In high summer, after a season of weird composition and the contemplation of vast, interstellar horrors, Lovecraft sought out the soothing and familiar architecture of Providence. It calmed his nervous disposition and the gnawing gestations of an ill-fated heredity.
At the apex of a hillside, where the horizon met the sky, in the cool air just before the twilight time of dreams, he encountered a structure heretofore unseen in his usual journeys. Elongated and compressed between its neighbors as if it had somehow just appeared there, it was not quite a witch house, yet its angles were all wrong. Its whitewash had been peeled away by the curious hands of wind and the rain, revealing deep scars and splinters of wood. The second story projected out and over the cobblestones and cast a long shadow which resulted in a sudden reduction of temperature. It was perfectly explainable, yet sojourning in its pall made him shudder and filled him with a feeling of unknown dread.
In the lower corner of the gable's glass, something stared out at him, or so it seemed, for he was still too far away to view it with precision. Moving closer, it appeared flat and motionless like rice paper. Narrowing his eyes, it instantly transmogrified into a sallow, oval shape then soon took on blurred dimensions as if vibrating at a great speed. In the moment that it took to ascertain whether what he saw was reality, it darted down and away.
The porch swing sang on its rusty chains. A silver whistle of metallic wind parted veils of red lace. Shadows of ivy rustled serpentine across white pillars. The sear door drifted open on hinges, silent.
Scaling resilient risers and stepping over the threshold of time, he descended on the stairway of sleep into the mirrored cavern of the stars.
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
[genre:weird fiction essay, the original text,
hand written notebooks of L.P. Van Ness]
Sunday, December 23, 2018
Saturday, December 22, 2018
Ambrose Bierce's Portal Trap
Credited by Lovecraft in "Supernatural Horror in Literature" as a writer of tales that "admit the malignly supernatural and form a leading element in America's fund of Weird literature," it is my observation that Ambrose Bierce also introduced the motif of the portal trap to Weird fiction. Two fine examples are "The Spook House" and "The Difficulty of Crossing a Field." The first tale features a doorway, the other a gateway; each one concludes with unexplained disappearances of personages after moving through these unexpected and malevolent thresholds. Bierce's own unexplained erasure is legendary. Perhaps through his extended travels, he had knowledge of ley lines and nodes. I have always been fascinated by the notion that the legendary originator of portal traps somehow shared the fate of the protagonists of these stories.
Though mainly concerned with automatic writing, the concept of which I 've always regarded as a portal of the pen; it is also interesting to note that W.B. Yeats experimented with portals as evidenced in "A Vision" and his discussion of meditating on a candle's flame then transferring one's vision on any blank wall, whereby geometric doorways, such as a triangle for Fire or square for Earth, would form and allow communications with Elementals of each Realm.
The notion of portals can be regarded as either heady or silly stuff, depending on one's education through life experience; nevertheless, the concept being a major feature of Lovecraft's work is in itself a matter of the truly High Weird. If I were to exemplify my personal encounters, readers might dismiss my overall ability to reason or wink at an over abundant imagination. As related in my tale, "It Wasn't Quite Halloween," since adolescence I have been able to see things literally manifest themselves from "out of the woodwork."
In summation, on further reading of his tales one will discover that Bierce was the originator of the motif of the portal trap in Weird fiction. Apart from arcane texts, does anyone have knowledge of earlier literary examples of such devious doorways?
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
[genre: weird fiction essay, the original text,
hand written notebooks of L.P. Van Ness]
Though mainly concerned with automatic writing, the concept of which I 've always regarded as a portal of the pen; it is also interesting to note that W.B. Yeats experimented with portals as evidenced in "A Vision" and his discussion of meditating on a candle's flame then transferring one's vision on any blank wall, whereby geometric doorways, such as a triangle for Fire or square for Earth, would form and allow communications with Elementals of each Realm.
The notion of portals can be regarded as either heady or silly stuff, depending on one's education through life experience; nevertheless, the concept being a major feature of Lovecraft's work is in itself a matter of the truly High Weird. If I were to exemplify my personal encounters, readers might dismiss my overall ability to reason or wink at an over abundant imagination. As related in my tale, "It Wasn't Quite Halloween," since adolescence I have been able to see things literally manifest themselves from "out of the woodwork."
