in, stands her right in front of the guy, and, sure enough, he claims not to be able to see her. So the hypnotist goes one extra step, and produces this watch, and puts it in the small of her back. And he says, ‘What have I got in my hand?’ And the guy, who cannot possibly see the watch as it is being held in the small of his daughter’s back, but who has been hypnotized to think HIS DAUGHTER IS NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM when she is standing right in front of him, says…”

“A watch, correct?” She smiled a little knowing, shivery smile as she responded.

“But, take it one step further. He asks the man what time it is. And do you know what?”

“He could read the face of the watch through his daughter’s back, even though, in a physical sense she was standing as a barrier between himself and the watch?” This was so easy, she thought, leading him around like a puppy on a leash, even though he thought he was the one doing the leading all the time.

He smiled, nodded his head up and down in obvious self-satisfaction, Boys were like that, all ego; she wanted to hear about the final verse.

“‘…a god unborn here doomed to die.’ A reference to Christ, maybe? Some reliance on a supreme, supernatural deity. Propitiating said deity?”

She wrinkled her nose. A gentle breeze blew the scent of flowers through the window, bringing to mind funerals and the funk of decay. Heavy, poisoned perfume, she thought grimly. I wonder if any of that is real, either.
“Seems more like they have to kill the god, according to this. References to ‘nailing-in,’ sticking him on a spike, upraised to the heavens.”

He rolled his eyes.

“The myth of the ‘dying-and-rising-god’ is as old as time itself. The killing of the sacred, to herald the phoenix-like rebirth, resurrection. It’s about blood and sacrifice, the coming of winter and the return of spring and life in the face of death…”

She wanted to slap him. Instead, she formed her mouth into a little “o” and cast her gaze at her feet.
They both saw him moving outside the window at the same time, a strange, cloaked figure in an old-fashioned slouch hat. He quipped, “Halloween must have come early this year.” But he said this only after a struggle, as they both were so astounded by the striking, eerie figure they could hardly speak.

He walked across the yard as if late for an appointment.

I was standing outside of myself looking at myself. My face seemed a comic-grotesque mask of dark forebodings. I was standing on the geographical edge of the green expanse of lawn.

Their communication was at an impasse, as neither the two young poetasters nor the man in the cloak and slouch hat could make each other understood. Their communication seemed like it was coming through across some sort of invisible barrier or filter that broke the sentences into meaningless fragments. Or, maybe the man was desperately trying to communicate in non-sequiturs.

“But I also?”

“Is this the way to the pants?”

“My pizza parlor is cold?

And other puzzling sentences came from both sides of the lawn. The children looked as if they were shouting behind the window, as if they were trapped. I was perfectly content to act as casual observer. Although, as perplexing as the situation was, I wanted some answers. I felt I had a right to this.

It was, after all, my book.


The Festival

Originally posted on Passages:

Walking the grounds in a world of prayer,
Past icons and crucifixes planted in the grass,
While the murmur of meditation hums out
Across a rolling landscape of pools and ice.
We’ve invited these people here
(But God knows who they all are)
And they’ve let their excrement flow,
To fling about
And leave in soft curls of stench like brown pythons
Of dung creeping boot heel in the boiling cold.
I’m here for the music,
To loll in bed with bic lighter and a trollop
And reminisce about the good old days
I never experienced.
The stage is set for the Second Coming
Man in cloak and robe is black like Jesus
Weeping from the well.
Arms outstretched, the sinister demagogue pounds the pavement,
Informing us that maleficent magic will not be tolerated.
Big man in a soft foam Stetson cowboy hat looks like he
Has come to be…

View original 178 more words

Books, Fiction, Humor, Short Stories, Young Adult

The Turkeys and the Wildcat

Once, the Wildcat had captured the Hare, and was about to devour the furry little thing, when the clever Hare piped up, saying, “Oh, Mr. Wildcat, please don’t eat me! I wouldn’t make more than a mouthful for you anyway.” And then the Hare thought of a brilliant plan.

“If you release me and let me live, I’ll make it so that you can have all the turkeys you want!”

And the Wildcat, seeing the logic of this, released the Hare, and then said, “Okay, but what do I have to do?”

The Hare said, “Well, for starters, just lie in the road and pretend to be dead. When I give the signal, you will spring to life, and gobble up the biggest gobbler!”

And so the Wildcat did as he was told. He went and lay down in the road and pretended to be dead,3 while the Hare went to the turkeys and said, “Our old enemy the Wildcat is lying dead in the road! Come, let us do a dance about his flyblown old corpse, and we will hit him with this stick.”

And so the turkeys, young and old, followed the Hare out to where the Wildcat lie, and told them to follow his lead, and do the dance, and hit the Wildcat with a stick.

“And,” he told the youngest one, “don’t forget to say ‘get the big Gobbler, get the biggest Gobbler!’ as you go!”

At this, a suspicious old turkey gobbled out, “Why do you want them to say that, Mr. Hare?”

And the Hare said, “It is what the young men say when they are at a war dance!”

And so they all began to dance around the Wildcat, and the Hare hit him with a stick. Then, the Hare let out a yell and exclaimed, “Get the biggest gobbler, the biggest gobbler, the biggest gobbler!”

And at hearing that, the Wildcat sprang to life, and devoured the entire family of Turkeys. But the Hare ran away and was safe.

(Source: Native American folktale.)

Books, Fiction, Humor, Short Stories, Young Adult

The Boar and the Chameleon

Once, the arrogant, pig-headed Boar said to the slow Chameleon, “You slow old thing! I am certainly better than you, for I can run everywhere, and you must always crawl on your belly in the dust!”
To which the tricky Chameleon replied, “Bah! You think you’re so special! I can beat you any day! Why, do you see that hill over there?”

“Yes,” said the Boar quizzically. “What of it?”

“Well,” said the Chameleon, “I’ll race you to the foot of that hill. If you beat me, I concede that you are, indeed, greater than I. If I beat you, however, you must concede that I am, n point of fact, every bit as strong and fast as you are!”

The Boar thought on it a moment, and then snorted, “Deal!”

And so the two lined up side by side, and the Boar stamped in the dirt, and huffed and puffed and snuffed, and rubbed his little boar hooves to warm them up and prepare, and then was off!

The tricky Chameleon though, did not prepare to run. In face, did not run at all, but simply grabbed a hold of the Boar’s tail, and rode him along until he reached, with great huffing and puffing and lots of smelly sweat, the bottom of the hill.

“Well Brother Chameleon, where art thou?”

The Chameleon let go of his tail and chirped, “Oh, Brother Boar, I am right here!”

At this, the Boar was greatly perplexed, for he did not see how a creature as slow-moving as the Chameleon could possibly have reached the bottom of the hill before him. So he said, “Well, I concede that, indeed, you have won that race. But, I need another before we can truly decide if I am greater, or you are my equal. So, let’s try it again!”

And so the stupid Boar once again snorted and stamped in the dust, kicking up a cloud as he took off like a hurricane, giving it his all and going as fast as he could to the next stop in the race.
The Chameleon however, once again simply grabbed onto the Boar’s tail, getting a free ride all the way.

Well, the Boar made it to the next stop in the race, huffing and puffing and sweating and exhausted. He called out, “Well, Brother Chameleon, where art thou?”

And the Chameleon once again chirped up, “I’m right here Brother Boar!”

The Boar was struck dumb with shock. However, being a creature that lived by the Law of the Jungle, he finally hung his head in shame, and said, “Okay, Brother Chameleon, you win. I concede that you are every bit as great as me.”

Never underestimate an opponent because of what he appears to be on the surface. You may be in for a surprise.

(Source: African folktale.)