The Gothic Embrace

Gloomy Days

2012-02-19T14:43:00.002-06:00

It's a beautiful day here in the Arkansas Ozarks. The sun is shinning, birds are singing and temperatures are lingering in the upper 50s. Spring is definitely in the air.

Yesterday was a beautiful day as well but it was cooler, the sky was overcast, threatening a rain that never came and the sun never showed its face. The birds still sang and the day spoke of spring, but as I walked through the nearby woods I reveled in the cloudiness and somewhat gloomier atmosphere that enveloped the area. Although I had already been feeling melancholy due to outside influences, the day matched my mood perfectly. As a result, I got some much needed work done on my latest novella, which is near completion, and figured out a perplexing situation I find myself with on Microsoft Word 2007. I even watched a full episode of the original Battlestar Galactica on You Tube. All in all, I think yesterday was a wonderful day.

Don't get me wrong, I recognize a pretty day whether the sun is shinning or not; but admittedly, it's the darker days that seem to not only inspire my creativity, but better compliment my somewhat melancholy personality as well.

When the sun is shinning I become more restless; I want to go outside and do more physical types of work. I'm not as content to stay indoors by the computer; I become more social. There is a strange paradox in all of this because although I'm more inclined to do things outdoors on sunny days, I try to avoid being in the sun. Even on a day like this one, which won't come close to approaching summertime temperatures for this area, the sun burns too much for me to want to stay under it for any length of time. It may only be February, but the sunshine is already far too bright for me to venture very far without my sunglasses; the glare is simply too much for me.

My musical listening habits seem to change according to the brightness of the day as well. On dark, rainy days I'm perfectly content sitting on the computer doing something creative while listening to my favorite doom metal, dark ambient or some of the more moody classical composers. It's at the times when sunshine is more abundant that I might actually get caught listening to brighter, more mainstream music. One time, I might have actually put on some Grateful Dead; a rare moment indeed!

Of course, it's during the darker months of the year that we experience the coldest weather. I don't particularly like the cold; and I care neither for too much snow nor have any great love for ice storms and the devastation they can cause. In spite of these things however, I always look forward to the autumn, when the days will once again grow shorter and gloomier--when I can dress darker and more stylishly without my favorite clothing holding in the summer's heat--without their requiring more frequent washing; hence speeding the loss of their black dye.

There is something that I absolutely love about the summer's here however, and that's the nighttime. When the sun makes its way below the horizon much of the heat may well linger throughout much of the night, but that bright scorching orb is gone. There is no longer a burning upon my skin as I walk from place to place or a brightness so intense as make my eyes squint. Instead, the woods around me burst into an almost deafening, yet restful symphony provided by the tree frogs, katydids and crickets. Scientists say that the music these creatures produce are a part of their mating rituals. I prefer to believe that they are rejoicing in the night and can no longer contain their exuberance that it has finally arrived.

Of course, there are those who find amusement in my longing for cloudy, rainy afternoons and in my dislike of Daylight Savings Time, an exercise in which the clocks are set ahead in order to induce an illusion of putting off the darkness. I take solace in believing that some, such as you the reader, might concur with me in my love of gloomy afternoons and the long nights of autumn and winter.

Photo Source: Gothic Pictures Gallery. Author unknown.

Vampire's Day Soiree: Angeline: For All Eternity

2012-02-14T14:03:00.012-06:00

It's just about 1:30 in the afternoon as I write this, so I'm very late with my participation in today's alternative Valentine's Day activity called Vampire's Day Soiree, which is taking place at Holly's Horrorland. Truth be told, I haven't figured out how to become a guest on Holly's blog and it will be okay if I can't pull it off.

I don't have a new vampire post or anything, but I do write short Gothic fiction; so I thought that I would simply post an excerpt from one of my vampire stories called Angeline: For All Eternity. I hope that it will make a nice contribution to today's event.

From Angeline: For All Eternity - by A.D. Vick

“You want to be with me don’t you Adam? I can feel your desire—your craving for me. Well, I crave you too my love—in ways that you cannot even fathom. I want your life—your essence to become a part of me.”

Gently stroking his hair and face she continued. “I ask only one simple pleasure from you. I demand a ritual that I believe will be equally as pleasurable for you as for me. If you trust me enough to consent to this it will seal our bond as life partners; you will have gained my eternal love and affection. We will walk together through this world in unison and with undying devotion to one another.”

Although he would have consented to just about anything she desired at that moment Adam made a feeble attempt at cohesiveness by offering a question. “What type of ritual do you want me to take part in? What is it that you want?”

“I ask only that you allow me to drink some of your blood,” she responded. “I won’t hurt you and I believe that you’ll find it to be a most pleasurable experience, but that is what I ask.”

Photo Source: Gothic Pictures Gallery Author unknown

To participate in today's Vampire's Day Soiree, simply follow this link to Holly's Horrorland.

The Exorcism of Emily Rose: A Review

2012-02-11T12:21:00.000-06:00

As a writer, I ordinarily have no inclinations toward writing movie reviews. As a matter of fact, I don't believe that I'm very good at it. Nevertheless, I saw a horror movie last weekend that really did it for me. As a matter of fact, The Exorcism of Emily Rose is the first flick that I've seen in a long time that actually caused real chills to run down my spine. For those who have not seen it, I'd like to tell you a little about it; hopefully, enough to entice you into checking it out.

The film, which is essentially a courtroom drama, is based upon a real-life case concerning a German Catholic woman named Anneliese Michel, who underwent multiple rituals of exorcism from 1975 until her death in 1976. In the film Father Richard Moore (Tom Wilkinson), a Catholic priest, faces a charge of negligent homicide after performing an exorcism ritual for 19 year-old Emily Rose, who died after the experience. He is defended by an aspiring attorney named Erin Bruer (Laura Linney), who also happens to be agnostic.

The story is told mainly through courtroom testimony and flashbacks during which the realities of young Emily's demonic possession and Father Moore's efforts are revealed. Additionally, somewhat chilling occurrences taking place inside her own home during the time of the courtroom proceedings inspire the defense attorney, who feels she is losing the case, to change tactics.

