It’s a night of the almost-full moon; and what’s more, reportedly there was a penumbral lunar eclipse earlier this evening. We spent a good deal of time in the backyard, enjoying a good autumnal bonfire of pine logs — also roasted hot dogs — and the moon was shining brilliant and white through the trees.
Before dark this evening, I took this picture of the fire ring I built using the bricks from my old bookshelves. Yes, these building-blocks of Old Pittsburgh have now made their way northwestward!
I’m jumping backward in time here to last weekend, when I started this post. That’s when I wrote the following:
Whew! You’ll never guess what I’ve been doing! I’ve just spent the past eight hours organizing my files. I’m not exactly done yet, but I’m taking a break, because I also wanted to write a post. You see, my wife is away at a church ladies’ retreat overnight, so it’s the perfect evening to have papers scattered and stacked all over the floor, and I don’t just mean in the Man Cave (our name for the room that is now my office — an ironic name, since it isn’t what most people would consider a “man cave.” Mine has a lot of desk space, office equipment, rustic bookshelves, and weird art. I’ll take a picture when it’s presentable). We got me a new, cheap, very used five-drawer file cabinet a few months back at Construction Junction — yes, the same dear store from which came the bricks and the boards that constituted my bookshelves at the old place! The cabinet has been hulking empty in the Man Cave since then. I finally am putting it to use. That’s a lot of kneeling, sorting, and getting up and down off the floor. I repeat: Whew!
October 18, 2013
Anyway, it’s October, and I was having a thought-provoking discussion with Nick (friend of this blog) about the traditional iconic monsters of Hallowe’en (the vampire, werewolf, Frankenstein’s monster, mummy, witch, ghost, and zombie) and what it is that scares us about each one. Between us, we came up with some fascinating theories (if I do say so myself!). I won’t steal his thunder here. Head on over to the Black Gate website for some delightful Hallowe’en fun! I’ll just say here that Nick has a fascinating prediction as to what monster is going to take the center of the pop culture stage as the zombie, a bit overripe, shuffles out of the spotlight. It may surprise you; but chances are, you’ve been creeped out by it at one time or another. Here’s the link: http://www.blackgate.com/2013/10/07/the-horror-oz-meets-the-scarecrow/
But here’s the point I wanted to address. In studying speculative fiction, one frequently encounters this quote from Lovecraft:
“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” — H. P. Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror in Literature
Now, you know I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Lovecraft fan. There’s no doubt in my mind that he was the greatest horror writer of the 20th century, even as Poe was the greatest of the 19th. But try as I might, I can’t quite agree with that quote. Babies are practically born screaming, true — but they’re screaming in discomfort, not fear. And yes, I’ll always be proud and delighted that the oldest, the very first story we have in any form of English is Beowulf, a monster story — it’s one of ours. And it’s literature. And it’s ours. Monsters. Warm glow.
But it seems apparent to me that fear is no older and no stronger than wonder. They’re two sides of the same coin.
Having served in the foundations of the Uncanny City, these bricks now circle the fires in our humble backyard, where we are still, as Paul Darcy Boles said, “All storytellers sitting around the cave of the world.”
Babies are born observing and absorbing. (And secreting and spewing, too — they do plenty of that.) Everything is new to them, and most things are amazing. As we gather around the fires in our caves, yes — our tales are inspired by the terror of the dangers around us, real and imagined. But they’re equally inspired by awe and fascination. “Tell us, traveler, of what you’ve seen. Was it terrible? Was it grand?”
Look at the fairy tales, which are the surest monitors: they feature dragons and witches and monsters . . . and they include glass mountains, magic lamps, and kingdoms in the sky. Wonder and terror.
At our wedding reception, we were highly amused by a glimpse of two very small girls on the dance floor, one from Julie’s side of the greater family and one from mine. “E” had “A” in a headlock and was gleefully dragging her around. “A” wore an expression that was the truest blend of happy excitement and mortal fear. She had come face-to-face with a person her own size who was full of fun, who was utterly original, and who might do absolutely anything. “A”‘s world had suddenly shifted and gotten bigger in that magical night of family, friends, joy, and music.
Tonight’s fire
My wife talks of my “theology of October.” If the vampire recoils from a crucifix, then the story declares that the demon fears the resurrected Lord, Who has power over evil. Amid the darkness, the Light shines all the brighter. We need the Light because we live in the vale of shadow, where the jack-o’-lantern’s infernal eyes glow. I can enjoy tales of the creepiest and most cosmic horror, because I feel completely safe. I know that beyond the chaos and sometimes unspeakable and inexplicable pain of this world, the ending is happy. I know that my Redeemer lives. “We shall not all sleep,” Scripture says, “but we shall all be changed; in an instant–in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet . . . and the dead shall be raised incorruptible.”
