Thursday, September 30, 2010

The Trembling Veil of Bones

The Trembling Veil of Bones is the story of an anachronistic clockmaker Bones whose stagnant life is thrown into disarray when a centaur postman robot delivers a package from an unforgotten love of thirty years ago. Opening the package drives Bones into a surreal outside world and triggers a series of surprising encounters with, among others, a crow and a blind man. Bones is caught between being human and puppet... between acting and being manipulated. The film is a hybrid of live action and animation.


The Trembling Veil of Bones from Matthew Talbot-Kelly on Vimeo.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Knock

"The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door..."

(because that's never all there is to a story)

And a great collection of other shorts:

Twenty Spookies courtesy Defective Yeti

Adrift

I hate being idle. I need a mission. I can't seem to settle on anything. Can't choose a book and stick with it, a project or writing. This is ridiculous. Probably not a unique problem though so thought I'd share something I've found useful:

The Cult of Done Manifesto by Bre Pettis.

"I present to you a manifesto of done. This was written in collaboration with Kio Stark in 20 minutes because we only had 20 minutes to get it done."

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

When Non-Violence Is Suicide

by Theodore Kaczynski, from Live Wild or Die #8, 2001 (via Wiki)

"In the absence of police protection, nonviolence is very nearly the equivalent to suicide."

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Seven Skeletons

This was buried over at The Hope Chest. It's a Christmas song. Obviously.




Hideous discoveries and monstrous crime
Always happen at the Christmas time
Hideous discoveries and monstrous crime
Always happen at the Christmas time
For the old year murders and the tragedy
For the New Year serious calamity
What shocked Trinidad
Those seven skeletons that the workmen found in that yard

What marred the Christmas festivity
Was a New Year double catastrophe
When a man and a woman on the ground was found
With bloodstains upon the ground
The husband was arrested but they were too late
For the poison he drunk sent him to the gate
That shocked Trinidad
Those seven skeletons that the workmen found in that yard

In Saint James the population went wild
When in the savannah they found a child
The hair was auburn and complexion pink
Which placed the watchman in a mood to think
“How can a mother despise and scorn
A little angel that she has born?”
That was more sad
Than the seven skeletons that the workmen found in that yard

A lorry was speeding to Port of Spain
When it knocked down the cyclist into the drain
It was going as fast as the lightning flash
When the cyclist received the lash
The mother cried out in sorrows and pain
I am not going to see my boy-child again
That is more sad
Than the seven skeletons that the workmen found in that yard

While the workmen they were digging the ground
They [ ? ] all human beings they found
Feet together and head east and west
Number five was a watchman among the rest
Number six had the hands and the feet on the chest
And number seven [something "serious guest"?]
That shocked Trinidad
Those seven skeletons that the workmen found in that yard

Grue from The Hope Chest

Subtitled, "Bad News From The Past", The Hope Chest is a collection of fantastically dreary and gruesome 19th/20th century clippings from various American newspapers. "About" blurble:

My current research has me looking through microfilmed tabloid newspapers of the 1930s. My progress is greatly impeded by my inability to scroll past unrelated “human interest” stories, most of them tiny nightmares like something out of Nathanael West’s Miss Lonelyhearts (which you should read immediately if you haven’t already). Anyway, I’ve started this blog as a place to warehouse these spectral and transient tragedies.


Some wickedly funny comments by website host, Clifford J. Doerksen, accompany the articles as well as further links and odd tidbits so set an alarm clock 'cause it's easy to lose hours there. And some of my favorites...(click to make readably big if you're blind like me)



Bellevue News-Democrat, January 28, 1921.



Georgia Weekly Telegraph, April 16, 1880.



Philadelphia Inquirer, March 30, 1890.

Harry Clarke & Poe

Journey Round My Skull has a beautiful collection of Clarke illustrations for Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Poe. Neil Gaiman wrote about this:

For a long time, one of my favourite books-as-an-object has been a copy of Tales of Mystery and the Imagination, illustrated by the Irish stained-glass artist Harry Clarke, with a passion and a madness and an intense sense of shadows and of the wrongnesses of angle and form that seem perfectly suited to Poe's nightmarish tales.