For me, the special effects in this film ranged from intriguing to believable with some of the most spine-tingling scenes taking place during the exorcism ritual.

While I watch a good number of horror movies, very few actually cause my spine to tingle with fear; this one did. For that reason, I recommend picking a nice cold night, shutting the lights off and watching this one. Since I enjoyed this one so much I'd like to ask, have any of you readers watched enjoyed any good horror flicks lately; one that really induces shock or fear?

I'm including the theatrical trailer below; just to entice you all a bit more.

The Ghost of Emily Malone

2012-02-05T12:12:00.004-06:00

A couple of years ago I joined the Gothic Poets and Writers Literary Club, which is a venue where creative writers can showcase their dark literature before a like-minded audience. In June of 2010 a new poem made its way to the club's front page. It was entitled The Ghost of Emily Malone, written by an artist calling herself Midieval Fantasy. Even though I'm not generally as attracted to poetry as prose, there was something compelling about the title, which made me want to read the entire piece. To say that I absolutely loved it would be an understatement as I honestly rank this piece as one of the best poetic works that my eyes have ever gazed upon; and because of it, I now like to consider myself one of Midieval Fantasy's biggest fans.

Since I have secured the author's permission to post the above-mentioned work on this blog, I think it best to let the poem speak for itself. So without further ado, I present:

The Ghost of Emily Malone

Part I

The night, oh so gently, kissed me on my face
From the light of the sun I have fallen from grace
I hearken up to the blue moon alive
Which allows me to live, allows me to thrive

And the best night ever, that I have had at all
Came just last night, in the middle of fall
I was sitting secluded by a gravestone half clean
The mist around it an embrace, cool and serene.

I looked to the name that it did represent
To see with whom my night would be spent
Engraved upon the cold black stone
Read the name : Emily Malone

I bid her hello and sat down to read
About woeful suffering and human’s greed.
A feeling of sadness crept into my heart
As if from this world I had wanted to part

A wolf howled in the distance, eerily sweet
I then heard a sound that swept me off of my seat
A voice calling softly, whispering shrill :
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
___

I looked all around me seeking the source
For that distant being whose voice was hoarse
Yet not one living soul could be found
So I set back among the plush grassy ground

I opened my book and turned it to Longfellow
The Day Is Done felt wistfully mellow
As I closed the leather binding a sight caught my eye
A movement of shadow I tried to deny

Yet nothing stirred not even the wind
I was just being jumpy, no need to defend
I looked again at the grave that sat so alone
And read the name : Emily Malone

I wondered then how she had passed
And when that breath had been her last
Wiping away the dirt and grime
I read her death was fifteen ninety-nine

Once again the voice it came
It spoke with a vengeance, crying my name
It cried and screamed while whispering still :
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
___

Then in a view what did behold
A gothic beauty worth more than gold
She came to my side, her icy hand on my cheek
Then she kissed me, leaving me weak.

Her smile was desolate, her eyes full of sorrow
She took my hand and bid me to follow
No will had I to resist her mute plea
I let this ghost have control over me

I studied her features, attire and such
She looked quite ancient, and cold to the touch
And suddenly it struck me with whom I did roam
I was with she : Emily Malone

No ounce of fear for my life did I know
She was the nourishment I needed to grow
I wanted to know her and love her in strife
And make her my adored dark gothic wife

With her I walked among the tombs
Stopping where the nightshade blooms
Suddenly with a voice so exquisitely real :
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
____

Upon the poisoned berries we made a bed
And upon my chest she lay her dark head
And there we make love together for hours
I was the castle and she was my towers

The voice of night filled me with peace
I looked over to the spirit who was starting to cease
Slowly disappearing before my blue eyes
And I felt quite sure that our love had been lies

She was vanishing, going away
Leaving me alone to the cruel light of day
I cried out a name with a harsh baleful moan
The name of the ghost : Emily Malone

She seemed to understand my despair
As she started to become nothing but air
I knew not what I was supposed to do
Only that my time with her was through

Holding her tighter, an embrace of fear
She softly kissed away my tear
Then with her last breath she whispered her fill :
“You will join me someday, you will, you will”
_____

As dusk approached I came back to sit in this place
Hoping for a glimpse of her pale pixie face
Every night under the shrouded moon would I wait
Knowing without doubt she would be my fate

I think of last night so toxic and pure
We had done things never thought of before
Together forever I wanted to be
I with her and her with me

I knew not why these feelings I had
She was gone and I should be glad
But all it takes is to look at the stone
That reads the name : Emily Malone

Reading her name I transfix once more
As I read about Deirdre and the blue claymore
Then to my wonder I heard a slight murmur
Which after a moment became ever firmer

Toward it I ran like a Christian devote
And to me her ghost did float
Her voice sounded like a cold winter chill
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
____

Part II

To the grave close to hers she went and sat
Giving the ground by her a soft gentle pat
Like a adoring puppy I obeyed and sat down
As she touched the stone with a sorrowful frown

I wondered at first why she brought me right here
And in my soul I felt a deep fear
She stroked the cool granite and bid me to see
The name that was etched so sullenly

I was loathe to look with a feeling of terror
I feared if I did I would look in a mirror
Yey stilll I turned my head to the stone
Which read the name : Thomas Malone

I looked back at the ghost all in vain
Wondering if I was no longer sane
Something about the name pulled me in
And to her past I wondered again

She smiled softly looked me in the eye
And made me feel as I wanted to die
And eeriely she told me, calm and surreal
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
___

I felt myself being pulled back in time
The year was fifteen ninety-nine
A man stood in a cemetery with a happy sigh
The man in the cemetery looked just like I

He was tall and regal and Goth to the core
Dressed in attire from an otherworldly shore
The ghost then appeared, alive and vibrant
And to his side she openly went

They kissed and touched among the dead
Thoughts of passion filling their head
And there they made love among the cold stone
The man she was with : Thomas Malone

When their lust was slated he held her tight
And they stayed side by side all through the night
As dawn started to come up and leave its mark
The man decided to no longer be left in the dark

On one knee he went, to her wondered surprise
And smiled at the look that had filled her kind eyes
With this phrase made with love he gave his seal :
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
____
Suddenly another scene played in my head
It was the day the two would be wed
The night held a marriage that had just begun
A night that would be remembered by everyone

A couple stood together hand in hand
Surrounded by graves put in the land
They were dressed in black down to their feet
Both were so elegant, so gothic and sweet.

