Thursday, October 31, 2013

bad audio



Strange.  I decided to lessen my involvement online and have deactivated myself on Facebook.  Now, to-day, I discover'd that ye recorded audio on my YouTube page is totally awful.  If I cannot get it fixed, then I shall also "retire" from doing videos there.  That means that this blog will be the one and only place online for y'all to find me.  Maybe it's a sign from ye Outer Ghods that I need to fade--fade away..................

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

missing Providence


Ye above photo was taken on one of my happiest nights, when we gather'd in ye Providence Athenaeum on ye Thursday night when S. T. gave his magnificent speech at ye First Baptist Church.  This was the scene of ye unveiling of the Lovecraft Bronze Bust.  I'm seen here with S. T. and Donavan K. Loucks (who runs ye finest Lovecraft site of all time, The H. P. Lovecraft Archive www.hplovecraft.com).  This room had a display, on loan from Hay Library, of original Lovecraft manuscripts, sketches he made of Cthulhu and ye ghouls in "Pickman's Model," original artwork that Robert Bloch painted and sent to Lovecraft when Bloch was a teenager, rare books &c &c &c.

Although I am unable to concentrate on new writing at ye moment, when I first return'd from Providence and NecronomiCon I found myself overflowing with creative energy, and I wrote a number of new things.  One of the new tales, a new story set in mine beloved Kingsport, was accepted by S. T. for Black Wings IV, and that pleas'd me as I thought I wouldn't be able to contribute a yarn to that anthology.  I have an idea for a story I want to submit to the fifth volume in S. T.'s series, a sexy number that borrows influences from "The Picture in the House" and "Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family."  This latter story is a good example of how some wee mention in a Lovecraft tale can set my imagination churning and inspire new weird fiction of my own.  In the story, as ye author relates the family history of the doom'd clan, he mentions:  "Sir Alfred Jermyn was a baronet before his fourth birthday, but his tastes never matched his title.  At twenty he joined a band of music-hall performers, and at thirty-six had deserted his wife and child to travel with an itinerant American circus."  Now there, in two sentences, is the plot germ for what could in itself be a fascinating story of the cursed Jermyn line.  Did the child of he and his deserted wife wear ye family stigmatic?  What happened to that child?  In my story idea, I have the great granddaughter of that union arrive in Arkham, during a bike tour of New England, and take shelter from a storm in a ramshackle barn adjacent to a strange old crumbling house, a house similar in aura to the one described in "The Picture in the House."  This is the way in which Lovecraft's fiction continues to inspire my own Lovecraftian weird fiction, and it is an example of what it means to be an obsess'd Lovecraft fanboy who cannot cease in ye writing of tales "in ye Lovecraft tradition."

I'm taking a wee break from writing, I think.  I want to dream about Providence, and then I will begin to write the new book, IN DARK OF PROVIDENCE, in which moft of ye tales will be set in Providence.  The book will be publish'd by Hippocampus Press, and we hope to have it out just in time for ye next NecronomiCon in 2015.  S. T. will be working with me as my editor.


Tuesday, October 29, 2013

life



I'm going through a weird "life crisis" thing that I really need to deal with.  In order to do that I am ridding myself of much of the Internet world, limiting myself to writing this blog and recording vlog updates on YouTube, whut I will post here.  I've been dealing with stress and weirdness since my mother's death in February, feeling like a lost soul and all of that crap.  I think it has made me really sick mentally and emotionally, and I'm feeling weird up ye ass.  Not exactly certain of what I need to do, but one thing I know I need is quiet isolation from the world.  For the past month the only thing I want to do, that I enjoy, is sitting in my wonderful living room and reading, drinking in ye classics of World Literature.  Dante, Milton, Shakespeare, the Scriptures, classic poetry -- they feed my soul and calm my mind.  Literature saves my life, saves me from myself.  One huge disappointment has been my inability, for almoft a month now, to write.  I had convinced myself, after returning from Providence, that I was now able to write easily, to write lots of new stuff.  It lasted for a few weeks, and then it died.  

Anyway, I need to rest and heal.  I need to find myself once more on the path called Life.  I mean to do so, if it kills me.

