Hometown Christmas dinner cancelled or delayed

The boy and my partner have the cold-like symptoms of you-know-what. The Covid Omnicron strain, or a bad headcold. Headache, chills, upset stomach-those sorts of symptoms.

They say you should assume that anyone with these symptoms likely has Covid and to isolate for ten days.

There are no more PCR tests (the rapid test you take if you have symptoms) available in our city. Ottawa Public Health is no longer taking calls or providing individual guidance, as they are overrun.

We are looking at isolating for ten days. Christmas in my hometown, where we were going to gather to honour the memory and Boxing-Day-supper tradition of my recently deceased sister, is essentially cancelled. We are staying put. 

Suffice to say that I have had it with 2021, with Covid, with my sister dying of cancer, and any other aches and pains this bastard of a year has wrought. 

We always have our own Christmas here, before travelling Christmas day, at least, so we have that, and each other.

John Candy and Catherine O'Hara in "Home Alone"

So, here is one of many reasons Canada's John Candy was brilliant. In "Home Alone", the 1990 Macaulay Culkin vehicle of debatable merit, Candy portrayed Gus Polinski, the Polka King of the Midwest, in a cameo. Polinski kindly gives Kate McCallister (Catherine O'Hara, another Canadian great) a ride home to check on her abandoned son. Their exchange in the band's van incudes this wonderful bit. Gus explains that he was indeed, ah, forgetful with one of his kids.

(I had originally included the transcript, but think this post is better without. I could tell you, or I could show you. And with the clip at a mere 49 seconds, you could do worse trying to improve this abysmal year.)

So, merry Christmas, happy holidays, happy solstice and happy everything. And don't leave any loved ones behind, eh?

Here's the scene.

YOUTUBE.COM

Home Alone - "Kid Left at the Morgue" - John Candy. Best scene in the movie.

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Moon glimpse

Ah, there she is or he is, or they are. With cold yet dextrous fingers, I capture a fraction of the moon's waxing gibbous beauty.

Light: Another book review

I won't kiss and tell, but I will mention a good note, a literal one, to nearly close out desultory 2021. 

In the freelance writimg business, there still exist pro book reviewers such as myself who shop around pitches for reviews they want to do umtil the right editor answers "Yes". I got this reply after some follow up.

"This review sounds great and I'm definitely interested."

Fallow time

I have tried to be articulate, I really have, but I think I am in too much pain to blog much anymore, at least for a while. I externalize my pain, through frustration and anger and moodiness and acting impulsively, ritualistically, but it lurks still, on the periphery, waiting. Might be time to pull back and let this blog go fallow for a while I try to come to terms with my grief, or whatever the hell it is I  am attempting to do.

Used to; a note about loss

I used to take pictures of the moon, sepulchral, luminous, transfixing, displacing me and my thoughts, my ideas run amok, like one one of my characters far afield over brook and fallen log. 

Used to wander the streets at night, down by the river, down the street by an apartment with golden-glowing windows, like liquid welcome in the night. 

Also used to write and used to lose myself in flight of fancy. 

But now I have stopped snapping shots, stopped meandering, stopped writing, so that all that remains, as the tide pulls out, are my ideas. 

And they are fine ideas, perhaps superb ones, enough even for dreams, for stories, maybe even novellas or books, but I can only play with them and turn them over and not help them realize their true shape. 

It's grief, I know, but not the kind you see in so many films where characters burst into weeping. It's deeper. The tears are a release of the sadness, an expression, not the bereaving itself. 

I used to feel this stress and mournfulness in my hips and stomach. Now this heaviness has moved up to occupy my shoulders, my chest, my head. You think you know about sadness until you lose someone you love . Then all you've got is this weight in  your stomach, this pull, this leadenness, as everyone treats you as though you are fragile as glass. 

Comic scribe Al Ewing earns his Place among Incredible Hulk Mythos

I like this post about The Immortal Hulk issue 12 so much that I have decided to re-post it for fun, as the fifty-issue arc just wrapped up.

For both cover images - art by Alex Ross.

With issues 12 and 13 of The Immortal Hulk, British writer Al Ewing earns a place among Hulk myth builders such as legendary Incredible Hulk scribes Peter David and Bill Mantlo. Ewing knocks the walls down, expanding on Bruce Banner's abusive father, Bruce as a boy, the Hulk's multiple personalities, the nature of gamma radiation and the gamma blast, and the bond between Bruce and Hulk (which, surprisingly for a symbiotic relationship, or not so surprising, involves love). 

I should also add that these issues include Kabbalah metaphors, the rare redemption of an antagonist Crusher Creel (aka The Absorbing Man), and a battle between Hulk and a very Lovecraftian entity, The One Below All.

While Ewing has established an otherworldly, weird-horror tone for the title, the writer has proven he has things to say beyond a return of the character to his devious horror roots. Stan Lee originally envisioned the Hulk as a sort of Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde/Frankenstein's creature hybrid, who shed the meek form of egghead Bruce Banner at sundown to prowl the land at night. He was devious, articulate and smart, as Ewing portrays him now. (Hulk was also grey, until Stan "The Man" Lee deduced that it was cheaper to print the character as green. But I digress. 