The vows were read and the kiss have been given
You could tell that the lovers were utterly smitten
Neither thought they would ever again be alone
The couple was named : Thomas and Emily Malone

Not ten minutes later did an angry mob appear
Putting the couple in terrible fear
By the end of the fight Thomas lay dying
Emily was at his side, softly crying

Thomas assured her it would be alright
And stayed alive through the rest of the night
As the sun came, he passed and this vow he did spill
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
____

Then appeared the funeral hour
Everyone’s mood was sullen and sour
She looked at the face forever cold
With him she now would never grow old

Once everyone had left, she sang him a song
She sang it loud and she sang it long
It was one of agony and grief
All she now wanted was blessed relief

Pulling back the hair from his handsome head
She vowed to be with him be it alive or dead
She was forever a shadow now lost on her own
Without her lover : Thomas Malone

She withdrew the knife, a shiny blade
And to the world a goodbye she did bade
Without second thought it sliced through her skin
She thought in death their life could begin

Laying beside his coffin she waited
As the light in her eyes slowly faded
She hoped that these words she would fulfill
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
___

Her spirit, however, did not move on
And forced was she to witness the dawn
By night she would walk in anguish and fear
By the light of the day she would disappear

The fate she was dealt was hard to accept
As along the tombs she silently crept
Wondering if she would see her true love again
Reborn into the cruel world of men

She wondered if he, in spirit, would be changed
If he would be lucid instead of deranged
This she did wonder as she did roam
Crying out for her lover : Thomas Malone

She wanted to see him, alive and well
Knowing it would make more bearable her hell
To see him breathing with a book in his face
Without a care and full of Goth grace

And waited she long for the partner she once had
The soul that had once made her so glad
Every night she would vow this love would fulfill :
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
____

Part III

Back to my senses I slowly came
I began to weep and cry out her name
Her life had been tragic, not as was planned
Only then did I start to understand

Suddenly I realized the startling truth
About this maiden forever in youth
I was the reincarnation of her lover which died
The death that had caused her own suicide

I was he that had died in her arms
And was forbidden all of life’s charms
The man who, by grace, died not alone
I was the man : Thomas Malone

Together again, yet not all was right
I was a mortal Goth, and she a spirit of Night
How harshly had fate twisted our path
Causing us to feel a meloncholic wrath

A frozen tear fell from her sad widen eyes
As her love for me she could not disguise
Voiced she then with a tone that could kill
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
____

I thought on the time she spent without me
Spending the years in woe and misery
She was unable to reunite with her soul's twin
Which had made it impossible to be together again

I cherished her so, my wife of the past
I knew that my destiny had found me at last
I cursed the time that we never did know
My sadness as black as the purity of snow

Yet in this moment she is here with me now
And I wanted to be with her, though I knew not how
No longer apart did I want us to roam
But to be once again : Thomas and Emily Malone

I thought of the way in which I could die
That would not cause my soul to fly
Shaking her head, she disagreed with my plan
She wanted me to say alive as a man

I knew she was sadden to think in this way
Trying to spare me from death’s disarray
And then with a vengeance she whispered still :
“You will join me, someday, you will, you will.”
____

She wished there to be a different road
That could bring us back to love’s blissful cold
but my death she could not bare to see
She had seen it once and could not save me

Our time together could be not long
We both now knew our love was wrong
Different entities were we on earth’s darkened plain
We had everything to lose and nothing to gain

My life she refused to let me take
That choice she would not let me make
So always would we be completely alone
Separated forever : Thomas and Emily Malone

My thoughts were hard to comprehend
I only wished for my worldly life to end
But she held me fast and would not let me go
Within her a sorrow no man should know

Before me was the woman I was suppose to protect
Yet, by my death, I had shown her neglect
My vows to her I longed to make real :
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
___

I then held her close, gave her no need to fear
I told her then that I would always be near
She smiled at me with a love in her touch
A craving for her overcame me so much

For many hour long I showed her my passion
Until her face was no longer ashen
There we did lay in the grass and the dirt
I was suffering remorse that her I would hurt

I sat and I listened to her as our song she did sing
And I glanced at the finger that still held my ring
With a quiet despair I looked at each stone
The ones that said : Thomas and Emily Malone

She finished her song and then silently lay
As we both waited for the cruel light of day
I had decided that this would not be our last night
I would go willing to that which caused so much fright

My mind was made up that I would keep my vow
That someday was here, I would join her now
I smiled as she said with the hope we did feel :
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”
___

I stood suddenly and ran off with full speed
Where she then followed me to the poisoned weed
To that place where our bodied did unite
Under the stars so shiny and bright

The wild berries I ate before she could stop me
And I writhed and I cried in full agony
I fell to the ground, my life fading fast
Her ghost held my body until I breathed my last

And then, just like that, I was only a soul
My body a shell that would soon turn to coal
I looked over to she who was no longer alone
Reunited at last : Thomas and Emily Malone

In joy we wept with love so profound
As we both floated up off of the ground
In the air we danced together as one
Waiting for the rising sun

And as it came we did disappear
As though we both never were here
And these words did our fate fulfill
“You will join me someday, you will, you will.”

Copyright © Angelea Beatrice Sakai Woodham
December 10th, 2009
Revised: Febuary 3rd, 2012 All Rights Reserved

Photo Source: Gothic Pictures Gallery
Author unknown

Internet Unpleasantries

2012-02-02T18:34:00.001-06:00

Yesterday, I encountered something that I considered quite disturbing and it put me in a weird frame of mind that lasted for most of the day. It all began when I made my daily visit to The Ultimate Goth Guide. It's a wonderful blog maintained by a young lady named Amy. During the course of any given week, the material offered on its pages is likely to include discussions on Goth fashion, events, music and bands, literature, makeup suggestions and maybe even an interview with someone well known in the scene.

