MetaxuCafe Litblog Network

Book Review: The Lair of the White Worm by Bram Stoker

2008-08-18T01:47:00Z

This story is for Amy Jane and the Lindorm.

Bram Stoker has a thing for these supernatural thrillers. This one was a little bit difficult to get through. Mostly it was because the plot just moved soooo slow.

The story begins with Adam Salton leaving his home in Australia to visit a grand uncle Richard ( the last of the Saltons) whom he had previously never met. The nearby seat is Castra Regis which is owned by the Caswall family. The Caswell family has an interesting history. The family has not lived in the family abode for centuries. As told by Sir Nathaniel de Salis (a friend of Richard Salton) over time, the Caswell family seems to have acquired some unusual mental abilities. When Adam arrives, the region is quite excited because Edgar Caswell is returning to the family property.

While on their way to Edgar’s welcome home party, the three men encounter Lady Arabella March who is the owner of Diana’s Grove. She is always dress in rather form fitting white dresses wearing a stole about her neck covered in emeralds. Her carriage wheel had broken during her trip. Adam fixes it for her. As he does so, he notices a lot of black snakes around the carriage. As a result, he decides to purchase a mongoose.

The plot becomes more curious. Edgar Caswell clearly has some problems. It appears that he is perpetrating some sort of mental attack upon Lilla Watford who is the cousin to the woman for whom Adam has feelings. Edgar also creates a giant hawk shaped kite to keep the unusual migration of birds from destroying the crops. In addition he has a servant named Oolanga who is clearly malevolent. During this time, the mongoose that Adam purchases, tries to attack Lady Arabella, so she is forced to shoot it. This is one of many strange occurrences around Diana’s Grove. De Salis who is like Van Helsig in Dracula, tells Adam the myth of the White Worm, which he believes is in someway connected with Diana’s Grove. It seems back in the primodial days of earth, larger than average creatures, including snakes lived. As Man had not expanded throughout the earth, the giant serpent had lived for millenia. Over time, the creature would have evolved intelligence plus in some myths these ancient creatures have the ability to change form.

Both Adam and de Salis believe that Lady Arabella is the White Worm. Of course they set out to stop her. This is complicated by the fact that Lady Arabella seems determined to make Edgar Caswell her spouse. She is constantly using her snake like ability to follow him, which s notice by Oolanga. She also helps him with his psychic attack upon Lilla. The only problem is that Mimi, Lilla’s cousin, possesses some inner strength that makes it impossible for Edgar to carry out his plan. As a result, Lady Arabella decides Mimi must die. Meanwhile, Oolange has decided to blackmail Lady Arabella into marrying him. He is the first victim that gets eaten by the Worm. Adam was present for this and witnessed Arabella dragging Oolanga down into the hole.

Lady Arabella tried to play it off as though it was just the furry of motion that gave Adam the impression that she fell in the whole with Oolanga. Of course, Adam knows what he saw and knows he cannot prove was she did. Anyway, in order to save Mimi, Adam marries her and has decided to take her with him back to Australia. Arabella gets wind of this and invites Adam, Mimi, and de Salis over for a disasterous tea. Lady Arabella contrives to get Mimi to fall into the well; but Adam and de Salis whisk her away. Arabella changes form and actually chases them to out at sea before turning back. Her monster form is enormous.

Anyway, the hunter becomes hunted. Arabella tries to lure Adam back by offering to sell him Diana’s Grove. Of course Adam purchases it determined to destroy the Lair, which he does by pouring sand and dynamite into the hole. Meanwhile, Edgar psychically attacks Lilla again aided and abetted by Arabella. Lilla began to succumb until Mimi comes for a visit. Lilla is able to send Edgar packing, but the effort kills her. Mimi visits Edgar and pretty much promises she will be sending him into the afterlife at some point in the near future. As it turns out, Edgar possesses the Mesmer chest, and is trying to master the art of mesmerizing which is the forerunner to hypnosis. What Mimi does not realize is that Lady Arabella followed her to Castra Regis. She ran some metal wire that Edgar kept for his kite all the way back to Diana’s Grove and threw it into the well (apparently Lady Arabella likes the way sounding the well sounds). Anyway, these created a dangerous situation because there was a huge thunderstorm approaching. De Salis’ fear is that lightening will strike Edgar’s kit travel down and destroy the house and park of the surrounding village. This doesn’t happen because Arabella runs the wire to the hole filled with dynamite. To say that there is a band would be putting it mildly indeed. Diana’s Grove is destroyed in entirety. The well regurgitates the White Worm in pieces. It was truly gruesome to read!!!!!!

The book was a little bit difficult to get through. You really had to wait till the end for all the good stuff to happen. Fortunately, the book was fairly short rather than being Dicken’s length.

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Serialization of Sacred Vow: Katerina

2008-08-15T10:01:00Z

picture by imhis1

Sacred Vow is a unique, ingeniously written visionary/metaphysical novel about one true love and its infinite expressions. It asks the reader to consider an experience where our interconnectedness and ‘self’ definition might extend far beyond the segmented (individualistic) awareness previously held by so many. It takes us on a journey deep within, exploring and discovering one’s own mystical longings and a wealth of endless knowledge. Be prepared for some surprises.—Spirit in the Smokies Magazine of Living NEWStories

Installment 5 of 22 Sacred Vow (Dragon’s Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).

Katerina

Ian and his new friend had quite a few pleasurable visits over the six weeks that followed. With the exception of a couple of short periods when she did not show at all, he saw her one to several times every week. Her visits lasted only seconds on his watch, yet the activity that he could recall made Ian feel that they had been together upwards of several hours at a time.

He came to call the woman Katerina sometime after her second visit. Absentmindedly interrogating himself after he returned from their time together, trying to get some better idea about what exactly he was experiencing, Ian realized that at some point he had begun referring to her by that name. The certainty and familiarity with which he used the name amused him.