It has been years since the character had such interesting and intelligent treatment - likely since the grey Hulk (or Mr. Fixit) inhabited the title back in the late 1980's and early 1990's. I should know, as I first collected The Incredible Hulk in the early 1980's. I stopped seriously collecting back in '98, when Peter David left the book after at 12-year run that I grew up with. 

However, I check in every so often to see how my old friends are doing. And I'm very glad that I checked in last year when Al Ewing came on as the new writer and Joe Bennett as the new regular interior artist. I just have to see where Ewing goes with this, with surprise after chillingly weird surprise. And you should, too.

Musing about the Original Captain Marvel

 

Always adored the original Captain Marvel, from Fawcett Comics, depending on the skillful execution of the treatment. There's just something fundamentally appealing to me about a comic character steeped in magic. The Big Red Cheese is now more widely known as Shazam (long story, worth watching a Youtube show such as Casually Comics). This character's heartily 1940's pulp-era vibe also helps cement my appreciation of the character. With a magic word, an orphan boy transforms into an adult hero with obvious pulp-cinema, matinee-idol looks and inspiration.

Earlier versions separated the boy and man characters; with CM as a separate heroic identity from ... somewhere? Likely hanging around  the Rock of Eternity, waiting on-call? The trend the past few decades has been to have orphan Billy Batson in charge when he is Captain Marvel as well.

Some more strident fans of other flagship DC Comics superheroes seem to often dislike CM. I have wondered whether if it is because of the obvious parallels to Superman (also a long story, which gets down into the weeds if you like that sort of thing) or simply that Captain Marvel's superpowers are explained as magical,  and not with the at-best pseudo scientific theory (which is almost joyously risible) that allows for Superman to fly, etc. In Captain Marvel's adventures, also, magic allows for, well, anything to happen, which can get ... delightfully bonkers, actually.  Other readers perhaps need to have better rules, however arbitrary, about knowing where the walls are?

I also find fascination in artists who genuflect over such a character throughout their careers, because obviously that archetypal hero speaks to something in them. Case in point? Brilliant comics-famous artist Jerry Ordway, whose pencils—and colouring and painting!—are exemplified above and below. 

After years of fans demanding it, DC reprinted for the first time the first arc of Ordway's and Peter Krause's The Power of Shazam! series along with Ordway's The Power of Shazam! graphic novel that kicked the series off in this hardcover, The Power of Shazam! Book One: In the Beginning. 

In The Power of Shazam! graphic novel Ordway went all-in with a  glorious retro, pulpy, Raiders of the Lost Arc-colour palette, which he painstakingly illustrated over more than a year. 

For the following monthly series, Ordway modernized and updated the hero's origins for the late 1980's, keeping it in line with Legends, the 1987 six-issue limited series that rebooted the DC Universe. He stuck to painting the covers at a reduced rate, while Krause pencilled the interiors.

.

From The Power of Shazam! graphic novel

Just trying to get through

Just trying to get through the days. There's no drink strong enough, and not green or beer or wine or spirts or distraction enough in the world to escape my sadness. So I stumble through. Some days are better than others. When I manage to get things done, whether cleaning the bathroom or vacuuming around the house, it's a small victory, to be sure, but a victory nonetheless.

Know what evidence of bereavement is? It is going to the downstairs bathroom and seeing piles of dust bunnies along the baseboard trim, a filth that has accrued during my two months of taking care of my sister, and living in two cities alternately, and not bothering to clean it. I don't clean the mess up, because. there is too much to do elsewhere in the house. In fact, there is two months' worth of things to catch up and resume some sort of semblance of a life.

I think about writing a lot. 

I let the most baroque ideas of the past weeks return from their safe submersion in the well, then let them age, like fine wine, to become what they want to become. As well, I glance askance at my incompletely revised second horror novel, cognizant of where I left things, characters paused, as though waiting for my directions or descriptions to continue them on their adventures. 

But generally, there's no writing lately. 

Also keeping a scant social media presence. I have limited patience for idle chitchat and moral indignation nowadays or educating others about whatever miscellany they insist on inquiring about, nor for people decrying having a bad year, for the reasons they cite. I am not in the business of citing my year's accomplishments at this stage, as I am not seeking approval or affirmation or encouragement or sympathy or, worse, pity. So I back-channel in and out of social media, making a connection here, a rare comment here, or there. At this stage of this miserable year, I am angry, saddened and removed, so it is just as well as I refrain from doom-scrolling or commenting ad much as possible. 

However, I must qualify my sentiments. Many friends, real-life, red-blooded friends, from my ex when I lived in London, England back in '98, to my crush in grade five to a friend in my hometown to my next-door neighbour to people I used to serve in comic-book retail to longtime friends of the family, have reached out with condolences regarding my recent death in the family. I find these missives touching and thoughtful. I'm grateful, although it has been difficult to read more than one or two of these messages of sympathy in a day.

In terms of a routine that I am trying to return to, I have some projects. One is a co-editing project, which I cannot reveal details about until the ink has dried on the contract. But I can say that it is a fun, macabre and delightful endeavor involving horror fiction, and a project unlike any I have never undertaken before.