I discovered the blog several months ago and visit it at least once a day. Although I've never met Amy in person, she comes across as an absolutely delightful person who is almost bubbling over in youthful enthusiasm for the Goth subculture. Imagine my surprise and consternation when I read her post entitled Ultimate Goth Guide Hate Site. Even more disturbing were the contents of that other site, which its operator chooses to call Superlative Goth Guide.

At the top of the page is an insulting and unreasonable facsimile of Amy's Logo or masthead, if I can use that word. The posts that follow are in my opinion, composed of nothing but vile dribble--empty arguments created for the sole purpose of personally attacking both Amy and her credibility. As her many readers chimed in with their words of appreciation and support, the attacker compiled their comments, included many of them in a newer post and then let loose with a plethora of disparaging and insulting remarks toward their authors.

As I sit here this evening, I can only shake my head in disbelief. I keep wondering why anybody would want to launch such an unethical and unprovoked attack upon such a decent and inspirational person as well as her admirers. I can't help but believe that the Superlative Goth Guide is the product of a sick mind--somebody who has nothing better to do than to discourage creative people and stir up contentions where they don't need to exist.

In my opinion, the attack site reflects the machinations of a twisted personality and is composed of pure venom. For that reason, I won't even legitimize its author by providing a link to it here.

Something About Cemeteries

2012-01-31T21:14:00.002-06:00

I was about eight years old when my father took me exploring on the hill. It was essentially a wooded place with baseball fields and a small pond at its base, a ski jump and grassy slope suitable for winter sledding, a road generally used for parking (petting purposes) just below the summit, and a lot of forest. The hill was situated just on the outskirts of the city--a stark point of delineation between that metropolis and the country setting that began just to the west. The day my dad took me up there was a day of exploration--my first day of inquest into the deeper recesses of the mount that seemed to have an almost inexhaustible number of mysteries to explore. I was after all, a child.

We walked way into the woods on that afternoon--to places that were as yet unfamiliar to me. At some point my father stopped to look at an object. "Will you look at this!" he exclaimed. Situated right before him was a cemetery--a very small cemetery. Although my memory of it is vague, I seem to remember the largest grave marker as being inside a fenced-in area; If my memory serves me correctly, there were maybe three graves contained within a narrow space. That was it; that was the extent of the cemetery.

Even at that young age I felt a deep sense of melancholy standing there in the quiet of the forest, reading the names and epitaphs inscribed upon the stones. The family's name was King and I quickly realized that the pond upon which I skated during the winter months had been named after these people; yet, here they were, lying in a tiny graveyard that had long ago been abandoned--long forgotten and only embraced by the towering trees whose leaves sometimes rustled in the wind as if conveying into the present the voices and spirits of the past.

Cemeteries tell stories, and to read the inscriptions upon any grave marker or monument is to learn a piece of history--to learn of the joys and struggles of those who came before us. Since that day in the woods with my father, I've always maintained a keen sense of respect; even reverence, for these special places.

I feel very fortunate, because not only is my current living space adjacent to several graveyards of historic significance, but I have involvement with the maintenance of at least a couple. There's a deep sense of history here; and most every day, I walk or drive by the final resting places of early pioneers--people who migrated to this area from places far away in times long ago--people who founded what is now a thriving community and helped shape it into what it is today.

While a couple of the cemeteries here have been maintained as much as possible with a limited budget, there are others farther back in the woods that have become overgrown with vegetation and damaged by both the remnants of a hurricane and the ravages of a January ice storm. To walk among the departed in these areas is to look upon grave markers with inscriptions long ago compromised by wind and rain as well as hallowed out strips of Earth that designate the inevitable collapse of caskets placed into the ground during centuries past. No one seems to know much about those buried in these plots, even those whose monuments are still legible.

Yes it's true, many of those who once loved and worked, laughed and cried, raised families and bravely blazed trails where no one had gone before have been completely forgotten. Now, only the trees that defend them from the hustle and bustle of the outside world--the trees that have shared this tiny piece of Earth with the departed for decades know their secrets--their happiness and sorrow--their triumphs and tribulations.

There are legends and ghost stories associated with both this mountain and general locale as well. I even had my own experience with something one summer night. I'll leave the story of that occurrence and the other tales for another time perhaps. Still, just last week I was made aware of something potentially significant regarding the neighboring graveyards.

There is a grave marker back in the woods that now stands all by itself. On the front of the stone is inscribed the name "Sally." That's all it says; there's no last name or date of birth and death--just Sally. Given the fact that I live in the American South, the history of this mountain and the family that once owned most of its territory, I assumed that Sally must have been a slave before or during our War Between the States. I would think about her from time to time and long considered her the "Forgotten Woman," titled after a poem written by a friend.

There is a local group that has taken an interest in cleaning up and restoring the abandoned burial plots here, including the area under which Sally is interned. The person heading up the project has a ten year-old daughter whom he occasionally brings along with him. A few days ago, he informed me that upon his first visit here and his discovery of the abandoned burial plots, his daughter saw a little girl by the marker inscribed with the name Sally. This past weekend, I had the opportunity to speak with the girl and asked her if she could describe the person she saw. She was about ten years of age, I was told, was wearing a pink dress and had brown hair, which was tied back into two pigtails.

As the young lady was telling me this, she had no way of knowing that it was just last summer when I learned that Sally may not have been a slave after all. You see, at a ceremony during which one historic cemetery was deeded over to the association I'm involved with, I was handed a composition that had been written by the founder of the county historical society in 1951. The essay finished with these words:

"I was about to leave the gloomy thicket when I spied a little headstone, all alone, almost buried under the creeper. I brushed the vines aside and read on the sandstone slab the single name 'Sally.' I was still thinking of the unknown little girl when I passed the Senator's grave on my way out of the historic but neglected graveyard."

The above photo of a friend was taken during a photo-op in one of the neighboring cemeteries.