But then, Poe's stories will always cry out to be illustrated. They contain central and primary images, blasts of colour, and maddening visual shapes (imagine: a black raven on the pale bust of Pallas Athene; the rooms of all colours but one in Prospero's doomed palace; the bottles and the bones in Montressor's catacombs; a single black cat in a wall, on the head of a dead woman; a heart beating beneath the floorboards -- a tell-tale heart...). Pictures come unbidden as you read the tales; you craft them in your head.

Here, the stories and poems are pictured for you, in a version that stands with the finest illustrated volumes of Poe: Mark Summers has also seen the hidden skulls, and draws them elegantly, beautifully, finely. Pictures with hidden things, pictures with traps inside, gorgeous scraperboard horrors and romances. Treasure them.


(Some Strangeness in the Proportion: The Exquisite Beauties of Edgar Allan Poe, by Neil Gaiman)

















Sunday, September 19, 2010

Memento Mori Cupcakes

Yum!

Nomskulls

Alma

by Rodrigo Blaas

Mystery Box



When you see this box on a pedestal, you think to yourself: "This is some special box, and something special is inside of it."

So you walk over to look inside. But as soon as you get within 6 feet of the box, the hinged lid slams shut and won't open.

If you walk away from the box, it begins to feel safe again, and the lid opens an inch or so. If you leave it alone, after 5 or 10 seconds, it opens another inch or two. If you still leave it alone, it will open a bit more. Finally, it decides it's safe once again and, like a cautious anemone, it opens all the way up. But as soon as you approach it, it slams shut.

Yes, there is something special inside and no, I won't tell you what it is.


Bryan Mumford, self-described "crackpot inventor", is brilliant.

Now That's Vodka

Reason #367 Why Russia Is Awesome:

Kabbalah is the newest brand of Russian Vodka created by beverage maker EZ Protocols. Called “Kabbalah vodka – with Christian infants”, the vodka bottle features a unique handmade infant inside, which is made of fortified glass. This plays off the old wives tale circulated in Europe that Jewish religious rites required the blood of Christian babies. The vodka is expected to have a distinguished wheat flavor. Special water, enriched in silver, gold and platinum ions along with neat and stylish design will bring anyone back to the best traditions of a ritual table.


Source

Vintage Horology

1610 Mechanical Screaming Biting Skull Clock with Animated Snakes for Eyeballs.



During the first minute, the skull's expression seems to smile, the second minute it seems to laugh, the next appears to scream and finally, the jaws snap shut, as if the skull were trying to bite something. At the same time, one of the snakes slowly sinks back down into one of the eye sockets, while the other slowly comes out of the other eye, before retracting suddenly, as the first snake again springs out from its eye-socket. And to view the time, just open up the skull cap! It sold recently for $135,000.


Source

The People of the Book

Excerpt from Cory Doctorow's speech on copyright, 11/13/2009, given at National Reading Summit, "How to Destroy the Book"

We are the people of the book. We love our books. We fill our houses with books. We treasure books we inherit from our parents, and we cherish the idea of passing those books on to our children. Indeed, how many of us started reading with a beloved book that belonged to one of our parents? We force worthy books on our friends, and we insist that they read them. We even feel a weird kinship for the people we see on buses or airplanes reading our books, the books that we claim. If anyone tries to take away our books—some oppressive government, some censor gone off the rails—we would defend them with everything that we have. We know our tribespeople when we visit their homes because every wall is lined with books. There are teetering piles of books beside the bed and on the floor; there are masses of swollen paperbacks in the bathroom. Our books are us. They are our outboard memory banks and they contain the moral, intellectual, and imaginative influences that make us the people we are today.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

The Mascot (1933)

I first caught a glimpse of this on Millenium. By Ladislas Starewicz, really fantastic stuff! The clip I remembered is in part 2, the muy creepy Devil laugh.





Monday, September 13, 2010

Angel Lust

(This is the one and only poem I've written that I liked for more than a day. And, in case anyone is unfamiliar with the term, -- All-Knowing, Thy Name is Wiki)

-----

A mortician by trade,
knowing all things decayed,
she was quite an unholy distraction

I could smell her sweet skin,
a light scent of red sin,
Would she blush when she saw my reaction?