Somehow, amid this turmoil, I landed some freelance reviewing work at a major U.S. speculative-fiction publication. There, I also found an editor sympathetic to my cause. Currently, I am reviewing U.S. writer Charles Payseur's short-story collection, The Burning Day and Other Strange Stories. While I can't give readers a glimpse of the betrothed before the wedding day (or the publication date of my review), I will say that Payseur's 22 stories are great bang for one's buck. He's also a very self-assured fantasy and sci-fi writer, both efficient and confident in his narrative voice. The lustrous cover, too, is likely my favourite of 2021, from any press, small or large (this one's Lethe Press, my publisher).

I have included an action shot of a freelance writer's life.

Down the trail, seeking solace

Down the trail,  I seek solace. In my younger days, in my hometown, I ran these paths, and I ran them well. Nowadays, I will take trail-time whenever and wherever I can, and get out and hike.

Clearing my head, with a walk in the forest, has become one of my healthiest coping mechanisms during Covid. I consider many things, my writing, life, parenting, and leave many behind, and just breathe and maybe snap pictures.

I like to think I'm no fool, but I know that presently I am trying to come terms with loss, one as debilitating as it is unbelievable. The gnarled and mysterious maple-tree trunks, the pips and thrashes in the brush, the birdsong out of sight, the gossamer clouds overhead, a smell of wild grass or honeysuckle, the (lately  unforgiving) breeze on my face, are all enough for me. They are beautiful, even though I think they shouldn't be, when others I love can no longer enjoy their beauty. I'm angry, sometimes quietly, and sometimes not.

Lately, I may also wander in and out of social media, treating it like a community bulletin board in a hallway. I tend to imagine the poster board on the concrete wall outside a high-school gymnasium,  the smells of stake sweat, dirty socks, rubber and all. 

But I find that, apart from wonderful instantaneous support with others across the neighborhood, city, country, or world, that there is a lot of chatter and time-spending there that isn't for me, and certainly not in my present state. Too much grief, for me, and too many other things to consider, like why bad people can carry on, merrily, while others, good people, are struck down by cancer too young.

So that is why I will be down the trail as much as I can, and  to try to walk through my anger, ease my heart and make some sense, if any, of the loss I carry with me, than physical weight.

Walking, aggrieved

Walked the streets of my youth

among the splayed halogen

shadows, pockets of light and mysteries

within staid brick, panel,

names of Leonard, Osborne,  Robertson

of dubious British bordertown lineage,

spread fingers of maple overhead,

a leaf-stripped late summer for

grieving,  thoughts scattershot, 

cracked pavement caulked with darkness,

and no comfort,  just shopworn

familiarity, glimpse of approaching headlights

of Second Street, thud-thud of tires to road, 

a silhouette  sparking a smoke in front

of old wide tenements, a shuffle past them,

a leave of myself, and

merciful empty wide pavement, an intractable 

path through a purgatory of living grief.

Hallloween, October Dreaming: A Note

Going through a family crisis. I haven't the heart or headspace to post anything new about Halloween reading (book, comics) or films this year. I can, though, repost a post from 2020 listing all of these peccadilloes. 

Previous Post from 2020

Autumn, for me, is the most beautiful and in some ways, the saddest, season. I'm in the same school as Ray Bradbury and Jack Kerouac on this one. While I certainly don't subscribe to everyone Kerouac suggests, I did journey through a significant Kerouac phase. Bradbury I have never fully recovered from. In fact, I am currently reading Jonathan R. Eller's Bradbury Beyond Apollo, the third biography in the astonishingly well-done series, the first being Becoming Bradbury and the second, Ray Bradbury Unbound.

For me, inspiration runs to a fever pitch even as the leaves turn, fall, and  the, heady wine-like smell seems to pervade the world. I used to always pen a Halloween story, from grade six or so onward, up through university, and afterward. It is no coincidence that my first novel, Town & Train, was literary horror. So, I am always seeking out Halloween viewing and reading. 

Over the years, on this blog, I have made the strong case for Hallowe'en films and comics and books. You can find links to all of these posts below:  

By Year

From 2019: Baseball-style Review: Glen Hirshberg’s The Ones Who Are Waving: Tales of the Strange, Sad and Wondrous

2017: Halloween Reads: Alex de Campi's and Jerry Ordway's Semiautomagic, de Campi's Grindhouse

2016: Best Halloween Movie Picks

2015: Scary Halloween reading, Lisa Morton, Halloween aficionado extraordinaire 

2014: Last-minute All Hallows' Eve reading

2013: Halloweenish Viewing for Five-year-olds

          Best (Read) in 2013: Peter Atkins' Rumours of the Marvellous

My debut horror novel, Town & Train

Town & Train: A Good, Spooky Halloween Read    

Creepy Viewing: It Follows

It Follows is Astonishing and Creepy: Film Review

Burden

Today, I discovered that when someone you love is dying of lung cancer, that they will give you back your short stories and novellas of yesteryear. 

I am touched they kept my earlier efforts.

But I would do almost anything to have my sibling stay, and in good health. I don't want these pieces of writing back, to be burdened with their return.

October, ruinous, heartbreaking

October moon, you reduce me to ruins in my tumuluous times. 

I cannot even seek solace in you in my grief. No use trying to think through my loved one's suffering, but only to act, react, reach the next crossroads of emotion, whether brief relief, sadness, or fleeting joy.

Such a beautiful moon, it breaks my heart.