In the Spirit of H. P. Lovecraft

2012-01-25T21:41:00.023-06:00

I absolutely hated junior high school. The time I spent there has to count as one of the overall worst experiences of my life. I didn't like the other kids very much as most of them only seemed to think about hanging out on street corners and picking fights. They didn't like me very much either; so the feeling was mutual. When my three-year stint there was finally drawing to a close, I had the option of attending any one of four high schools in the city. Not wanting to spend another three years with the kids from my area, I chose to attend Hope High School, which is situated on the East Side of Providence, Rhode Island; on College Hill.

To this day, I consider my determination to attend that school as one of the best moves of my life. Although unbeknown to me at the time of my decision, that part of the city would soon reveal itself as an alternative universe of sorts. College Hill is the home of Brown University and the Rhode Island School of Design. People there didn't want to hang out on street corners. Instead, they were interested in current events, science or were creating art, literature and music--and the local shops along Thayer Street reflected and still do mirror those interests.

Overall, Providence's East Side maintains an ambiance unlike that of any other place I've ever been to. From the ivy-covered buildings on the Brown campus to the old colonial-style homes on Benefit Street, by which the great American horror writer Edgar Allan Poe once walked, the place strikes you as not only historic, but occult. It holds it own dark secrets that perhaps, have only been detected by a select few.

I don't remember when I first heard of Howard.Phillips Lovecraft, but it was likely some time during my high school years. By that time I was already a fan of Edgar Allan Poe and was aware that Providence had once been home to another great horror writer in Mr. Lovecraft, but I was otherwise unfamiliar with him. I didn't know at the time that, although he and I didn't quite share the same Alma Mater, he did attend my school's predecessor long before I was born. It wasn't until years later however, that I delved into Lovecraft's writings and learned about his life.

The writer was born in his east-side family home at 194 Angell Street on August 20, 1890. Upon marrying in 1924, Lovecraft and his bride moved to her apartment in Brooklyn. Financial problems soon drove the couple apart however, and the writer, totally disenchanted with life in New York, returned to Providence's East Side, where he remained until his death.

It is my opinion that a big part of the author's genius was his ability to capture the darker, more occult essence of the area in which he lived. Oh yes, he took the reader beneath the pyramids of Egypt and to a multitude of subterranean caves, in lands real and imagined, where unspeakable horrors lied in wait for the curious. Many times he concerned the reader with strange civilizations and beings of the Mythos, which although worshiped by their minions, were hostile to humanity. Yet, as a person who has personally experienced the ambiance of Providence's College Hill, it is very easy to visualize the young Charles Dexter Ward's occult experimentation, which eventually drove the lad into madness.* It is not difficult to imagine that in some unremarkable house on Benevolent Street an inventor, driven insane by the nature of his work, might invent a machine by which his victims would view ghastly and frightful beings ordinarily obscured from the human eye.**

In a piece called The Shunned House, Lovecraft showcases a still-existing structure called the Stephen Harris House, named after a successful colonial-era merchant. After Harris constructed the Benefit Street dwelling in 1763, he and his family fell on hard times and suffered adversity after adversity. It is reported that the couple lost several children while yet others were stillborn. Allegedly, Mrs. Harris went mad and was confined to an upstairs room, from which neighbors would occasionally hear her shrieking in French; a language that she did not herself speak.

In his fictitious account, Lovecraft described a deserted dwelling: "What I heard in my youth about the shunned house was merely that people died there in alarmingly great numbers. That, I was told, was why the original owners had moved out some twenty years after building the place. It was plainly unhealthy, perhaps because of the dampness and fungous growth in the cellar, the general sickish smell...

"...But after all, the attic was not the most terrible part of the house. It was the dank, humid cellar which somehow exerted the strongest repulsion on us..."

What is it about that house, and especially its basement, that inspired Lovecraft to describe horrifying occurrences from within its walls? To the casual passer by, the old Stephen Harris House, now painted yellow, may be just one of a number of colonial-era structures in a historic part of the city. Still, it is likely through that same building that the spirit of Howard Phillips Lovecraft and his tales of madness, the sightings of ghouls in cemeteries and musky cellars holding dark secrets live on.

As a small child Caitlin Rebekah Kiernan migrated with her mother to the southern United States from Dublin, Ireland. After spending much of her earlier childhood in Leeds, Alabama she spent her teenage years in the town of Trussville, in that same state. Although a trained paleontologist, Kiernan turned to fiction writing in 1992 and was awarded the International Horror Guild Award in 1998 for first best novel and the James Tiptree Junior Award in 2010.

The Green Man Review has called her "a successor to the traditions of H.P. Lovecraft;" and to anyone familiar with the writing styles of both authors, the similarities are obvious.

In a manner similar to that of her predecessor, Ms. Kiernan delves into subterranean places where frightening creatures await those caught unaware. Although her earlier fiction takes place in the deep south and might be described as southern Gothic, she now lives in Providence and some of her settings are quite similar to those of Lovecraft. In her novel entitled Daughter of Hounds, the protagonist is taken to a yellow house on Benefit Street. It is a house under which various hounds, ghouls and vampires lurk within a dank and musty cellar that is interconnected with an entire network of passages leading to graveyards, subterranean arenas and abandoned railway tunnels. The house and its gruesome inhabitants feature in some of Kiernan's short fiction as well.

It's hard to imagine that this brilliant writer, who is known to regularly visit Lovecraft's headstone in Providence's Swan Point Cemetery, is not aware of the early twentieth century author's shunned house; and although she only refers to a yellow house on Benefit Street, I strongly suspect that her gruesome abode, which is inhabited by a ruthless bailiff as well as the creatures in the cellar, is one in the same with his.

Of course, she has a great imagination of her own, is influenced by other writers as well as Lovecraft, and is an author in her own right. Still, if there is anyone today who continues on in the spirit of Howard Phillips Lovecraft, captures the feel and sometimes dark essence of Providence's East Side and embraces the overall culture of Rhode Island as a whole, I would offer the more recent works of Caitlin R. Kiernan as evidence.

* The Case of Charles Dexter Ward

** From Beyond

See also The Shunned House.