A quick kiss of white light
as she bent down to write
To think only in death I would have her

A mask over her face,
to each knife in its place,
every kindness she’d give my cadaver

When she pulled back the sheet
I could feel her soft heat
as her hand touched my ghastly erection

And I smiled inside
oddly glad that I’d died
as I watched her begin my dissection

Friday, September 10, 2010

Robert the Doll

Brother's Keeper

Condensed version: I liked it a lot, highly recommended.



Long version: I liked it a lot. A great reminder of why I like old men (in general, there are notable exceptions). The portrait of the rural farmland community, its inhabitants and especially the brothers reminded me of Shelby Lee Adams. I can't count how many times I was so mesmerized by the faces I forgot to listen to what they were saying.



I wanted to punch the medical examiner in the face. Something very condescending and grating about his testimony style. I think I even caught the judge rolling his eyes at one point. It is very difficult to set aside personal prejudices when on a jury and focus solely on the facts. Note to attorneys: Don't put jerks on the stand.



Lyman's social phobia was fascinating and heart-breaking. It was so extreme he would literally shake head-to-toe with palsy-like ferocity. Every time the directors talked to him outside he'd end the conversation by walking away. And two or three times he'd then disappear behind a barn door, not really a door even, just a wall leaned up against the side of the building. Squeezing himself (with some difficulty) through a small space as quickly as possible. I got the sense he'd spent his entire life doing this, safe only when out of sight. I could relate to this on some level.



Whether Delbert killed William or not was a moot point. Both to me and most of the town folks. He'd be innocent of murder, in my eyes, whether it was death by natural causes (which is what I was leaning toward if only because I found it difficult to believe he could've gone back to sleep next to the dead body of his brother) or death by mercy. Having to kill something you love, with your own hands, is can you even imagine. Bodies will struggle, reflexes will kick in, palms will ache and never stop feeling the constant swallow for air that isn't there.

Anyway, very good documentary. I was glad he got to go home, liked seeing the smile, but at the end was mainly wistful.

Gamblers All



(Bukowski is such a dick but I like his work. And he has a great mug. I wonder if that's a "poet" thing -- being kind of miserable people but creating amazing things and looking awesome while doing it. Does only one of those matter at the end of the day?)

------

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I’m not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you’ve felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.

it’s been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.

~ Charles Bukowski

Thursday, September 9, 2010

The Ward Boys

I am getting Brother's Keeper today from Netflix and can hardly wait. I read this fantastic article this morning about the key players:

The Ward Boys

Harry Thurston salts his conversations with cuss words and overstatements, seeking the shocked reaction. The crinkle of his blue eyes usually gives him away. A dairy farmer, Thurston lives about two miles from the Wards. He has all his life, and that's a long time. He's 74.

"Around here, nothing changes," he says, as cigarette smoke unwinds over his kitchen table. "And if it does, it just gets more like it was."




The Newgate Calendar

I put this up Elsewhere but want to file it here as well. Good stuff!

-----

18th/19th century collection of true crime cases from that era and earlier. I first heard about it in one of Colin Wilson's books. By today's standards, it's kinda trashy, definitely melodramatic, excruciatingly preachy, highly biased, tabloidy pulp, oozing gratuitous gore, blood, violence...

Christ, it's fantastic.

Here is TOC (imagine it sung by children with a dot bouncing over the words):

Shoplifters, Pickpockets and Sneak thieves; Burglars, Robbers and Highwaymen; Smugglers, poachers and livestock-stealers; Traitors, rebels and assassins; Pirates and Nautical criminals; Men (and women) of blood; Poisoners; Rioters and arsonists; Swindlers and forgers; Utterers of blasphemy and sedition; Bigamists, adulterers and abductors of maidens; Rapists and Perverts; Body-Snatchers; Sundry malefactors; The Innocent wrongly accused...

An example is the case of Rev. Thomas Hunter (1700), murderer of 2 children. Regarding his punishment (they sure don't execute 'em like they used to...),

The sheriff now passed sentence on the convict, which was to the following purpose: that "on the succeeding day he should be executed on a gibbet, erected for that purpose on the spot where he had committed the murders; but that, previous to his execution, his right hand should be cut off with a hatchet, near the wrist; that then he should be drawn up to the gibbet by a rope, and when he was dead, hung in chains between Edinburgh and Leith, the knife with which he committed the murders being stuck through his hand, which should be advanced over his head and fixed therewith to the top of the gibbet.