In summation, on further reading of his tales one will discover that Bierce was the originator of the motif of the portal trap in Weird fiction. Apart from arcane texts, does anyone have knowledge of earlier literary examples of such devious doorways?
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
[genre: weird fiction essay, the original text,
hand written notebooks of L.P. Van Ness]
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
The Darkest Days of December-ii.
His excursion for the gathering of warmth had been successful, and he added every twig and branch to his growing surplus of firewood. He checked his canned supplies and the root cellar. Whatever was out there had not yet made an attempt at his September harvest. Reevaluating the horror of what he had now allowed himself to remember observing, they were extremely feral in manners. They had not been satisfied with merely draining but had also slashed, ripped, dismembered and often disemboweled his livestock. He had seen other things too. Perhaps it was best to stay near the farmhouse to protect his food. He remained less concerned about the necessities of survival until spring, more concerned now about protecting them and completely perplexed by the eerie, encompassing shroud above him during the daytime and continuing silence of the living all around him with exception of the restless, wailing wind. After all, hadn't these always been the darkest hours of the year? Yet, the moon should have been nearing its fullness and its traverse had not illuminated any portion behind them nor was any starlight seen for there were no breaks in the clouds.
He took a humble meal and several cups of melted snow heated on the wood burning stove. Though he was losing weight, he was lean and hard from toiling in his summer fields. His beard and long hair helped to keep him warm. There was time enough now to seek solace in his library. He examined the arrow that he discovered well within his acreage. Unlike the protagonist in "To Build a Fire," he would neither run out of matches nor did he have a dog as his only companion, and he would not venture outside alone again. Perhaps the wisest of all have been the poets whose conciseness and precision with words reduce volumes of contemplative thought into a definite, memorable solution. He searched his memory for an inspiring means of understanding then searched through the shelves once again. Neither by fire nor ice, he reasoned. He searched further and spent the remainder of the day meditating eon the modernist meaning behind the often misunderstood context of "The Four Quartets."
The absence of colour of the snowy landscape and the sameness of the leafless trees reminded him that he had not enjoyed the beauty of a sunrise or sunset for weeks. Keeping his vigil in the farmhouse from the superior vantage of the height of the upper rooms, he could still sense that something was out there roaming in the woods. The dusk would arrive soon. As on previous nights, he lowered the wicks on his antique kerosene lamps and watched and waited, for he had never been afraid of the darkness. That which thrived and hunted all around him in the stealth of darkness would be foolish to underestimate his resolve. Young and able and set and content with his newly enhanced philosophy of stoicism, he was destined to survive. Whether during the day or night, the autumnal dark hours passed without enumeration for time seemed somehow unimportant. The gray light diminished slowly then completely and absolute darkness reigned once again.
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
"The Darkest Days of December" parts i and ii [genre:cosmic fiction] was published on this blogspot in December of 2018 and will be revised for print and include the remaining parts and dénouement at a latter date.
He took a humble meal and several cups of melted snow heated on the wood burning stove. Though he was losing weight, he was lean and hard from toiling in his summer fields. His beard and long hair helped to keep him warm. There was time enough now to seek solace in his library. He examined the arrow that he discovered well within his acreage. Unlike the protagonist in "To Build a Fire," he would neither run out of matches nor did he have a dog as his only companion, and he would not venture outside alone again. Perhaps the wisest of all have been the poets whose conciseness and precision with words reduce volumes of contemplative thought into a definite, memorable solution. He searched his memory for an inspiring means of understanding then searched through the shelves once again. Neither by fire nor ice, he reasoned. He searched further and spent the remainder of the day meditating eon the modernist meaning behind the often misunderstood context of "The Four Quartets."
The absence of colour of the snowy landscape and the sameness of the leafless trees reminded him that he had not enjoyed the beauty of a sunrise or sunset for weeks. Keeping his vigil in the farmhouse from the superior vantage of the height of the upper rooms, he could still sense that something was out there roaming in the woods. The dusk would arrive soon. As on previous nights, he lowered the wicks on his antique kerosene lamps and watched and waited, for he had never been afraid of the darkness. That which thrived and hunted all around him in the stealth of darkness would be foolish to underestimate his resolve. Young and able and set and content with his newly enhanced philosophy of stoicism, he was destined to survive. Whether during the day or night, the autumnal dark hours passed without enumeration for time seemed somehow unimportant. The gray light diminished slowly then completely and absolute darkness reigned once again.