Isn’t Hallowe’en all about change? This is the threshold season. The sun crosses the line; the shadows arrive; the trees put on their golden, blazing finery and then disrobe for sleep. In this season, we turn back to the fire. We come in from outdoors. Smooth pumpkins become faces — they become heads, glowing in the night, baleful, gleeful, wicked, clownish, merry. Dry leaves become instruments, rattling in the dark where bandogs howl. On All Hallows Eve, we transform. Children become beings fanciful and strange.
I’m going to quote from my story “The Bone Man” here (Fantasy & Science Fiction, December 2007):
“Half a block from the V.F.W., he was already among the costumed participants of the parade, who milled around adjusting each other’s wings or cloaks or headgear, receiving numbers for the judging, holding muffled conversation through their masks. As in the photos, the costumes were mostly good, some astoundingly so. Modern movie characters mingled with the old traditionals, the creative originals, the truly bizarre. There were vampires with flour-white faces and red lips, a mummy bound head to foot with toilet paper, and probably close to a hundred witches of all sizes. There was a wolf-man who looked more like a dog-man, fur spilling out through the tatters of his clothes. Clowns and fairies sashayed and floated. A woman in a rubber crone mask clung to the arm of an old-fashioned policeman; Conlin speculated on whether their pairing was supposed to mean something. He saw a hunchback, a pirate, a samurai . . . an ordinary-looking gentleman who walked deftly on three legs . . . a tall thing with red-flashing eyes and the wings of a gigantic moth. Twice, bobbing through the crowd, he glimpsed a kid made up to look like a hideous dwarf. Or maybe an ugly dwarf only lightly made up.”
And one more quote — this is the Invocation from Book I of Ovid’s The Metamorphoses:
“Now I shall tell of things that change, new being / Out of old: since you, O Gods, created / Mutable arts and gifts, give me the voice / To tell the shifting story of the world / From its beginning to the present hour.”
Ovid knew. The story of the world is the story of change, new springing out of the old. “The road goes ever on and on, / Down from the door where it began.” Tolkien sang it. Richard Adams told it: “The primroses were over.” We must make journeys; we must find new homes. We must reach new heights, for there is no going back, and the light is waning.
But this October, this Hallowe’en, acknowledges the wonder of it all, the glow at the heart of mystery. I’ll close off with the memory of one year’s Hallowe’en costume, and I invite you, readers, to tell your stories again. Tell us about your favorites — the time you dressed up and/or went trick-or-treating, and it worked the best and stays in your memory all these years later. (Jedibabe, if you’ll tell your funniest of all stories again, I’d be extremely grateful! You know the one I mean — enough blog years have passed now that it will be new to many, and a welcome retelling for the rest of us!) Tell us about your frightening, your original, your funny, your greatest triumph of transformation — or your dumbest failure. Tell us about pranks, nostalgia, memory — about dressing up for Hallowe’en!
Here’s my memory:
I had a really cool, full-head gorilla mask that my dad had ordered for me from a magazine, probably Famous Monsters of Filmland. But what can you do with only a mask? My mom knew what to do: she walked me the few blocks from our bookstore to the Goodwill, where in short order we found a long, black, fake-fur coat the exact hue and texture of the hair on the mask. A few coins paid . . . an evening of snipping and stitching, and voila! I had a full-body gorilla suit with arms and legs, completed by furry black mittens of Mom’s.
How fantastic our Hallowe’en Parade in my hometown used to be! Maybe my idealized memories of childhood are augmenting it, but I recall that it had something like a hundred entrants, both individuals and groups, and even floats pulled behind trucks and tractors. The best moment with my gorilla suit was when I made my grand entrance to the pre-Parade lineup. I had my parents park a block or two away and unleash me out of the car. As a gorilla, I shambled my way to where all the other participants were milling about, getting their numbers to wear for the judging. I came around the corner by Memorial School (you’ve seen it as Barad-dur in Tolkien’s cover for The Return of the King) . . . I walked north toward the post office, into the crowds. When I appeared under the pale glow of the first streetlight, there were some satisfying wide-eyed glances. There was a gasp or two, a nudge, a whisper. I don’t think it’s just the embellishment of memory — I think some people actually shrank away from me. Because you see, I wasn’t a six-year-old kid in a costume. I was a gorilla. I was King Kong, lurching out of a black October night.
It’s a great holiday. Please, friends of the blog, tell us your stories! Any Hallowe’en story is fair game, but “costumes” is a good theme to work with. Happy October!
Christopher L. Martin says: 
fsdthreshold 
Holly J. Beard 
Jedibabe 
Marquee Movies 