Anyway, delightfully grim, sensationalist stuff. Probably tedious reading to some but I've been having lots of fun.

Online HERE and HERE.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Sporadic Fatal Insomnia

I've had chronic insomnia (the can't-stay-asleep kind) since I was single-digit young. Also diagnosed with sleep-walking. At that age there was definitely an event that could've triggered it but then it just kept getting worse and worse. I don't know if it turned into a habit, a weird kind of muscle/brain memory routine, but I still have it to this day. Some 25 years or so later. I don't mind it so much but sometimes I hit a stretch of rough road that wears me down like river rock. I don't worry about it, figure it'll be alright, work itself out eventually. I mean, you can only get so tired before you have to sleep, right?

Wrong.

It's called Sporadic Fatal Insomnia and it can kill you. It's extremely rare but there is no known cure or treatment. It's listed on Wiki under fatal familial insomnia. FFI is inherited but SFI presents spontaneously. Like stages of sleep deprivation that any insomniac is intimately familiar with there are stages to the disease. Per wiki:

The age of onset is variable, ranging from 30 to 60, with an average of 50. However the disease tends to prominently occur in later years, primarily following childbirth. Death usually occurs between 7 and 36 months from onset. The presentation of the disease varies considerably from person to person, even among patients from within the same family.

The disease has four stages, taking 7 to 18 months to run its course:

1. The patient suffers increasing insomnia, resulting in panic attacks, paranoia, and phobias. This stage lasts for about four months.
2. Hallucinations and panic attacks become noticeable, continuing for about five months.
3. Complete inability to sleep is followed by rapid loss of weight. This lasts for about three months.
4. Dementia, during which the patient becomes unresponsive or mute over the course of six months. This is the final progression of the disease and the patient will subsequently die.

Other symptoms include profuse sweating, pinprick pupils, the sudden entrance into menopause for women and impotence for men, neck stiffness, and elevation of blood pressure and heart rate. Constipation is common as well.


There's a book about called "The Family That Couldn't Sleep" by D.T. Max.




Interview with the author courtesy NPR

The Sandman

Many thanks, peanut M&Ms and kisses to my accomplice for sending this to me.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Lord Lovell

"After being defeated at the Battle of Stoke in 1487, Lord Lovell hid in an underground room in his home, Minster Lovell. For reasons unknown, the servant having the room's key left the area and, when the chamber was discovered two hundred years later, his Lordship's skeleton was found still seated in a chair." ~ Geoffrey Abbott, More Macabre Miscellany

Unsurprisingly, this place is supposed to be haunted, the "piteous moans" of Lord Lovell slowly starving to death being heard amidst the ruins of his family home. For some reason though I prefer to imagine him sitting quietly, calmly resigned to being entombed, prematurely buried as it were. I picture him sitting in that chair and wonder what he was thinking.

Photos of Minster Lovell:











For the record, I am neither a fervent believer nor disbeliever in ghosts. With a nickname like mine it probably comes as no surprise that I, at the very least, am willing to entertain the notion (nickname has a long weird past and etymology, none of which I am discussing here). The fact that some people or events could shine so bright that they leave traces of themselves behind seems perfectly plausible to me.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Corpse Meditation

This is from one of the Morbid Fact du Jour newsletters back when it was a newsletter:

-----

Buddhism is known for the practice of meditation, most popular is Zen meditation. But most people do not know that there is a meditation called “corpse meditation” or Asubha. This type of meditation is rarely practiced now because there are few charnel grounds, where corpses of varying degrees of decomposition can be meditated upon, nowadays because of the difficulty of finding appropriate corpse (unless you meditate in a morgue). Corpse meditation is used to make the meditator realize that our physical bodies are made up of impurities, and that everything is impermanent. This is also used to make the meditator not cling to the human body.

There have been many instances, mentioned in the Buddhist Canon (the Tipitaka/Tripitaka), when the Buddha recommended this kind of meditation to his disciples, especially to those who are overcome with lust and are obsessed with the body. And there have been many instances where people became enlightened or became Arhats by meditating upon a corpse.

There is an instance when the Buddha had the decomposing body of a courtesan auctioned to the woman’s former clients. It served as a lesson to his disciples that the human body is impermanent and disgusting and not worth clinging to.