Ian started to search for the justification of this inadvertent christening. Surely, he had picked up something in the vision without realizing it, something that suggested her name. After considerable deliberation, he found no such clue. And yet he experienced discomfort when he did not refer to her as Katerina. He was certain that he somehow knew her name. And even if it was not her name, what would it hurt to call her Katerina until he knew her name for sure? Using this name was much more soothing to him.

Ian next encountered Katerina as she was sitting in the grass under a tree of beautiful purple flowers. Comforting a dear, little girl, perhaps three years old, on her lap, Katerina acknowledged Ian’s presence at about the moment he became aware of her.

When Katerina spoke to him, the child looked about as if she had no idea whom Katerina was addressing. But, the little girl did not seem disturbed by Katerina’s response. Once the youth decided there was no one else with them, she laid her head back onto Katerina’s breast and closed her eyes.

“You have a lovely daughter,” Ian said.

Katerina shook her head, very slowly, in order not to disturb the child’s rest. The caring look for him on Katerina’s face gave comfort to the depth of Ian’s soul. He had never imagined that there could be so much connection between two people merely through visual communication. No wonder the child was so contented in the company of such an empathic woman.

“She’s not your daughter?” he asked.

Again, another slow denial, and then Katerina stroked the child’s hair.

He looked about at the surroundings. They were in a sculptured garden, spanning in all directions as far as he could see. True, he could not see much more than fifty yards in any direction, but the paths that disappeared in every direction implied there was much more beyond.

When Ian’s attention returned to her, Katerina was gazing intently at him. At first he was a little embarrassed with the attentiveness of her focus.

“You know. I suppose I should start by introducing myself, though it seems we are rather familiar already.” He was starting to ramble, so he calmed himself before continuing, “My name is Ian Sarin. It has been a joy to meet you, dear lady.” He bowed his head.

She nodded in acknowledgement, placed a hand on her chest opposite the head of the sleeping child, and spoke. It was obvious that she had introduced herself, but Ian did not catch her name.

“I am so sorry,” he responded. “I have always been inept at lip-reading.”

Then Ian started nervously rambling again, “You know, after we met the second time, I got the most assured idea that I already knew your name. I had no reason for it, but I just couldn’t help believing that your name was Katerina. In fact, having become so certain of it, I was afraid that I would just call you . . .”

Noticing her smiling and nodding, Ian regained his focus, thinking he had missed something she was trying to convey.

“I am sorry. What did you say?”

Again, she placed a hand on her chest, but spoke with slow, exaggerated movements, slightly pausing between each syllable. She appeared to say I . . . am . . . Kat . . . er . . . ina.

What she said seemed obvious, but Ian distrusted his eyes. Surely, his own preconception of her name was making him imagine that he understood what she said. Still, he had to check.

“Katerina? Your name is Katerina?”

She nodded with enough enthusiasm that the little girl stirred to see what was happening.

“That’s amazing,” he said. “How could I have possibly guessed that?”

Katerina kissed the little girl’s cheek, and tried to coax her head back to rest. Apparently, the little one had received all the comfort she required and was fully revitalized. Without any further indication of intent, the child jumped to her feet, looked quickly to one side, and started to talk excitedly.

Katerina nodded, and the girl rushed toward one of the many paths radiating from the clearing. Waving back to Katerina, the child barely missed running into Ian. She seemed no more aware of his presence than she had earlier.

He laughed at the transformation and watched the child disappear around a flowerbed. When he turned to look back at Katerina, Ian was surprised that she was now standing right in front of him, gazing into his eyes.

Katerina reached to touch him, but her hand remained barely suspended in front of the upper right side of his chest. “Hello,” she mouthed. He was sure of that.

Reflexively, Ian reached to touch her face.

He was so engrossed in her eyes, that he did not really pay any attention to his hand. Anticipating the touch, his senses informed him that his hand had moved enough that it should now be reporting the feel of Katerina’s skin.

Ian pulled his attention from her eyes and looked to where he expected himself to be touching her face, along her jaw line. The translucent distortion that he saw instead of his hand caused him to jerk backwards. He pulled his hand back, bringing it right in front of his eyes for a better look. Still Ian saw nothing but a fuzzy impression of a hand.

“What the . . . ?” he said, stepping back again.

Noticing that Katerina was waving her hand in front of his face, Ian let his attention follow her hand. She drew a single finger to her lips, gently suggesting quiet, calm. From her lips, his attention went back to her eyes; in the process he became as subdued as the child had been a moment before.

What difference does it make that my hand is not solid? he thought. Ian looked around himself and back to Katerina. It was an odd feeling to perceive himself as the only intangibility in the environment.

“Look where I am, what I am doing,” he said out loud. “Why should I be so surprised just because I see something else unexpected?”

Though still not completely comfortable with the appearance of his hand, he was calmed. Being careful not to point with his finger, Ian asked for a tour. “Let’s take a walk. Please tell me about this gorgeous garden.”

They wandered about for quite a while, winding through path after path. It was all much manicured, more like an arboretum or a study of wild flora than the garden of even a lavish estate. He didn’t see any indication of a dwelling of any kind. Of course, since Ian could not hear anything during the visitations he could not rely on sound to tell him if they were close to any houses.

With the sights and the company, it did not take Ian long to completely forget about the distortion he saw instead of his hand. The couple talked like long-lost, dear friends, spending most of the time looking into each other’s eyes as they talked and walked. He was surprised that neither of them stumbled, he especially, since he had no idea where they were going.

Though he did not ever feel the contact, Katerina reached out to touch or stroke Ian—or more precisely, his location—frequently. He was amazed how much intimacy could be conferred by the implication of such a motion. The gentleness with which Katerina carried out those gestures, the look in her eyes, almost satisfied any need for touch, to a degree that he had never known before.

When she was close enough, Ian “touched” Katerina. He had no physical sensation as a result of the effort, and he did not look for confirmation of that touch. He did not want the pleasure of his experience interrupted by what he suspected he would or would not see.