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
"The Darkest Days of December" parts i and ii [genre:cosmic fiction] was published on this blogspot in December of 2018 and will be revised for print and include the remaining parts and dénouement at a latter date.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
The Darkest Days of December- i.
The lawless situation of an instantaneous un-civilization now gave them plenty of opportunity to feast. Any illumination at night was necessary to dissuade whatever was out there. The hopeful supernal beauty of starlight was rarely seen. The anticipation of soothing moonlight was often also obscured by leaden, gray clouds. At first, he tried to imagine what might be going down with kin in distant towns. Once he had returned home, this concern did not trouble him for long. Accumulating an extensive library, he had always liked to read and live his own life. He soon completely dismissed any thinking about elsewhere. It was best to focus on the here and now. The darkest hours of December's days and nights are longer in the north than elsewhere, however he knew that which was seemingly endless would eventually progress; ironically it would begin, second by second and minute by minute, after the first day of winter.
The farmhouse was situated on a hillside and surrounded by hundreds of foreboding acres of virile boreal woodlands, he didn't have a neighbor for miles nor had he seen another human being for weeks. Fortunately, the September harvest had been bountiful, so he would survive. From the secure vantage point of the parlor, the lonesome wind wailed as snow devils swept across the open fields and logs crackled as they settled in the stoves and fireplace. Nevertheless, he knew something else was near. Little by little, his livestock had been drained of their essence of life. It would only be a matter of time before one of them coveted the sound of a mortal's strong heartbeat and the flow of blood through richer veins. He assumed they might also be drawn by the smell of smoke from any chimney. Although unforeseen snow and these worrisome thoughts would sometimes occur at dusk, he had no trepidation himself for he was wise.
He had taken to the vigil of staying up all night until well after dawn then sleeping through the sunlit morning hours past noon. With every what he called "sunrise afternoon," he prepared himself for a brief outside excursion. There was always an eerie shroud of cloudy darkness above and silence all around. The tracks of deer or wolves in the crisp, thawing snow could no longer he seen nor could be heard the rustle of winging crows disturbed from treetops by his presence. Crossing the earthen bridge, chunks of snow splattered from tall limbs overhead, inky currents of air snaked and spread their way under thin sheets of ice on the creeks. Although he had plenty of cords of winter wood, he would continue to walk his central trails and gather up warmth wherever twigs or dry branches could be found. The way things were now, living with daily uncertainty, the idea of a calendar seemed meaningless, and at the end of each busy and satisfying hike, he would move the hands of the mantle's silent ebony clock and set them on the next hour to mark the passing of days.
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
The farmhouse was situated on a hillside and surrounded by hundreds of foreboding acres of virile boreal woodlands, he didn't have a neighbor for miles nor had he seen another human being for weeks. Fortunately, the September harvest had been bountiful, so he would survive. From the secure vantage point of the parlor, the lonesome wind wailed as snow devils swept across the open fields and logs crackled as they settled in the stoves and fireplace. Nevertheless, he knew something else was near. Little by little, his livestock had been drained of their essence of life. It would only be a matter of time before one of them coveted the sound of a mortal's strong heartbeat and the flow of blood through richer veins. He assumed they might also be drawn by the smell of smoke from any chimney. Although unforeseen snow and these worrisome thoughts would sometimes occur at dusk, he had no trepidation himself for he was wise.
He had taken to the vigil of staying up all night until well after dawn then sleeping through the sunlit morning hours past noon. With every what he called "sunrise afternoon," he prepared himself for a brief outside excursion. There was always an eerie shroud of cloudy darkness above and silence all around. The tracks of deer or wolves in the crisp, thawing snow could no longer he seen nor could be heard the rustle of winging crows disturbed from treetops by his presence. Crossing the earthen bridge, chunks of snow splattered from tall limbs overhead, inky currents of air snaked and spread their way under thin sheets of ice on the creeks. Although he had plenty of cords of winter wood, he would continue to walk his central trails and gather up warmth wherever twigs or dry branches could be found. The way things were now, living with daily uncertainty, the idea of a calendar seemed meaningless, and at the end of each busy and satisfying hike, he would move the hands of the mantle's silent ebony clock and set them on the next hour to mark the passing of days.
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
Monday, December 17, 2018
A Shimmering Vortex of Snow
Stepping lightly from the looking glass, Alice did not return alone. Does something else speak through her or are her words her own?