Full Moon in Aries, over the Rideau Canal, Ottawa. October 20, 2021.

Autumnal and Pensive: Travelogue Films to Inspire

It is with a heavy heart that I turn from Mabon and the Equinox to the more pensive ponderings and puttering of autumn. Heavy, because I'm going through a lot. Hells, my house is going through a lot, from new adventures to stress to anxiety to panic attacks to heartbreak.

It's all change, which I've always struggled with, according to loved ones. But, generally, much of it is good. I'm grateful for so much, particularly the ludicrous and unlikely publishing and career. But right now, I feel I'm barely keeping up, if at all. As I have said other places, I feel like everything is moving too fast for me, and I am merely standing still in the midst of it all.

It all puts me in a mind of Eddie Vedder's song, "Guaranteed" from his Into the Wild soundtrack.

Got a mind full of questions and a teacher in my soul.
So it goes.
Don't come closer or I'll have to go.

As I turn more pensive, pondering how soon I can work through revisions of my upcoming short story collection Fear Itself, whether I can return to revising my second horror novel, refreshed and reinvigorated, whether I can swing a short-story trade with my currently dormant Little Workshop of Horrors or Queer Speculations writers' group, I feel the need to revisit films that have inspired me, literary or otherwise. 

Their uniting theme is expansiveness and, typically, travel. They're available somewhere, but I leave it to you, fair reader, to find them, wherever they are, in terms of entertainment platforms. Mine is not the role of the platform lister, but more of a guide, pointing anyone who wants to expand their horizons beyond simply escapist entertainment to quandaries of the human condition, to love, loss, tragedy. To inspiration. Maybe you have your own inspirational films. I would be happy to hear about those, too. Perhaps I've not seen them and they could open another new door for me. I like to think, also, that these films prove that the idea of the auteur's film is alive and well, but my argument admittedly has no basis, save that these movies seem earnest visions in these directors' capable hands.

Walter Salles' On the Road
I blogged an involved Sept. 26, 2013 review that you can find here about this stunning adaptation of Jack Kerouac's seminal 1957 Beat Generation novel, so I will not go very deeply into this film here. But I will say that Salles uses pivotal moments in protagonist Sal Paradise's life, moments that change him or give him pause, and posits that such moments inspired Kerouac to pen On the Road.  Versions of these pivots appear in the book. So it's not a straight-up adaptation, but rather a depiction of "What-ifs?", scenes cut from the original draft for either purposes of length of legal reasons, and often debaucherous. In one such instance, Neal Cassady's fictional avatar has sexual escapades with a travelling salesman (played by the inimitable Steve Buscemi) in order to get him and Sal a lift. In the novel, Kerouac worked up such moments as scenes. For those familiar with the book, the Road film is a treasure trove of Easter eggs and nods and winks to the book. As well, for anyone thinking that Salles glorifies the male ego flinging itself fearlessly across America, it's also unflinchingly honest in how Kerouac, his buddy Neal Cassady and other Beat Writers mistreated the women around them. In this regard, Elizabeth Moss as Galatea Dunkel, giving the boys what-for, shreds a scene to bits. In this way, female characters confront this sexism and misogyny more than once in the film, which is ironically one better than Ti' Jean did in his Road book. 

Sean Penn's Into the Wild

Penn's directorial effort is also a controversial number. He adapted Jon Krakauer's 1996 novel of the same name, about real-life Christopher McCandless who decided one day to burn his wallet, I.D., money and all, and go live off the grid for three years. I don't think I'm spoiling much to say this leads eventually to a demise, so be forewarned. There are lush travelogue shots. Emile Hirsch's earnest portrayal as Alexander Supertramp, his self-appointed moniker, Minor roles from Vince Vaughn as a satellite-pirating, contract harvest company owner Wayne Westerberg, and Catherine Keener (another older female actor that I harbor quite the torch for) as Jan Burres in a failing, burned-out hippie love affair with Rainey (Brian H. Dierker as Rainey), all round out and bolster this cautionary tale. It's about freedom and the failure of rugged individualism and, possibly, mental illness that, were it treated, might have saved the protagonist's life. Eddie Vedder's soundtrack soars, his baritone intonations carrying viewers across sweeping American vistas and more secluded wilderness. Do you want to hear the story behind the music? Here it is. The story goes that director Sean Penn and pal Eddie sat through the rough cut of Penn's Into the Wild, and Penn asked Eddie, would he like to do the soundtrack? Eddie agreed, for which I am inordinately grateful. I like to think this yarn is true. These two uncompromising individuals, bucking the trends, defy the odds in both the film industry and music industry, just chilling in front of Penn's film. What a wonderful buddy-buddy image. While the movie remains a controversial choice because of the mental-illness question that remains unanswered, it is still undeniably a thing of beauty. Thank you, Sean and Eddie.