As Katerina continued with the tour of the endless garden, Ian’s conscious mind started to push for answers to questions. Was he only a matter of his consciousness projecting to a location near Katerina when he was in her world? If so, what were the perceived sensations of his body in this place? He experienced fragrances, experienced movement as he walked.

And there was one odd sensation that was starting to disturb him. Ian’s movement had a vague hint of being guided, as if he was in some confined space. He walked along with Katerina, but it didn’t fully feel as if he was moving as a result of his own physical effort. The idea made no sense to him. Yet, it did explain why he never stumbled as he kept his eyes only on Katerina during their tour of the garden.

Two little children came barreling down the path. Their little faces lit up when they saw Katerina. They began chattering and waving, without slowing their pace. She replied with similar enthusiasm. Off they disappeared in the opposite direction, without any indication that they had seen Katerina’s guest.

The interruption was good for Ian. It brought him back to the joy of his moment. He returned to the steady exchanges with Katerina, rather than dwelling on the pointless concerns of his conscious mind.

Shortly afterward, he and Katerina stepped into a clearing and the sky opened up over them. The flood of sunlight drew Ian’s attention ahead and then upward, where he noticed a magnificent old-world building.

“What a remarkable place, Katerina! What is that?” Ian said, looking back and forth between Katerina and the structure, which stood about fifty feet away.

Moving in front of him, Katerina lifted her left hand toward the structure, as if to introduce it to him.

Overwhelmed by its unique beauty, Ian repeated, “What is it?”

She looked him right in the face and began to slowly pronounce something. Ian hated trying to lip-read. He found the slow, labored pronunciations to be more distracting than helpful. For all he knew, Ian caught nothing of what Katerina said, despite her efforts.

“Do you live here?” he guessed.

Yes, she nodded. Motioning for him to move forward, they headed for a large, ornate entrance. Katerina began telling him about it, at normal speed.

Her home was the archetypal French country cottage. It was neither small, nor very big. The exterior was extremely well crafted with stone, stucco, and heavy timbers. Quite a bit of the stone and exposed wood was carved, apparently by various craftspeople on different themes, at different times since the styles were so different. The cottage had to have been ancient. Unless her world was much different from his, he thought, not even the wealthy built homes of this size with such detail and artistry anymore.

Ian realized that he was acting as excitedly as one of Katerina’s young friends. Moving this way and that, he tried to take in all the rich detail. Katerina moved toward whatever he showed an interest in and tried to tell him about what he was seeing. Nearer the main door, off to one side of the building, there was a sculpture that fascinated him. Katerina stopped to see what he was looking at.

A path led directly to the intriguing sculpture. She waited to see if he wished a closer look. Ian turned toward the house, concluding that he could see the statue well enough from where he was, and he did not want to delay their entry into the house. Katerina followed suit and turned to continue toward the door.

An instant later Ian changed his mind. “I’ll be right back, Katerina. I am going to run over there for a quick look at the statue.”

As he was behind her, Katerina did not see his change of direction. A few steps into his jog, a sense of internal strain, a visceral pull, started to get Ian’s attention. Another couple of steps and he experienced a rush of faintness. Before he could take another step, Ian lunged back—against his recliner.

The return to his study was abrupt, but he recovered without complication. His little stroll toward the statue alone let him know he was correct in supposing he could not move far from Katerina when in her reality. Based on that experience and the children’s unawareness of him, Ian concluded that in that place he was an apparition honed in on, and seen only by Katerina.

(Katerina to be continued next week)

C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.

In celebration of CG’s upcoming non-fiction book, Strike a Chord of Silence, for a limited time autographed/signed copies of Sacred Vow are available for $4.00US plus shipping!– or purchase as ebook or the Amazon Kindle version

This copyrighted article may be freely reprinted as long as the entire article and complete by line is included, without additions.

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Murakami’s Magical Madness

2008-08-11T10:14:00Z

It happens rarely, but when it does, all the effort that reading takes is justified ten times over. Less than 20 pages down while reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, I knew I was in company of a mastermind - in all senses of the word.

Read the entire post at the author’s site.

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Hurry Down Sunshine, Michael Greenberg

2008-08-10T11:49:01Z

Hurry Down Sunshine by Michael Greenberg
Memoir, 235 pages
Publisher: Other Press LLC
Publication Date: September 2008
Topics: Sally Greenberg, Manic Depressive Illness in Adolescents, Parents of Mentally Ill Children

Why I’m Reading
I got lucky and got this as an advanced reading copy over at LT Early Reviewers. That this particular book would come to me was fascinating because recently I have been giving a lot of thought to some close friends and their experiences with mental illness. Getting this book in the mail at this particular time definitely made me sit up and pay attention. Earlier this year I read An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison, and while I appreciated her experience, her focus was mainly on broadly outlining the major episodes of her life, and using medication and monitoring to try to anticipate and manage bipolar disorder. Her book left me with only a vague idea of her actual experiences during her psychotic episodes. I was very interested to read an additional perspective.

The Skinny
Against the backdrop of alarming newspaper articles and reports, which he sees everywhere (Joel Steinberg’s arrest in the beating death of his daughter, Margaux Hemingway’s suicide, a pipe bomb at the Summer Olympics, and the doomed presidential candidacy of Bob Dole), Michael Greenberg relates the events of the summer that his 15 year old daughter, Sally, experiences a full psychotic episode due to an early manifestation of bipolar disorder, which usually occurs in early adulthood. Over a period of roughly two and a half months he relates the details of Sally’s first “crackup”, stay on a psychiatric ward and subsequent reintroduction to society- just in time to begin 10th grade. Along the way we are introduced to several family members (including Greenberg’s mother- with whom his relationship is strained, his intensely artistic wife, his older brother Steve for whom he is responsible and is also mentally ill, and Sally’s mother, a Native New Yorker who has fled the city to enjoy the calmer environs of Vermont with her second husband), who must work through their differences in order to support Sally through her crisis.