In any case, it was the body of a dead person, carried by mourning relatives to the cremation grounds, which was one of the “Four Signs” that made the Buddha renounce his princely life and seek enlightenment.

Anyway, corpse meditation is divided into ten categories (depending on the state of the corpse). I will mention the original Pali (language used by the Buddha and Theravada monks) word and the corresponding English translation. The descriptions are taken from chapter VI of “Vissudhimagga” (The Path of Purification) by Bhadantâcariya Buddhaghosa, a 5th century monk.

1. Uddhumâtaka – the bloated: it is bloated because bloated by gradual
dilation and swelling after the close of life, as a bellows is with
wind.

2. Vinîlaka – the livid: this is a term for a corpse that is reddish-
colored in places where flesh is prominent, whitish-colored in places
where pus has collected, but mostly blue-black, as if draped with blue-
black cloth in the blue-black places.

3. Vipubbaka – the festering: what is trickling with pus in broken
places is festering.

4. Vicchiddaka – the cut up: what has been opened up by cutting it in
two is called cut up…. The cut up is found on a battle field or in a
robbers’ forest or on a charnel ground where kings have robbers cut up
or in the jungle in a place where men are torn up by lions and tigers.

5. Vikkhâyitaka – the gnawed what has been chewed here and there in
various ways by dogs, jackals, etc. is what is gnawed.

6. Vikkhittaka – the scattered: This is a term for a corpse that is
strewn here and there in this way: ‘Here a hand, there a foot, there
the head’.

7. Hatavikkhittaka – the hacked and scattered: this is a term for a
corpse scattered in the way just described after it has been hacked
with a knife in a crow’s-foot pattern on every limb.

8. Hitaka – the bleeding: it sprinkles, scatters blood, and it
trickles here and there…. The bleeding is found at the time when blood
is trickling from the opening of the wounds received on battle fields,
etc., or from the openings of burst boils and abscesses when the hand
and feet have been cut off.

9. Pulapaka – the worm-infested: this is a term for a corpse full of
maggots… when at the end of two or three days a mass of maggots oozes
out from the corpse’s nine orifices, and the mass lies there like a
heap of paddy or boiled rice as big as the body, whether the body is
that of a dog, a jackal, a human being, an ox, a buffalo, an elephant,
a horse, a python, or what you will.

10. Atthika – a skeleton: this is a term for both a single bone and a
framework of bones.

Detailed instructions are described in that same book. The author has also warned not to go to the corpse, especially the bloated corpse, immediately, because the meditator might be attracted to the body, and thus perform necrophilia instead of meditation. The meditator is also prohibited to touch and handle the corpse and body parts as it can remove the disgust for the human body.

There is a nice verse at the end:

This filthy body stinks outright
Like ordure, like a privy’s site;
This body men that have insight
Condemn, is object of a fool’s delight.

A tumor where nine holes abide
Wrapped in a coat of clammy hide
And trickling filth in every side,
Polluting the air with stenches far and wide.

If it perchance should come about
That what is inside it came out,
Surely a man would need a knout
With which to put the crows and dogs to rout.

I have heard of a Western monk who tried to do the corpse meditation.
He didn’t last long.

It is said that this is one of the most difficult meditation practice.
Aside from the danger from wild dogs, wolves other animals and men,
there is a risk of having hallucinations during the meditation. The
meditator would also have to deal with the stench from the corpses,
and the swarm of flies and insects. For these reasons, too, that
corpse meditation is rarely practiced.

Don Kenn

I heart this Danish. Kind of Edward Gorey but they also remind me of kids book illustrations, certain ones, can't think of the name. They were paperback, very short, almost looked like pamphlets and the fact that I can't remember any of the names is going to drive me batty. One of them was about a gnome. Yeh a gnome. Pretty sure.

"Born in Denmark 1978. I write and direct television shows for kids. I have a set of twins and not much time for anything. But when i have time i draw monsterdrawings on post-it notes... it is a little window into a different world, made on office supplies."

HELLO, I AM A WEBSITE









Vintage Halloween

While searching for imagery/inspiration for crafty projects I came across this brilliantly exhaustive collection of vintage Halloween stuff. The sheer amount is impressive, prices range range from $20-$1,000 and, in most cases, I can see why. Very happy Happy Halloween decorations.

Courtesy Christmas Traditions