Further information on Caitlin R. Kiernan

When the Wind Whistles

2012-01-12T17:09:00.018-06:00

They said it was coming--the wind that is; and a January tempest can be a fearsome thing to behold.

Yesterday, the day began with a thick gloom hanging over our small city. By mid morning however, the fog had cleared off, allowing the sunshine to create yet another unusually pleasant and warm day for the month of January. Sometimes such pleasant conditions can be a rarity at this time of year--something longed for rather than experienced. Still, they said that the north wind--a strong north wind, and a band of snow were on their way. It was so hard to believe.

By late afternoon the clouds began moving in ominously from the west, blocking the descending sun's rays and casting a renewed sense of gloom over the city. I left the town square long after the darkness had descended. That's when I felt it--a chilling wind surging down the building-lined street, turning it into a wind tunnel--strengthening its icy grip with every gust. After crossing the highway I walked down the steep hill leading into the hallow; where the creek crosses under the road. For a few moments I was below the grasp of the intense wind, but as I began the walk up the mountain upon which lies my cottage--my place of refuge from the cold, I once again felt the frigid gale upon my skin and its penetration through my leather jacket--a barrier against the cold that now felt insufficient. As I reached the wooded areas and the burial grounds that surround my living space, I could hear the moans of the trees- hardwoods stretching, as they swayed in the wind.

Upon reaching the cottage, I quickly re-built the fire and savored the heat emanating from the wood stove. Soon the smell of food filled the air. I was safe from the wind and the cold and settled in for the evening.

The wind produces a variety of sounds. There are times when you can hear the rustling of newly fallen leaves as they swirl and then scatter across the fields and the pavement. Then there is the wind-driven rain that splatters forceably across the window pain--the sound of a torrent of both wind and water. It is a special wind indeed however, that whistles between window and pane and moans along the corners of the abode during the darkest hours of the night. It must blow the right way; it must come from exactly the proper direction; but when it does, it invokes images that most minds do not ordinarily consider--images of long abandoned houses, visions of burial grounds where the spirits of lost souls roam in the night--images of horror!

I don't remember how long I sat in front of the computer last night as the wind howled all around me, but eventually I settled into my warm bed and fell asleep. It was a short-lived slumber however, as the restless gale outside the confines of my abode spread its message: Awaken! Feel my strength. Behold the images I invoke!

I got out of bed and changed the station on my radio, substituting classical music for a popular late-night talk show. Jumping back under the covers, I turned off the light and listened. The topic was Creation and Ancient Origins. Where did we come from, the host wanted to know. All is not as it seems his guests asserted. The Bible is only one part of the mythology.

The wind continued to blow threateningly through the nearby forest--past the grave markers, whistling as I laid there in the dark.

They spoke about the ancient Sumerians, those keepers of secrets dating back into antiquity--the secrets of human origin, of deities--gods and goddesses, dangerous spirits; all of whom even now inhabit other dimensions--the ether regions.

My cat companion, big and fluffy as he is and generally of a nature to spend the nighttime hours outside, declined the opportunity on this blustery night; instead, preferring warmth and protection within the four walls of the cottage. He sat in the other room with eyes open and ears on the alert--watching--listening to the wind and the creaking of the house as it bucked against the tempest.

Eve was not to blame for mankind's downfall, one of the guests pointed out. It's not fair that womankind takes the blame for our state of affairs. The serpent was more than he is now portrayed to be.

The temperature started to drop inside the cottage. I arose again, throwing another log on the fire. This was no night to let the flames get low. The icy wind was penetrating.

Things had occurred in the Pleiades star system. Long ago some of its inhabitants came to Earth from that distant place. The sons of God that took the daughters of men, were not necessarily evil. They had a purpose. As for those who manipulated the DNA of earlier evolutionary manifestations such as the neanderthals, thus paving the way for modern man perhaps 200,000 years ago, the Sumerians didn't say if they were extra-terrestrial or from other dimensional realities.

Restless and stirring yet again, I looked outside the windows to see that a light dusting of wind-driven snow had stuck to the ground, somewhat illuminated by the waning, but still nearly full gibbous moon; though it remained obscured behind the angry clouds. The wind howled and I returned to bed, wrapping myself completely beneath the covers.

During the so-called lost years before he returned to the Holy Land, Jesus studied all the mystical arts in Alexandria they said. He knew the secrets of Sumer. Christianity was divided among two trains of thought. Mysticism was opposed by patriarchy and dogma. Patriarchy won out.

As the northerly gale groaned and whistled mournfully past my windows--just outside the door, its sound filled my mind with images of haunted structures, where ghosts and other spirits still roam. I thought of trees silhouetted in the light of the full moon, swiftly moving clouds running across its face; vampires lurking in the dark.

The radio show ended at its appointed time and eventually, I fell into a somewhat uncomfortable slumber. At the crack of dawn I was awakened by the cat's antics by the door. He was ready to go outside and brave the cold--and the wind. Night turned into day and I arose to make my morning coffee.

It's late afternoon now and the sky is still overcast but with enough clearing in the west to offer a colorful sunset. The wind is still blowing, but is expected to slowly lose its fury. A warming trend will begin tomorrow and more delightful weather is on the way. Still, I for one will always remember the images induced by the sound of the whistling wind, ancient stories of man's origins, extraterrestrials, lost souls wandering in the night, deities that still inhabit other regions--other places, and the secrets of ancient Sumeria.

Isolation

2012-01-08T14:39:00.004-06:00

Through the various comments existing on one of my favorite blogs, The Ultimate Goth Guide, it appears to me that quite a few members of the Goth community suffer from a sense of isolation. They are alone in their communities, appearing to their classmates, co-workers and neighbors as outside the mainstream. Yet, they lack the much-needed support and camaraderie of other like-minded folks. For these people most interaction with fellow darklings takes place through the internet, which to a great extent, helps alleviate the situation.