My Thoughts
In crisp and engaging prose, Michael Greenberg presents an unflinching account of way he and his family struggled to cope with the sudden onset of mental illness and how it affects his family. He “goes there”, as my mother is fond of saying, and asks tough questions of himself about his culpability in not recognizing the depths of the trouble brewing in his daughter. He is unafraid to portray himself in a truthful if sometimes unflattering light as he struggles to deal with financial and marital problems, along with the mental health conditions of his daughter and of his middle-aged brother Steve. Strong characterizations of his family, especially his mother, daughter, wife and brother had me riveted and turning the pages until I finished.

Passages That Got My Attention:
Describing his mother ~ “Her bright careful veneer calms us. Everyday she arrives in a fresh outfit, stretching her wardrobe to the limit, not a hair out of place or a hint of summer wilt about her. She enters the ward as if she’s stepping onto a stage, but it seems less a display of vanity than a tribute to order, to effort, to the way we must will things to be in the times of disaster.”

Describing his second wife, who is a vegetarian, and at this point not yet his second wife ~ “One night, I caught her sliding her fingers through the drippings of a leg of lamb I had prepared. Bending forward so as not to stain her clothes, she sucked the crumbs of meat from her hand, blushing when she saw me, then withdrawing any hint of embarrassment as she grabbed her chopsticks and returned to her rooms in the back of the apartment, her chin shiny with pan grease.”

If You’re Anything Like Me:
You’ll be fascinated by this moving and honest account of how people deal with the sudden crisis and illness in their lives. I also really enjoyed the way he explained the details of the illness and drug treatments in a way which was accessible and easy to understand. Bonus points for incorporating the stories of poet Robert Lowell and author, James Joyce.

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Serialization of Sacred Vow: Tea Ceremony (continued)

2008-08-07T22:03:00Z

The most significant event of your life calls to you, from barely beyond your perception…both imminent and impossible… a call of the heart, of the spirit, and of yourself to which you have not yet been introduced.

Sacred Vow is visionary fiction of a journey toward our one true love…in its infinite expressions…bringing together two individuals from disparate realities—but one spirit—to heal the rift in the Collective Consciousness…a breach that threatens us all.

Installment 4 of 22Sacred Vow (Dragon’s Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).

photo by melted_snowball

Tea Ceremony (continued)

About a month later, Ian had convinced himself that he was in charge of his own choices. Despite not feeling in control of every emotion, he let down his rational guard and began pursuing another experience with the woman of that unforgettable night. Speculating that the image had been a product of a combination of environmental factors in his study, Ian decided to duplicate the circumstances to the best of his memory.

His efforts did not produce a vision the next few times he had tea in the study. Perhaps, Ian thought, he was trying too hard. In time, however, the woman did reappear. This time they did not meet in the forest, but in his study.

The progression of her appearance was precisely the same as before. The items in his focus began to blur. Then a transparent outline of her figure emerged. As she began to take form, Ian noticed a growing tension within himself. He speculated it was the conflict between what he perceived and what his logical mind could accept. Forcing himself to relax, the queasiness he was feeling disappeared quickly.

She was wearing a much more formal-looking garment with a cowl, embroidered with many of the same symbols as the tunic she had worn before. When she fully materialized at the other end of the study, she raised both hands and gracefully pushed the hood back from her face, and down onto her shoulders. A feeling of joy swept over Ian as he saw her smiling face unveiled.

His pretense of scientific research fled the moment she arrived. In the brief instant before total abandonment into the moment, Ian took mental note of the genuineness that denied what he perceived as merely visual. Nor was Ian stirred to know why he felt what he did, but allowed himself to revel in it.

Ian was disappointed that the woman did not offer a kiss on this visit . . . and a visit was what it felt like to him. Instead, she slowly raised a palm in salutation. He got up from his chair and welcomed her to his home.

“It’s so good to see you again, my friend,” he said. “Come and have a seat with me.”

She shook her head and pointed to her ear. Ian understood that she could hear no more of what he said than he had heard from her during their last visit. Turning to his recliner, he motioned to it with his hand. She declined, pressed her hands together as if in reverent thanks, and lowered her head slightly.

They stood, smiling and staring at each other. Ian did not know what she was feeling, but he was certain that their lack of dialogue did not limit their interaction. For his own part, Ian felt much communication was taking place, without the need of a single sound.

She glanced about the room, eventually gesturing as if to ask if it would be all right for her to have a look at a pottery piece that displayed stamped Celtic symbols.

“Sure,” he said. “Make yourself at home.” He rushed over to join her. “It’s made by a potter who lives in the mountains where I go sometimes. I love the symbols that the artist has used.”

His visitor stooped to look closely at the miniature monolith. She pointed to a symbol, a triskele, looked up at him, and made a comment he could not hear. Ian raised his hands to either side of his chest, palms upward, and shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he did not understand what she meant. Standing upright again, she pointed to a triskele on her garment.

“They are the same!” he said. Ian wondered if she was from a Celtic culture. He knew, however, that the triskele was not unique to the Celts.

Wishing to present the woman with a gift, Ian picked up a small candleholder that also bore the triskele design and offered it to her.

“Please, let me give you this.”

She appeared grateful of his offer, but shook her head, declining politely.

“Please,” he insisted.

After pausing for a moment—that Ian took to be considering how to respond—she slowly reached out a hand as if to touch the pot. Excited that she was accepting the gift, he further extended his arm. Without ever touching the pottery, her hand jerked away and her face took on a look of fright.

This movement caused Ian to quickly withdraw his outstretched hand and almost drop the candleholder. After recovering his composure, he noticed she was smiling again, but she had both hands up in front of her, palms out, signaling that he should not bring the pottery to her. She slowly pointed one hand to the place from where he had taken the pot. So, he put it back on the shelf.