Chloé Zhao's Nomadland

Frances McDormand, as always, shines in this adaptation of the—you guessed it—book of the same name by Jessica Bruder. Seeing a pattern in my inspirational films yet? McDormand plays Fern, who loses everything due to the Great Recession, decides to live out of her vehicle, without a permanent residence. She is far from alone, and there many others with stories like hers in the nomadic movement. Fern follows paid work across the mid-west, allowing for not only sprawling western beauty, but also fascinating scenes of the interior of WalMart. The daunting, giant-machine shots contrast completely with the breathy, big-sky scenes of the west, many landmarks of which I recognize from my travels in and around Alberta. There's even a brave skinny-dipping scene, for which McDormand deserves kudos. She plays her age, sixty-ish, which is a blessing for a woman in an industry that brutally ages women out of work unless they play a nagging maternal figure or elder or perhaps a mature seductress, unless they are a Laura Dern or ... a Robin Wright. But I'm getting ahead of myself, here. Fern's restless wanderings have a root cause, revealed in time by director Chloé Zhao. Fern's mournful adventures utterly clash with a staid homestead scene where she has a verbal dust-up with vacuous realtors at an otherwise-friendly family barbecue. Nomadland is simply marvelous, deserving a second viewing. It's also a deeply sad tale, a skewering critique of capitalism and how some individuals decide to take, simply, another road, leaving the idea of a domicile or home behind and finding their own community. Other nomads give their background stories that galvanized their resolve to live on the road. These scenes appear genuine, as in stories narrated by real people, not actors, and are so much sadder and real for it. Unlike the saccharine-sweet pipe dream of the perfect house and white picket fence and orderly life, arguably the most successful con of capitalism ever perpetrated, these stories ring true. The nomad's journeys hew close to the bone, a testament to the human spirit, instead of the endless consumption of consumer goods, whether they be ideas, or physical products.

Robin Wright's Land

Robin Wright stunned me in Land. The parallels to Nomadland go further than the title, as protagonist Edee (Robin Wright) purchases a decidedly off-the-grid acreage of mountain land in Wyoming. The mountains just outside of Calgary, Alberta, double for the state, likely because of lower production costs across the board (again, all of which look marvelously familiar to a regular Alberta visitor such as myself). Like Frances McDormand's Fern, Edee is in mourning, the viewer learns, but about whom Wright reveals in a slow-burning trick. My main qualm with Land was that Eden might actually succeed, alone, in her rugged attempt to survive in a log cabin, without even the least survivalist or camping know-how. My qualm was proven unfounded, though, about a half-hour in. My policy is a no-spoiler one, though, and this a plot-pivoting surprise worth discovering for oneself. Wright appears to be an Amazonian force of nature (an inside joke; she played Princess Diana's mother in the Wonder Woman films), though, as beautiful as ever at her age, and an understated actor in her directorial debut. Some parts are hard to take, as grief figures largely in her motivations. Like Nomadland, it is wise to keep a box of tissues at hand. There's an ending that's a little too pat, but still respectful. The music they overplay a little in parts, scenes where the nature sounds should, in my opinion, be the sole soundtrack. But what Land says about grief, about coping with it, about what we can do, and why we are here and who we are meant to connect with, is profound. Wright's debut is a not only a success, but a success that has something important to say. Kudos to Wright.

Jean-Marc Vallée's Wild

It should be noted that the 2014 film Wild,  directed by Jean-Marc Vallée and adapted from Cheryl Strayed's 2012 memoir Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, starring Reese Witherspoon, is also superb. The indomitable Laura Dern portrays her mother Bobbi Grey in the flashback segments in this story of addiction, grief, and getting in way over one's head. In a surprising bit of casting, Bobbi Lindstrom, the real-life daughter of Cheryl Strayed, plays six-year-old Cheryl. Author Cheryl Strayed has a clear and loud cameo, too. In addition to the sweeping, panoramic nature scenes as in the above films, and a rather deft use of only nature sounds, Wild brings formidable purpose to Strayed's (initially, at least) foolhardy attempts at rugged hiking. As in Land, one might worry the protagonist is not up to snuff, and not worthy of making it to the other end of the trailhead. They would be right, at least at the outset. Told through regular story beats that lay plain why Strayed has thrown herself into this seemingly foolhardy adventure, the script fleshes out the mother character, Strayed's problematic relationship, her demons, each and every one, and even uncomfortably looks at male sexual predators along the way. In short, Wild has much to offer, despite CGI animals that may or may not be Strayed's spirit guides. More succinctly, Wild is like the novel On The Road but with a plot, and a deeper point. To wit—come to terms with your life and your grief instead of escaping into the heady kicks of debaucherous road-tripping. Witherspoon, an oft-underestimated actor early on, because of her ethereal blonde looks and sunny disposition, proves she more than has the chops to bring the viewer through her dark night of the soul. In fact, she and Dern are worth the price of admission, alone, guaranteed. Witherspoon carries the weight of the film on her shoulders, and each actor simply shimmers. 

In closing, please do not take my word as the final verdict on these films. There's a lot to love and arguably a little to contend with in each. But get your head on and explore. I know I don't regret it and have a longing to re-watch each one of these, always proof-positive that a film has left a mark on you that you cannot shake off.

Mabon Poetry

Untitled, or, The Moon Knows

The moon peek-a-boos behind the maple’s leafy whispers,
listens, lights my brow, waits for the colour-glow to dim
in my palm out of respect for her presence, waits
for me to tell of this thing weighted in my chest, asunder
down to stomach, waits, with wordless luminescent counsel.