Eventually, many of these folks, especially the younger ones, will become more able to visit clubs in other cities. They will have the option of moving to or visiting places where the scene and alternative culture thrives. The mobility and financial independence that comes with adulthood makes it all possible and those desiring personal interaction and friendship with other Goths will likely find it. They and their circle of friends--their common experience in the lifestyle, will allow for the development of a shared history, that will link them together culturally and socially for a lifetime.

My own dilemma stems from the fact that I don't have that shared history; and while I'm certainly old enough to be an elder Goth, I cannot lay any claim to such a title. Then again, I'm certainly no baby bat either.

Perhaps because of geographical location and my own personal responsibilities, I didn't discover the world of Goth until nearly twelve years ago when a new university radio station took to the airwaves and every Saturday night broadcast a program entitled From the Crypt, hosted by a young lady who called herself The Death Mistress. I listened to her program almost religiously; and in return, she treated me to the wonderful sounds of Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Sisters of Mercy, Joy Division and Type O Negative. I was also very surprised to learn that the Cure, some of whose music I already owned, was a vital part of this compelling subculture.

If I had been behind the curve for considerable part of my lifetime, I remained in stuck mode for several years after From the Crypt disappeared from the Saturday night lineup. It seemed that I was always trying to play catch up. For awhile, I had no idea where local Goth events were being held. Admittedly though, I tend to get reclusive and can very much be a creature of habit, always going to the same places in which I feel comfortable.

At some point I heard that events were being held at a venue on the west side of town. I had no sooner figured out where the place was located however, when it shut down. Again, I was left for an extended period of time without a clue. At the time I worked for the local school system. One day a student, who mentioned that her parents were Goth, told me about a new club where occasional gatherings were taking place. I had friends who sometimes frequented the same establishment for other programs who related that the venue was extremely smoky. As a non smoker and a somewhat reserved person who doesn't like going to new places alone I hesitated; not for very long, but I hesitated nevertheless--and the place shut down!

It is only during the past year or two that I have finally made the acquaintance of a few similarly inclined folks from the general area. Most of my developing friendships center around a tea society that meets once a month at the local library or Facebook friends who happen to show up at special metal events. Most of these people, wonderful though they are, tend to be considerably younger than me; so what's missing is that shared sense of history, that common experience, the camaraderie borne from people of a certain age drawn together by similar interests. Sure, the love of dark music, styles of dress and literature we hold in common; but it can be hard to fit in--to really fit in, when the age difference goes beyond a certain point. It's just natural.

Yes, I have friends with whom I occasionally get together, so it's not like I'm dying of loneliness or anything. I tend to be fairly solitary anyway, but I remain somewhat isolated in my gothiness; if I can use that word. My friends and other associates ask me questions about it from time to time, but they really don't understand it or relate to it in any way. They don't like horror movies, vampires, stories of deceased souls lurking in cemeteries, old-school Goth music, metal, dark ambient or black clothing; at least not clothing sporting vampires drinking from wine glasses filled with blood or other aspects of the macabre.

Although I'm sure that I'm not alone in my predicament, I do feel that my situation is somewhat unique. It would be great if I could eventually find the other older darklings who still reside here. I know they're around. But in the meanwhile, what's a person like me to do? Well, I guess I can be grateful for one thing; at least there's the internet.

Photo source: Gothicpictures.org.
Author: Unknown

Metal's Place in the Subculture

2012-01-05T18:50:00.000-06:00

Of all the discussions that take place within the Gothic scene, the one I find most difficult to stay out of is the debate over where metal fits into the subculture. On the one hand, there are the more traditional folks who rightfully insist that Goth culture grew out of the punk and post-punk scenes. Metal, they like to point out, has very different roots and it's hard for me to disagree with that assessment. On the other hand, there are many similarities between the Gothic and metal scenes and crossover between the two subcultures is not at all uncommon. For what it's worth, this is my take on the whole thing:

Merriam-Webster Online defines the word Gothic this way: "of or relating to a style of fiction characterized by the use of desolate or remote settings and macabre, mysterious, or violent incidents"

Since there's no mention of music in the above definition, let's substitute the word fiction with music instead. Would Merriam-Webster's definition not still be correct; a statement of truth? Shouldn't Gothic music then, invoke the darker aspects; the macabre, desolation, despair, melancholy and the more occult aspects of our personalities, psyches and very souls? Doesn't it often do just that; and doesn't some metal accomplish the same thing? If so, then how can it not fall under the definition of Gothic?

Admittedly, I have a bit of prejudice in this regard. I listen more to metal than any other genre of music; partly because so much of it does invoke the above-mentioned feelings in me. I would go so far as to argue that certain sub genres of metal come across as considerably more Gothic than much of the so-called old-school Goth. In other words, as much as I love Siouxsie Sioux and her music I would have to categorize her style as post punk. Siouxsie herself has actually denied that either she or her music are Gothic.So while I really enjoy the music and bands that started it all and those who carry on in the same vein, it's metal that generally brings me to that special place--to that desolate landscape in which waits the dark goddess of my dreams awaits me. Not all metal brings me there, and not necessarily that which is referred to as Gothic metal either. After all, labels are an inexact tool at best.

That said, there is a lot of Gothic metal that I believe does accomplish the mission--and it does so exceptionally well. And then there's doom metal with its various sub genres, such as Gothic doom, funeral doom and death doom which never fails to take me into that realm where I so often need to go. I would recommend, just to mention a few, the following bands for a truly Gothic experience:

Draconian, Tales of Dark, Wine From Tears, Nox Aurea, The Sins of Thy Beloved, Tristania, Sirenia and Forest of Shadows.

Perhaps I don't view Gothic music as traditionally as some because I wasn't there when it all happened. Oh, I'm old enough that I could have and perhaps should have been; but for whatever reason, I remained unaware of Goth culture until about twelve years ago. It's true, I was totally oblivious to it even though I was listening to The Cure--even though I loved Dead Can Dance, Loreena McKennitt and dark ethereal music in general. In any event, I'm a music lover who is more than ready to proclaim some metal genres as a type of Gothic music, even as I readily acknowledge that it sprang from different roots.

As Exhibit A, I offer you the following video. The song, which is performed by Amederia, a Gothic/Doom band from Russia, is entitled Doomed Ground. Enjoy!