With that bit of awkwardness, their visit began. Ian’s visitor relaxed and returned her attention to his offered token, gracefully nodded in thanks again, and mouthed something, about the pottery—he assumed.

Ian silently watched her and his embarrassment evaporated. The gentle woman looked up and gave him another of her enchanting smiles. Showing her about the room, he talked and laughed as if she could hear him. She responded in kind. Happily, they carried on their silent exchange.

It became apparent to Ian that she did not want to touch anything in the room, or else could not. Several times she motioned to Ian to turn an item around, so she could see its backside.

At some point, Ian’s new friend moved to have a look at a book in the bookcase. She took a couple of steps toward it—and then vanished into thin air. Ian was seized with a momentary distress, and then he was startled to find that he was again sitting in the recliner, teacup in hand. He could not understand how it was possible, but evidence suggested that he had never moved from the chair. From all appearances, Ian had been the only one in the room the whole time. But he felt certain that he knew otherwise.

Now that Ian had experienced another visit—or visions, because he interchangeably referred to the experiences by both terms, unable to conclude which they really were—he looked forward to enjoying another one. Ian planned not only to enjoy them but also to find some answers. Crafted after his experiences in computer testing, he would use a base environment of everything just like it had been the first (and second) teatime. He made the same type of tea, used the same teapot, and sat in the same chair. Everything was just the same as it had been previously.

After a couple of successful visits, he started to change one thing at a time. If changing something kept her away, Ian would return things to the way they had last been for the next tea, verify another success, and then see if he could cause a repeat failure. The first conclusion he drew was that even with the absolute replication of the first visit setup, success was not always guaranteed.

C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.

In celebration of CG’s upcoming non-fiction book, Strike a Chord of Silence, for a limited time autographed/signed copies of Sacred Vow are available for $4.00US plus shipping!– or purchase as ebook or the Amazon Kindle version

This copyrighted article may be freely reprinted as long as the entire article and complete by line is included, without additions.

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Found Things

2008-08-05T15:09:00Z

About Found Things: from The Psychoanalytic Field.
other-than-me-more-than-me-more-than-mine

Links to posts on other blogs and websites, these too, are found things. They do not come from me, they are other and more than what I’ve experienced or thought, and they are not mine. Precisely why I… and I would venture to say, why we post them.

There are degrees of “foundness.” A link that reinforces an opinion or idea I already entertain is only weakly “other;” dependent on style, freshness of expression, a change in perspective, a view from a different camera angle. Tainted by the role I’ve assigned it: “look at this, this is what I believe, this is my idea of things as well.”

I have a folder of “Found Things.” Scraps of paper with children’s drawings, enigmatic lists: a letter from a young man in prison to a younger friend, advice in urban black vernacular: this note written on an index card.

Lisa,
Clean the toilet and anything else you did not clean in the bath room you have my work number and I don’t understand why you could not call me at work to find out where the toilet brush is. Even still I don’t understand why you did not clean the outside of the toilet. You live here just like I do and since I don’t have a problem with cleaning up and doing other things pertaining to the apt. I should hope you would not either. You were home all day and I don’t understand why the bathroom is not completely clean.
Linda

Here is a fragment of two lives, charged with feeling: anger, disappointment, household resentment… and nothing to do with me. Entirely outside of my life. There is a kind… mystery would be the wrong word--too strong, the wrong associations… wonder… it sets my mind to wonder, launches me on courses that are never fixed, like a Kafka parable.

The Psychoanalytic Field is one of my favorite blogs. I looks forward to new posts--which I experience like “found things.” They don’t make me “think,” If I were a serious student of psychoanalytic theory, perhaps. Then I would be obligated to “think” about Abou-Rihan’s explication of Winnicott. More a kind of play. Following the synoptic circuits, the associations set loose by their reading… the kind of play that opens into my writing. And isn’t that what we hope for in imaginative writing… to pull out of ourselves something no longer me, more than me, no longer mine?

There it is. The pleasure of “getting it right.” When the work is complete, it no longer matters. As an object to market, as something we would like to use to gain the good opinion of others--all of that, yes--but not for what it is, what is was as we worked on it.

Not me. More than me. Not mine…

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Are Book-Blogger’s Killing Journal Reviewers?

2008-08-05T07:22:00Z

Lisa Warren’s piece in Huffington Post has drawn the book-blogosphere into a debate as to whether they are replacing the book-reviewers from journals and magazines. The crux of her piece satirically titled “Will Blogs Save Books?” is that unprofessional, shabby, opinionated book-blogs are killing the book editors jobs as various newspapers are downsizing their book-review sections and laying them off. The piece also implies that this is a blow to literature and the literary culture.

Read the rest of the entry at the author’s site.”>Read the rest of the entry at the author’s site.

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Under the Net of Iris Murdoch

2008-08-05T07:18:01Z

Iris Murdoch’s existential inclinations are well-known. It is my belief that the novel is a marvellous achievement in that respect. It is in the character of youth to be dazzled by the ever prominent struggle between action and ideas in life. Whereas all within feels profound, everything tangible is uninspiring. This gap that has prevented so many potentiatialities from being realized is so vague that to be able to describe it in a story as simlple as this one speaks volumes about not only the literary skills of the author but her clarity of thought.

Read the entire post at the author’s site.

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Politics, Realist Fiction, Propaganda

2008-08-02T02:04:00Z

Someone left a comment to an earlier post that, in effect, to suggest there might be a political dimension to this controversy between so-called “realist” fiction and whatever its alternatives might be… is comical.

Ha ha ha. He’d got my pupa!

... (sorry, almost finished with Ferdydurke… but this is something that deserves to be injected into universal common usage--American political campaigns are RUN by the impulse to grab the opponent by the pupa. Karl Rove is a Pimko master of the pupa!) A product of silly immature, or at the least, impossibly overcomplicated ideologically loaded way of reading.

Let me simplify. What is propaganda, but storytelling that obfuscates its methods? That pretends to offer an unmediated subject--that dances and prances and mims and mimes to concentrate the attention of the audience on the subject at hand--by slight of hand, dis-inviting awareness of the means?