Monday, October 21, 2013

Shakespeare Wrote Shakespeare



This stupid "documentary" was on telly to-night, and I accidentally came across it just as it was beginning.  As soon as the one woman began to pronounce the Shakespeare family name as "Shakspere," I turned it off.  Spelling of names was notoriously inconsistent in the 1600's, but for me there is plenty of evidence that the Stratford family spelled their name "Shakespeare."  The Stratford Parish Register Entries often name, in christening records, as "Shakspere," The burial register for the playwright's brothers, Gilbert (bury'd 3 February 1612) and Richard (bury'd 1613) have the name spell'd "Shakspeare."  The morons who insist on spelling the Stratford poet's name "Shakspere" &c do so because of the very poor signatures the poet left behind, in his will and other papers.  But we have Gilbert's signature of 1609, which clearly has an "e" after "Shak":


And we have the tomb of Shakespeare's younger brother, Edmund, who followed his elder brother to London and became a player on the stage, and who passed away in 1607.  There the family name is engraved for all to see, thus:
spell'd exactly as the name was spelled by the playwright, or of the playwright in records of his theatrical troops, royal records in which such matters were strictly correct.  The player William Shakespeare was thus named, with that spelling.  And so when these idiots speak of him as "Shakspere,"they are ignoring solid historical fact.

The matter of Shakespeare's not leaving behind any manuscripts of his plays is obviously answer'd.  The plays were the property of his troop.  How else could two of his troop's fellow actors, John Heminges and Henry Condell, compile their excellent First Folio?  What was their source of these texts?  Obviously, they own'd ye original manuscripts.  Those who wou'd deny that Shakespeare wrote his plays can do so only by ignoring solid historical fact.

That's why, as soon as I heard the mispronunciation of Shakespeare's family name by this woman who is ignorant of historical fact, I turn'd off ye this worthless program, and put on one of my audio discs of Shakespeare's plays, and drank in the music of his genius.  Selah.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Available for pre-order at Amazon!



This magnificent edition of CAS is available for pre-order at Amazon, as trade pb or Kindle.  I am especially looking forward to reading editor Joshi's in-depth Introduction to the book, and perusing his always-fascinating Notes.  Whoohoo!

Saturday, October 5, 2013

My Kickstarter Group's acrostic sonnet in memory of Poe




Enchanted by the aura of the past.
Daylight muted, all we ask.
Ghostly figures from memory evoked
Are present with us, spirits provoked.
Receding echoes of the past resound anew,
Allan Poe hovers just out of view.
Light-hearted voices talk of dark matters,
Lingering listing gravestones lay scattered.
Antient forms weave words into the air,
Nodding phantoms that whisper of despair.
Pensive sorrow is the ever-song
On your mortal lips.  You limped along,
Entranc'd by fragile beauty's memory.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Untitled Prose-Poem

~~ eerie artwork by JORDAN KRALL, ye kralling kaos ~~

I see you flying over me, inside the amber sky, and as I watch your ebony feathers fall, to me.  Although I am not a thing of tar, your feathers adhere to my being, clothing me in black ridiculousness.  Soft, midnight feathers, dancing in the gentle wind, and I dance too, beneath the amber sky, and purse my lips so as to echo your warbling far above me.  I see you still, now nude of feathers, pale freaks of meat and bone that circle in the sky.  Your crowing cries could tell me secrets if I understood your language.  Lifting my hands to my head, I pat your feathers deeper into my flesh, until their pointed tips pierce my brain.  Oh, then I visualize the arcane things that you have glanced while circling o'er the globe.  Ah, how my brain tickles with new perception, how my small eyes widen as I see the world anew.  I learn the idiom of wind, as sunset bleeds into the yellow sky; and as I lift my arms that daemon-wind takes hold of me, and I soar, a thing new-made, into the crimson sky.  There I hover, as blur of dark silhouette that fades as light of day becomes extinct, until the night and I are one.  And then the moon, thing of splendor, illuminates my wide eyes, and chills my brain, and teaches me the loneliness of dry dead light.