Top Photo: The Pianist - Author unknown.
Source: Gothicpictures.org

Halloween Weekend

2011-11-02T09:25:00.000-05:00

It can argued that I'm always in Halloween mode, but as the nights of October lengthen and autumn's colorful leaves break free of the trees that birthed them and spiral down toward the Earth in the afternoon breeze, my excitement grows with the knowledge that All Hallows Eve is truly approaching.

This year of course, Halloween took place on a Monday, which means that related activities were spread out over the course of the weekend; and then, there were even neat things to do here that actually had nothing to do with the yearly celebration, but which fit in nicely.

On Saturday and Sunday the Renaissance and Fantasy Faire of the Ozarks was held next to the county fairgrounds. Although not the largest such event in the world, there were still plenty of things going on there to make for an interesting day as several members of my local tea society held fairy court. How stately these Fae looked, all dressed in white, as they were led in procession by a kilted man playing the Scottish Bagpipes!

As it turned out, I knew quite a few of the faire's participants. Visiting the gypsy camp was special to me as it was organized and maintained by a special friend whom I hadn't seen in quite a while. It took quite a while before the sun moved around enough to warm the camp but inside my friend's sizable black witch's cauldron burned a fire that provided a welcome amount of warmth as we stood around and talked.

Of course, there were the usual things that you find at such affairs, which included medieval combat displays, the queen's procession, vendors with fine leather products and chainmail, belly dancers, and some of the best chicken wings that I've had in a long time.

On Monday, I arrived at our town square early knowing full well that it would soon be occupied by legions of youngsters dressed in their costume finery for the annual trick or treat festivities. Each year, the local businesses around the square set up shop out on the sidewalks in order to give the kids a safe Halloween experience. My criticisms concerning this event centered around two things: Instead of playing Halloween music the local PA system was playing totally unrelated material such as some by the Supremes and other mainstream popular music. Couldn't they have at least found more appropriate music for such an event? Then, there was the problem of trick or treating in the sunshine. I mean, come on now, Halloween is all about the darkness isn't it? Still, I can't really blame the event organizers for hosting the kids in the bright sun of day. After all, wasn't it the Congress who, in their infinite wisdom, decided to extend daylight savings time for another week? Truth be told though, the legions of little ghouls seemed happy enough to be in costume and receiving lots of candy.

Later that evening, I walked down to the entertainment district in order to attend a Monday Halloween Metal event, which featured four separate bands. I stayed for three and really appreciated the first group's vocalist as he was quite a good grunter. I always enjoy seeing the ladies dressed in their costumes for such events; they never fail to be...well...enticing might be a good description. One adorable-looking lady introduced herself to me and talked me into trying a tequila drink that is allegedly named after her--the Wild One. It was a very tasty beverage that has a way of sneaking up on a person. After two of these I certainly needed nothing else to drink; and while I wasn't hung over the next morning, I felt a lingering buzz throughout the next day.

Yesterday, one of the local Halloween stores held its day after 50 percent sale. Needless to say, I added a bit of decor to my humble abode.

Ah yes, Halloween is truly a glorious night. The good part about it all is that there are only 363 days left until it comes around again. In the meanwhile, I can pretend, just like I always do.

Photo source: Free Stock Photos.com

Inspiration

2011-10-16T15:58:00.000-05:00

I find it hard to believe that several months have passed by since I removed my short stories from this blog. During the interim, I added nothing here; although I have continued work on my short fiction and believe it or not, am currently working on a story that could very well fit the description of novelette. That's something I have not been able to attain up until this point since I have considered myself a short-story writer without the staying power to write a novel. Still, writing a novelette is a step in the right direction and I'm very please with the way in which my new creation is unfolding. We'll see how it goes. So where does the theme of inspiration fit in to all of this? Actually, it has come to me in two forms.

This past June I joined a local tea society, which is in reality, a new group that holds monthly meetings in order to support and inspire we creative types. Originally, I got involved with hopes of meeting up with some of the Gothic members of my community, and I can't say that I'm disappointed in that respect. Still, as a group we're getting more focused and are inspiring one another toward greater achievement. Yesterday, we discussed the fact that next month will be National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. While some group members may attempt to write an entire novel during November, others committed to doing something creative each day of the month. Although I committed myself to neither, I did think of this long-neglected blog and mentioned that I might pay more attention to it. While November is still a little over two weeks away, my other source of inspiration made an update here a little more immediate.

Just today, I became a follower of a popular blog known as the Ultimate Goth Guide, which is maintained by a young lady named Amy, who presents a wealth of information to her readers on all things Goth. I highly recommend visiting her site. Still, after becoming a follower I didn't want people visiting her site to discover mine only to come here and find nothing. That said, between the two motivations I have finally added something here and now that I've broken the ice, maybe I'll stay inspired enough to at least post here from time to time; after all, there's plenty to talk about.

Photo source: Gothic Pictures Gallery. Artist unknown

A New Beginning

2010-12-05T00:24:00.000-06:00

For the past couple of years or so, I used this blog as a place to park my short stories. Originally, my idea was to set up a website through which I would offer my short fiction to readers at a modest price, while engaging in network marketing.

Building a website proved a bit beyond my technical expertise and was too time consuming. Eventually, I gave up on that project and decided to feature my stories here at Blogspot. Still, some six to eight months after adding Google Ad Sense to my blog, I had earned a whopping 25 cents.

It was obvious that traffic to my blog was virtually non existent and my works of art, my short stories, were not being viewed. Ultimately, I would like to either get my fiction published online or offline. All things considered, keeping the stories up here just seemed...well...counter productive, so I removed them and decided to create a new format for my blog. From now on it will be just that; a blog.

I want to cover all things Gothic; but beyond that, I have not decided just what direction I want to take here. Some entries may be of a more personal nature while others may discuss groups, bands, art and music, people or the sub culture in general. I only hope that the entries here will garner a readership and serve as a focal point and resource for the Gothic community. So then, I'd like to welcome you all to the new Gothic Embrace.