A perfect distortion of Coleridge’s “willing suspension of disbelief.”

Every effort to produce work that perfects those means plays into the hands of the propagandists.

Of whatever persuasion.

The antidote?

Make the artifice part of the art.

Reveal the ropes and pulleys.

We are a generation at risk. And what we risk, may be all future generations.

Art and literature need not become explicitly political… but to ignore how politics uses the means we perfect, betrays at the deepest level, everything we make.

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Serialization of Sacred Vow: Tea Ceremony

2008-08-01T10:08:00Z

Sacred Vow is a metaphysical novel about a man who responds to the mysterious call of a woman, opening the way to redefinition of both himself and his understanding of the world around him. He takes his first steps on a journey to accept the world around him as a place to live, not simply a place to survive day-to-day. Sacred Vow is both a narrative and the means for the author to communicate a positive message about life and fully integrating the most into each moment. Highly Recommended—Midwest Book Review

Installment 3 of 22 Sacred Vow (Dragon’s Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).

Searching

In all of his fifty-three years, few pleasures consistently satisfied Ian Sarin like fully focusing on a hot cup of tea, especially in the familiar comfort of his home on a New England winter evening. At the end of workdays in the frighteningly specious world of logic—computer logic—Ian loved reentering this personal sanctuary, and making a ceremony out of preparing his tea. The simple motions brought Ian a serenity he couldn’t explain. Of course, he occasionally made changes in the ritual. There were always new teas to try, and he periodically used a different teapot, cup, or other trimming. But the unhurried, predictable routine invariably took him from the intensity of his toil to the calmness of his center.

Ian would lean back in his favorite old chair, placing the hot teacup on the wide wooden armrest. The antique recliner had cracked red leather cushions. A dear couple in their nineties had given him the chair, for some reason unknown to him. It had belonged to the woman’s grandfather. Like its former owners, that old chair was ever welcoming. Without fail, it soothed Ian to sit in it.

Whether it came immediately after work or followed drinks and dinner with friends, separation from his labor was never complete until Ian had the day’s closing cup of tea. The rising steam from the cup celebrated a shift into the more genuine side of his life, of himself. Single, living alone, quietude was his guidepost.

Withdrawn from the activities of the day, Ian would focus on a favorite teapot or some other object within the room, absorbed in aimless wonder until he achieved something he called a sense of “presence” or expanded awareness. The tea’s warmth and flavor never failed to lull him into the anticipated meditation. With palm and fingers wrapped around his cup, Ian would take his time and lingered over every sip, staring blankly, unintentionally, into the room before him . . . looking outward, peering inward.

One winter evening, while in this unmindful passage, Ian slipped into a path that he could not have previously imagined. At first, the experience appeared to be no more than some mild visual distortion, not unlike the onset of one of his occasional migraines. In this hyper-relaxed state, Ian ignored the blurring edges of the images. He knew that the best way to avoid the onslaught of the potential headache was to relax more deeply and allow the storm to flow through.

Without becoming attached to or analyzing the experience, Ian allowed the sensations to draw him where they would. A ghost image of an outdoor scene began to display itself before him. Surprised by the specificity of the evolving scene, Ian tensed up, straining to resist the unexplainable sensory imposition. This caused a mild nausea. Ian took the nausea to be added evidence that he was developing a migraine. So he again focused on relaxation.

He could not completely convince himself that the relaxation that ensued was solely due to the conscious effort he made, rather than the mere seduction of the experience. The infrequent migraines had never before provoked anything remotely suggestive of a hallucination.

With a distinct sense of motion, Ian felt himself transported from his New England home, winter outside, to the edge of a forest in spring—who knew where? The shift from ordinary consciousness to the extraordinary state of deep meditation was stronger and quicker than any previously experienced. It was so exhilarating it almost caused him to faint. As the two contrasting scenes before him continued to transpose, Ian’s familiar room became the more ethereal of the two.

Then he felt an abrupt snap to his nervous system. Both the nausea and psychological elation disappeared. The result was even harder for Ian to remain detached from.

Ian became enchanted by what his senses were reporting, and even more so by the novelty of the transformation. His room had been redefined to a path within an evergreen forest. Yet he knew he was still sitting in his recliner. The smell of evergreen needles and pungent wild plants overwhelmed that of his ginger pu-erh tea. It was all so real that he could even feel the moisture of the lush forest environment. Odd, however, was the utter silence of the place.

Then Ian realized there was another person in this woodland scene. The woman seemed a little more imaginary than her surroundings and she had the radiance and movement usually reserved for dreams and fantasy. Rather than something separate, moving across the landscape, she flowed as part of the scene, from point to point. She made no abrupt movements or gestures. Ian wondered why she seemed so familiar, though he was certain that he had never seen her before.

Her hair was a deep, rich auburn, very long and braided into a single strand. The style of her clothes was unusual. She wore a long-sleeved, full-length gown. Over the dress was an open-sided tunic, not quite as long as the gown, loosely tied at the waist with a woven belt. Both garments appeared to be handmade from a thick but loosely woven natural fiber. The gown was off-white, probably the natural color of the fabric. The tunic was light green, heavily embroidered with symbols that Ian did not recognize. The ordered placement of the symbols, however, gave him the impression that her attire was a uniform of some sort. One thing he could not help but notice: the soft cloth of her clothing flowed as smoothly over her form as she moved through her environment.

Fully focused on the wildflowers that she was collecting and adding to her basket, the woman walked to Ian’s right, completely unaware of him. She moved her lips as if talking to herself, or to the birds that flew about and perched near the ground on the lower branches of the trees. Then the woman finally noticed Ian. She stopped in surprise, but only for a second. Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open . . . just before she gave him a full, welcoming smile.

It was as if she knew who he was but had not expected to see him just then or there. She spread her arms and moved quickly toward him, laughing and talking as she came. To his dismay, Ian could hear nothing of what she said to him.