Longing so deep, you mistake it for pleasure.
Loose, hungry, crashing against ribs.
My current of words flows, genuflects under her gaze,
reminds she has resided there always, held
my gaze as a teen steeped in stories of the fantastical,
playing out just past halogen streetlight glow,
oh, the tree line burning with the wine-smell of leaves, fire in the trees,
Bradburys and Kings and Barkers the prophets of my vocation.

But under moon-glow my unrefined coal,
words piled into wheelbarrows,
cascaded out, this kid’s green irises lit beige, heart as
a welcome as the yawning universe.
Now the pretty-pocked face grants mercy, allows
sitting too long in my own and shared darkness on the deck.

A breeze on my neck, as from lips. My ear tickles.
Glabella, they whispered, whisper, in my ear, 

a phantom fingertip, acquainting itself, 

That's what this is called. I like this,

strokes the radiant skin between my lit bloodshot eyes.

Mabon Poetry Notes

Happy Mabon and Fall Equinox, all, "a celebration and also a time of rest after the labour of harvest."

Against my better judgement, perhaps, I feel I myself turning to poetry again. Writing it, that is. It's been an on-off love affair this past decade for poetry and myself, but I have published some things in my day, in online and hard-copy publications. As Leonard Cohen said, "poetry is a verdict".

My work last appeared regularly in Bywords, curated by bi visual poet Amanda Earl. I am listed there as a contributor-poet. I was once even shortlisted for The John Newlove Award for Poetry for my whimsical poem about a closeted film icon (and personal favourite), "Danny Kaye Winks at the Viewer Through Time".

My rule for poetry, years ago, became simple. I would only write about things dear and important to me. No bloodless prose poetry or snake-oil-esque word trickery and play (that should be built in anyway). Only truths dear to my heart. And only pieces that are ready, edited and rewritten and excavated over time until  they reveal their true form to me, much like my speculative fiction. Sometimes, the work has to tell you what it wants to be, and that takes time.

Collection will be a Wee Bit Late, Guv'nah

My short-story collection Fear Itself is delayed coming out. Instead of fall 2021, it will likely early in 2022 or certainly by April 2022, depending on when the edits are complete. There have been delays in the editing process over the past year, both at the overworked publisher end and at my end, revising the stories. Currently, some revisions are involved and taking longer than either myself or my publisher anticipated. While some stories are previously published, others have been never print or placement. These things happen in the publishing business. The main thing is that the stories will be their best and my collection Fear Itself  will see the light of day in 2022. I’m rather enjoying revising each of the ten pieces in turn right now, actually, from stories about randy giants who are cat-fished and seeking revenge by eating people, in my stoory "Crag Face", to my ex-pat character Sara Jasmine being haunted by her friend Hugh in London, England in ’98 in "A Canadian Ghost in Londin", to a baby monitor that suddenly emits an otherworldly voice on "Monitored" to my terrifying “Glimpses through the trees”, set in Picton, Ontario, regarding a creature you can only see out of your peripheral vision.

This thing has gotten to everyoone

This past Monday, spoke to shopkeepers, co-workers, friends, acquaintances, even exes, and detected that the pandemic has turned things into a longer-standing "fuckaroo", to quote Stephen King's Dreamcatcher (stellar beginning, in that novel BTW).  

This thing has ground them down, whether they are weathering bitter divorce, loneliness, anxiety, grief, depression, panic or isolation, and ossifying sadness, defeatist views, even  an inability to compromise after being solitary for so long.

But light is coming through the cracks. Vaccinations, if you are lucky enough, are happening. Socializing is slowly expanding, but exhausting (we are not used to it). Pace yourself.

Treat yourself as you would others, but better. Try to be there for your peeps. If you can, reach out. Send a word-kind, encouraging, loving or event titillating, or give hope.

This thing has gotten to everyone. I might go into more detail later, with whys and wherefores, but the philosophy remains the same. Hold on tight, all.

For my part, I will be camping with my inner circle this weekend. I will be trying to moderate my tendencies even while all the opportunities for two of the three P's (my bad habits) but will have no restraints save those I apply. It is a well-deserved break, but all the planning and interpersonal interactions with friends leading up to it can get pretty little stressed until we land on the site. I am trying to keep this all in perspective. There are much greater problems than planning a camping trip with friends.

Wednesday's bright notes in Covid

I have been dealing with the highs and lows of stress and anxiety in the house through a variety of means, some better than others.

My healthier coping mechanisms include consistent stretching and push-up and sit-ups, as well as walks, and a regular viewing of films of interest and reading of promising comic books.

Still, it seems that despite my best efforts to overindulge in habits that I will not go into detail about here, I find continued success, which seems to surprise no one but me.

After I complained bitterly about my recent egregious short-fiction rejections in a post (that I have since pulled), there have been significant developments. Chief among them is my publisher having a quick video-chat with me yesterday, on Canada Day, to deliver good news. Turns out that a short-fiction collection, which I am currently proofreading for him, earned a rave, advance review in an influential publication in the writing business. My publisher wanted to thank me for helping with this collection and was emphatic that I get working on his edits to my short-story collection, Fear Itself, due out this fall.

In addition, the day previous, I managed, despite feeling desultory about my day’s results, to accomplish a number of things. I rescheduled an upcoming appointment with my psychologist. Cancelled a weird extra vaccination booking that I was texted about (I suspect that someone put down my cell number by mistake, as I already have a second vaccination booked, and a week sooner). Even managed to organize our son's guitar lessons so that he has the summer off.