December's double moon prophesized the demise of not only the year but a decade, resolving itself in a duplicitous image of inverted correspondences, a hieroglyphic code on the corrugated wall of Nightmare. Erudite absorption consumed the isotopes of collective being as it glided over a dreamscape of ashes, for the intensity of its touch set Chronis to cinders.
Like many of you, Chance was a dreamer and seeker after arcane knowledge and power. He often found inspiration in the weather. It had been a ravenous storm. Throughout the night, snow fell like feathers torn from swans by timberwolves. Seen by many as a perpetual in-of-doors time of the year, he welcomed the smothering layers of accumulation. Having survived a sudden blizzard in the warm hollow of a snow cave, he was no amateur when it came to the practice of winter survival. When the midday sun peered through cataract-clouds and the wind was still, he decided it was an excellent opportunity to strap on his snowshoes and venture out into the open field.
Guided across the magnificent desolation by an elemental whose words whispered through progeny-cones and aromatic needles of pine, much like the carver of Hawthorne's tale, he was startled by such preternatural beauty, a woman with fringed deerskin pants, holding two white owl feathers over her eyes. She led him to the threshold of a silver thread of water. Stepping over to the other side, time accelerated itself into a spontaneous twilight. The temperature dropped sharply; his breath crystalized on his scarf, lashes and brows. Having some experience with rifts in nature, it occurred to him all he had to do was simply jump back over to the other side, turning time back on itself again. On completion of this simple motion , the darkness still remained. Icy stars bloomed in the garden of infinity, gathering themselves into a laurel wreath, surrounding and crowning the supernal moon. There was no silence more hypnotic than the northern woodland's hush. The interstellar contemplation of the vastness of the universe stranded him in thought. It was not an invocation to worship but a summons to understanding.
Chance was discovered the next morning not far from the silver thread of water, his gaze lifted toward the sky, stars fixed in their mirrors, a watcher at the gate and keeper of the key, frozen upright where he stood. All was above as it was below, for the Muse of the Apocalypse had descended in a shimmering vortex of snow.
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
[genre: cosmic fear, the original text,
hand written notebooks of L.P. Van Ness]
December's double moon prophesized the demise of not only the year but a decade, resolving itself in a duplicitous image of inverted correspondences, a hieroglyphic code on the corrugated wall of Nightmare. Erudite absorption consumed the isotopes of collective being as it glided over a dreamscape of ashes, for the intensity of its touch set Chronis to cinders.
Like many of you, Chance was a dreamer and seeker after arcane knowledge and power. He often found inspiration in the weather. It had been a ravenous storm. Throughout the night, snow fell like feathers torn from swans by timberwolves. Seen by many as a perpetual in-of-doors time of the year, he welcomed the smothering layers of accumulation. Having survived a sudden blizzard in the warm hollow of a snow cave, he was no amateur when it came to the practice of winter survival. When the midday sun peered through cataract-clouds and the wind was still, he decided it was an excellent opportunity to strap on his snowshoes and venture out into the open field.
Guided across the magnificent desolation by an elemental whose words whispered through progeny-cones and aromatic needles of pine, much like the carver of Hawthorne's tale, he was startled by such preternatural beauty, a woman with fringed deerskin pants, holding two white owl feathers over her eyes. She led him to the threshold of a silver thread of water. Stepping over to the other side, time accelerated itself into a spontaneous twilight. The temperature dropped sharply; his breath crystalized on his scarf, lashes and brows. Having some experience with rifts in nature, it occurred to him all he had to do was simply jump back over to the other side, turning time back on itself again. On completion of this simple motion , the darkness still remained. Icy stars bloomed in the garden of infinity, gathering themselves into a laurel wreath, surrounding and crowning the supernal moon. There was no silence more hypnotic than the northern woodland's hush. The interstellar contemplation of the vastness of the universe stranded him in thought. It was not an invocation to worship but a summons to understanding.
Chance was discovered the next morning not far from the silver thread of water, his gaze lifted toward the sky, stars fixed in their mirrors, a watcher at the gate and keeper of the key, frozen upright where he stood. All was above as it was below, for the Muse of the Apocalypse had descended in a shimmering vortex of snow.
©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.
[genre: cosmic fear, the original text,
hand written notebooks of L.P. Van Ness]
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