Ian had initially taken this lissome woman to be much younger than he. But as she drew nearer, he saw that she was about his age. She seemed much fuller of life than Ian had been in years, even though he considered himself quite youthful for his age. Her skin was smooth and fair in color, and it had a healthy, even glow. Equally beautiful to him were the soft lines around her eyes.

Ian was drawn to the woman; he sensed that some kind of intimacy existed between them. She apparently felt the same way, for she leaned over to kiss him without hesitation. Her scent was of delicate flowers over an exotic wood. Ian felt anticipation of her touch—much more than just a mere physical response of an unattached man being kissed by a lovely woman.

Ian’s anticipation was denied. He never felt the touch of her lips. As she stood upright, returning slowly into focus, Ian could not take in enough of her striking face. Now he wondered why she wore that quizzical expression, head tilted and brow knitted. Perhaps she, too, could not understand what had happened to the sensation of the kiss.

Ian was even more overcome by the rapidly expanding emotion that he felt for this woman, from deep within—and, somehow, being near her gave him an almost exaggerated sense of satisfaction with himself. Ian was totally absorbed in his passionate response to her. I am truly blessed, he thought in almost perfect contentment.

It was about then that Ian’s logical mind regained its ability for rationalizing and seized full control. I am sitting in my study, it proclaimed forcefully. This is an illusion!

Abruptly, the woman and her surroundings dematerialized, going from tangible form to ghost image to her absence, merely a blurred perception of Ian’s study. His body and mind convulsed when the last traces of the illusion retreated into the precise forms of the study. A rush of confusing emotions was forcibly fused into his conscious perception of himself and his reality.

Gripping the arms of the recliner, Ian sat rigidly upright, distraught. As unnerving as the physical stimulation had been, the emotions that churned within him now were worse. For a brief moment during the woman’s visit, he had possessed an incontestable sense of purpose and wholeness. Now he felt devoid. The sharp contrast wounded him deeply.

Had something precious slipped away? More than that, why did he feel so certain that this woman’s departure meant a loss of more than he’d known he was missing from life? In his many years of meditation, guided imagery, and similar experiences, Ian had never felt such stirring sensations.

Now that the brunt of the experience had passed, his mind rapidly alternated between supreme elation at “meeting” this remarkable woman and a full rational denial of this little vision, or whatever one might call it. What had just transpired? For all the world, it had felt that in a matter of seconds the tangible world before Ian had completely redefined itself as he remained the only constant. But he was not ready to accept an explanation quite that extreme.

“What a powerful vision,” Ian said to himself, confining the account to something within the comfort zone of his conscious mind.

Step by step, Ian retraced the experience. He had been enjoying the fragrant aroma of his ginger pu-erh tea while his eyes ran over the bamboo-like designs on his recently acquired, handmade ceramic teapot. Obviously, he had finished the tea and set the cup in his lap . . .

Perhaps,” Ian thought, “I suddenly lost consciousness.” No, he knew he had not slept or blacked out!

In fact, Ian reminded himself, the change started as he was looking at the teapot, just finishing his cup of tea. He had been thinking of nothing in particular, allowing himself to drift free from any thoughts. The next thing he knew, the relaxation was moving quickly into a mysterious domain.

The loss of that enchanting woman called Ian back. Despite the evidence to the contrary, he knew she was somehow real. And the emotions she had provoked in him were certainly so.

Quickly getting up from the chair, he walked across the room.

After taking a few steps, Ian turned and stared at the recliner as if it were some unknown object. Then, as if to reassure himself that he was indeed in his study, he slowly let his attention drift around the room. There was the makeshift stereo cabinet, a faux antique armoire—on which an untalented amateur had sought to express an imagined skill. His eyes fell to the worn pine floor and traced a path back to the side table, on which sat the muted green teapot with its bamboo design. Each familiar item was a comfort.

What had the woman in the forest been? He was certain it was not a dream! The experience had been far too lifelike.

Ian felt compelled to classify the experience as some sort of visual aberration, like a mirage. A mirage, however, is something caused by the environment external to the seer. But, what were the conditions that caused this aberration?

In the case of a vision, the controlling conditions are more defined within the seer, within his or her mind . . . or life. That put the weight of the explanation of this occurrence on him. What about Ian or his life had recently changed, allowing this peculiar experience to take place?

Ian consoled himself with the conclusion that if he had had some sort of vision, at least it was pleasant and non-threatening. Or rather, it had been pleasant until he “awoke” and found that his visitor was chimerical.

Continuing to tell himself that he was distressed over nothing, a mere reverie—though elaborate—Ian sat back down in the recliner. Could he recreate the experience at will?

Trying to relax, he reached over to touch the teapot. Such a short time had passed since Ian poured his first cup of tea that the pot was still hot.

He picked the teapot up and tilted the spout over his cup. Steam rose as the stream of hot tea fell into the cup. Ian half expected that something else might escape from the teapot. When the cup was full, he set the teapot down and settled back into his chair. For a short while, he tried to think of nothing, just stare without purpose at the teapot and cup.

Ian made every effort not to think of the woman in the forest and his experience with her, but he failed. He had no better success for the next couple of weeks. Almost all he could think about was related to his encounter with the woman in the forest. Over and over, Ian tried to determine exactly what had happened that night. He considered how it had happened, analyzed why it had happened, and how it was different from any vaguely similar experiences he had had previously.

Despite the fact that his visit that night was always on his mind, he spoke to no one about it. He didn’t need anyone else questioning his mental stability.

During that time of assessment, Ian did not have tea in his study, or go through his tea ritual at all. Once in a while, he would sit in the study—but not in the recliner—and consider the scene of the event that occurred that night. He convinced himself that the vision was more interesting than disturbing. His response was to study it as an “experiential aberration,” some anomaly of perception.