Spent some solid time on Track-Changes revisions to my second horror novel. I am going through a scene-by-scene clean-up of the manuscript, putting any remaining notes, etc. in a chart, and smoothing out all the rough spots and accepting all consequences to my revisions throughout the story.

Also, spent some time considering the edits to my short story in my short-fiction collection about a phantasm in London, England, listening to my editor and publisher’s input. So, much to ponder! More or less, the ghostly figure in the story needs to pay some sort of price for returning and talking with the protagonist. I agree with that, and I agree that the ghostly figure is a little too perfect, which is no surprise, since they are modelled on my mentor from high school. What the story needs is a little pizzazz, and I trust it to reveal the answer to me in whatever way it wishes.

As well, I also spent some time proofing a short-fiction collection, the very one being praised in advance. I had already edited various drafts of the included novelette, for which the author is quite grateful. At the time of this posting, this review is not public knowledge and will only become so next week, hence my vagueness.

Being busy, social isolation, daily inundation

Came to a realization—I am busier than I thought. And I was already busy, with projects left, right and centre, and getting through Covid. I am working some great behind-the-scenes stuff for Lethe Press, attending to my short-fiction collection Fear Itself, bringing in new editing clients and, of course, guiding horror novel number two into the shape it wants to be. So on that note, I decided I will not be around on social media much, and more in a waiting-in-the-wings approach than terribly active, so I can do my thing.

At this stage in the pandemic, social isolation has taken a noticeable toll on my inner circle, with  neither emails or tweets or phone calls for weeks. For my part, I am great with initial emails, and the rare phone call, but then I may take week after week to reply.

So as we all wait for our second vaccination date, assuming we were lucky enough to already have the first vaccination, we have maladjusted to lockdown measures in Ottawa and simply retreated a little more each passing day, week, month. During the onset of the pandemic, it seemed there was almost a pause in the workday pace, and we could almost catch our breath as anxiety threatened to drown us. Now, we are inundated and workdays are full, in addition to taking care of ourselves, our houses, our loved ones, and continually navigating the now-inscrutable codes of Covid-19.

I’m feeing a lack of focus right now, hence my musings on the current vibe of the pandemic.

Jabbed

Had an Astrazeneca shot, first of two. Lost an entire day being KO'd or TKO'd due to flu-like symptoms - fever, headache, upset stomach, achiness, dizziness, fatigue, headache. At around three p.m., just crawled out of bed for more than a few minutes for the first time today.

Still- better that the alternative. See you on the other side of this sonuvabitch.

An Unexpected Guest

After a day of spinning my tires, with little  focus amounting to almost nothing, resignedly running the hub; I stepped out this eve to catch a glimpse of the pink supermoon (obfuscated by clouds last night). My familiar and I immediately spotted a visitor clambering treeward from the deck. Wonder what ithey thought of my red-and-black plumage (lumberjack coat) and my short-haired, grey-and-white mouser? Certainly enough to not budge after they reached a goodly height. The stand-off could have been interminable. So, in the kindest assertive tone I could muster, I offered, through action and words, that we would go back inside, so long as the visitor cleared out before we came out again.

Reflections on son turning thirteen

And today, my son is thirteen years old. Now that he is a teenager, he can start a Facebook account, although I have always been somewhat elusuve and circumspect about mentioning him on social media until relatively recently. This momentous age throws a lot of my life into perspective. I have been told  repeatedly that I have a good memory and can vividly recall, for better or for worse, much of being twelve, myself.

So now  I look at myself and wonder what my struggling twelve-year-old self would think of who I have become. I grew up in the 1980's in a small city that aped a small town in its attitudes and atmosphere. I first used a typewriter and then a slew of computers before the rise of the Internet and personal computers and gadgets. He is growing up  during Covid in a big city and is a digital native who can cide video games, to cite a few notable contrasts. 

Am I who I want to be? Am I there enough for my son? Am I reigning in my temper, having worked at it for a while now? How do I keep my foibles from imprinting on him? What do I feel the need to change about myself?  How do I guide without (always) nagging, teach by example without preaching?

No easy answers to any such questions, and more, of course. I know that much. The answer lies in the doing and learning for the most part, and rolling with any inevitable mistakes as best I can. He is a great, kind-hearted, creative, empathetic kid. Must have done something right so far.

Urban Myth Debunked about 1962 King King vs. Godzilla

There was an urban myth circulating for years about the original 1962 King King vs. Godzilla that posited it had two distinct endings. In the Japanese theatrical release, Big Green was supposed to win, while in the U.S. release, the King was apparently the victor. Myth's been debunked since.

Alas, I believed the urban myth until all too recently.

Why must Covid bring disillusionment about even this, my fragile truth about a rubber-suit monster movie?

Saw the Japanese version at a Sunday matinee in my hometown at the Port Theatre. For the record, Kong won. Bystanders claimed that his tussle with Godzilla was like fighting someone with a flame thrower.

A syfy.com article about the urban myth is here.

A Writing Dare

Okay—so I am harried, in a good way. Chuffed, really. 