Such things as visions or visitations were not completely incomprehensible to him—in concept, anyway. Ian had done a little reading concerning metaphysical, indigenous, and East Asian beliefs, though he did not consider himself knowledgeable, not by any means. Now and again, he had attended a spiritual workshop or a retreat. Such diversions were interesting, and occasionally vital—along with art, music, and poetry—to balance out his left-brain-centric career. Before the woman’s arrival, Ian had never experienced anything that threatened to cross the threshold between the expanded perception of deep meditation and the preternatural. Even though he had come to believe such things were possible, he had always been comfortable that there was generally a wide margin of safety between the possible and the probable.

All this analysis did little to placate Ian’s ruffled logical mind, and offered absolutely no comfortable answers. The least of the rationally objectionable labels considered during his scrutinization was “vision”—“dream” remained utterly insufficient for what he had experienced—Trying to define the encounter as a mere hallucination, however, caused an upwelling of resistance within his depths. Though he struggled to avoid giving credence to the idea, Ian knew that he was not completely convinced that the experience had been merely visual.

From the moment he had first experienced the woman with the auburn hair, Ian had felt something new evolving in him. It seemed that much about him was transforming.

The change was physical. Certain parts of his body, internal and external, seemed to vibrate in response to some unexplainable stimuli outside the range of his conscious perceptions. The change was spiritual. He had acquired some deep undeniable connection to this woman that he could not rationally understand. The change was psychological, some kind of redefinition of self that he could not grasp consciously, as if his mind and feelings were opening or expanding. The redefinition included expanding his identity as a segmented awareness and bonding with something larger than himself . . .

None of this evolution greatly disturbed Ian. He did not personally know anyone knowledgeable about such things as visions. But from what he had read, he knew he was displaying normal symptoms after a numinous experience, which he also reminded himself was defined as any experience that defies explanation within the scope of one’s current view of reality. For Ian, a personally experienced vision, as opposed to theoretical visions, qualified as such an experience.

Ian tried to respond to the sensory aspects of the vision as an adventure, a particular bit of good fortune. He hoped to repeat the experience once he understood more about what was going on. There was just one remnant of that evening that Ian was not comfortable with. In fact, he would have sought another vision the following day if not for the residual emotions he possessed . . . or that possessed him. Ian was compelled to understand these emotions before allowing the chance of another vision.

He could accept the possibility of a lingering emotional ecstasy resulting from any strong supersensual experience such as his vision . . . similar to a religious rapture. But the emotion that Ian was feeling was directly associated with a single element of the vision, with the woman in the forest. The total intimacy he felt with her was more than Ian had ever known with any person. And he could not believe such an impassioned connection could be instantaneous. Yet, he had to believe . . . or accept that the bond had existed even before he had the vision.

That unguarded assessment troubled Ian. His yearning to return to the woman of his vision had the remarkable force of an addiction. For that reason most of all, Ian resisted the urge to pursue another encounter. He was not willing to let anyone or anything have such power over his destiny.

(Tea Ceremony continued next week)

C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.

In celebration of CG’s upcoming non-fiction book, Strike a Chord of Silence, for a limited time autographed/signed copies of Sacred Vow are available for $4.00US plus shipping!– or purchase as ebook or the Amazon Kindle version

This copyrighted article may be freely reprinted as long as the entire article and complete by line is included, without additions.

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Playing for the Real

2008-07-28T14:30:00Z

Nigel Beale, asks in a COMMENT to my post “Narrative Game Theory” --am I ...."criticizing realism because it doesn’t get the “intra” part right?”

Nigel believes that:

a novel replicates ‘real’ human experience...by building up and describing a personality...by connecting the reader to the character...the more involved the reader becomes, the more profound and affecting the reading experience.

I have to ask: “seeing the world differently than what?”

I see very little “reality” in what is commonly designated as such. Rather, a felt need to reinforce received illusions, and the pleasure of not being thrown out of one’s comfort zone.

What do you really mean by “seeing” the world differently? Is that a general, and largely unvetted metaphor, or can you break it down? Does it include thinking?

The “realism” problem is important because our very socialization--the highly complex civil, political, legal and social structures, cannot function without a wide range of “necessary delusions,” like the legal understanding of the relationship between knowledge of right and wrong, and free agency (interestingly, one of the recurrent themes in The Man With No Qualities… the Moosebrugger thread): only one element of the modernist agenda Josipovici complains we have left unfinished.

I am not on the side of an aesthetic in opposition to representation. My complaint with conventional realism is that it isn’t, that it is too narrowly real, too dependent on unexamined conventions, to rigidly dependent on those tropes that reinforce received notions. I should not have to suspend the better part of my critical faculties to find pleasure in a work of fiction. That to me is where aesthetics comes in. There is no possibility of pretending the action on stage in The Tempest is “realistic,” or in Kafka’s fiction. The pleasure is found in enjoying them first on a freely imaginative plane, for their aesthetic daring, and at the same time, feeling the wonderful tension between that fantasy and how it challenges--demands of us, that we relocate our notions of “reality” within these dramatic and fictive worlds.

I think that’s a very good definition of play--of what happens when a child plays, of where play comes from. Play is at the furthest remove from “entertainment,” which only exhausts our capacity to question (or to play--the real thing) that we may return to selling ourselves without protest to what or whoever seeks to use and exploit us.

In play, we not a turn away from reality, but freely enter the fantasy to find the reality we have lost, or yet to discover. I relate the pleasure I find in reading--and my motive to write--not primarily from the joy of reading and being read to as a child (though certainly that), but hours spent digging channels in the outlet of Bass Lake on the beech in Michigan--building a tree fort in my back yard in Chicago--the kind of play that left my muscles sore, my body exhausted and my mind reeling with the pleasure of yet uncataloged discoveries. That’s what I want when I read, and without which, I know as soon as the words are on the page that my writing will be dead dead dead.

A final thought: work, not entertainment, is the true extension of play. Work versus labor, as Hannah Arendt understood it.

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