In addition to having a paying editing gig, a historical fiction novel, as of last week, my publisher asked me to look at cover options for an upcoming anthology.  I opined.  In the end, he chose the same cover I chose.

And hot on the heels of that exchange, he dared me to write 1,000-word horror fiction for a particular market, particular as in I-dare-you-to-write-this-and-I-may-publish-it-if-I-like-it.  He would need it by mid-April.

Thinking on it, but not for long ....

Looking at a Novelette, got a Paying Editing Gig

In between  getting my literary rocks off drafting my "Full Moon Addiction/Rehab" work-in-progress, I received important business news. 

My publisher checked in yesterday. 

Had I started looking at his novelette, which he sent the other week?

I hadn't.

But, being a self-respecting writer, I didn't tell him that, of course. 

First, I perused the first two chapters over my lunch break. He sent nine, which I had already stored in a file. Then I could honestly reply soon after that, yes, I was looking at it. What format did he prefer? He had emailed a mix of Word and Rich Text Format files. And how deep or into-the-weeds should I get with my comments and edits?

This news seemed to ... please him? 

Yes—it must have. He immediately offered me a bona fide, paying, editing gig on a historical fiction novel.

I had hoped, from how well things went editing the anthology of queer fairy tales starring hirsute and hefty gay men, that he might send me some work down the line. But this soon? Fantastic.

This marks my first official editing gig on a novel, so there is  that.

St. Paddy’s Day Viewing Recommendations

Here are some Irish flicks that I have discovered in my search for great cinema from the country of my ancestors. Some are more recent, some old. Admittedly, I have a soft spot for both a good Irish horror film and/or an Irish comedy.

Standard St. Paddy’s Viewing: Imbibing, Action, Shenanigans, Etc.
Boondock Saints
Hard-working, hard-drinking Irish-Catholic Bostonians Sean Patrick Flanery and Norman Reedus (aka Daryl Dixon of The Walking Dead fame) star as fraternal twins Connor and Murphy MacManus who become vigilantes. It’s violent, silly and crazy, while also raising uncomfortable questions such as, Who will stop rampant crime, if not local law enforcement? At times, the tone borders on histrionic and the sublime, and then chases that drink down with the absurd. Willem Dafoe has far too much fun playing queer (and rather brilliant) FBI special agent Paul Smecker, investigating crime scenes and eviscerating less competent investigators with his rapier wit. Comedian Billy Connolly features in a baroque paternal role. Some genuinely hilarious moments emerge from this joyful mess of a film.

Horror
Sea Fever
This is an Irish horror film, a genre I admittedly have a soft spot for. In this often beautifully shot tale of fatalism, young marine-biology student, Siobhán, sets out from port with a fishing trawler crew only to discover aquatic life that has not yet been undocumented. It is a biologist survivalist. But to us, the creature is a nearly incomprehensible horror. The production overcomes its budgetary constraints with effective acting, exemplifying that sometimes, as in the best fiction, less is more. A word of warning: this is a quarantine film, however. In Sea Fever, the range of Irish accents you might need to acclimatize to, but it’s worth this strange trip.

Supernatural Comedy
Extra Ordinary
This cute premise doesn’t take itself too seriously, providing many laughs and fun moments. Protagonist Rose Dooley (a genuine and quirky Maeve Higgins) can see ghosts and can help send them on their way. She tries to help single dad Marin Martin (Barry Ward), a sort of a handsome, Irish ... Hugh Grant?, who is being tormented by the ghost of his ex-wife. Replete with a witty repast of dialogue and plenty of double entendres, Higgins and Ward charm the viewer. Will Forte astonishes as foppish and theatrical occultist bad-ass Christian Winter.

Suspense/Thriller/Noir
A Good Woman is Hard to Find
In this slow-burning number, struggling single mother and widow, Sarah Collins (portrayed by the hypnotically suffering Sara Bolger), tries to get by in Belfast. What happens when a local drug dealer tries to run his operation out of her home, where she is trying to make ends meet with her two small children an everyone is judging her? Excellent pay-off and a view of Belfast life. Brutal and raw, some say. In many ways, A Good Woman is Hard to Find is a Taxi Driver set in Belfast.

Musical
Sing Street
The music alone is worth the price of admission. Conor “Cosmo” Lawlor (played by the multitalented (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo) the hero, tries to woo older girl by shooting a video, but he has no band and has only strummed guitar and sung songs. Cosmo struggles with bullying at a new school because his parents rock marriage means budget cuts. The band, young and audacious, tries out new fashions each week, from pop to rock to glam, in tremendously fun and understated scenes showing the kids wearing new styles. The range of Irish accents can prove challenging, even to someone getting their Irish on, such as myself. Aiden Gillen portrays the father, Robert, trying to hold his crumbling marriage together, which is a 180-degree change from his days as man-slut Stuart Alan Jones on the original and seminal British Queer As Folk. Consider it a spiritual descendent of The Commitments. 

Queer Comedy/Drama
Handsome Devil
At an elite, rugby-obsessed, all-boys boarding school in Ireland modelled on Castleknock and Blackrock, ginger-haired Ned develops feelings for his new roommate, rugby star Conor. A very fun narrative voice drives the story, imbued with a great sense of humor even in the face of difficulty and angst. Great performances from a cast of relative unknowns round out the works as well.