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Old 10-28-2008   #11
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Re: Hysterical Passage of the Day

Satanskin by James Havoc (a pseudonym so ridiculous that having a book of his on my shelf is almost embarassing) begins with a hysterical vignette that might also be borderline baroque:
On a night like tonight, I can believe that this moment, this elliptic index in which all possibility and impossibility merge, will never end. I can believe that the dawn will never come.

Reality is a neural raiment we shed beneath the counterpane of fast-dissolving daylight; reverting to our formative amnesia, we may live a thousand years as an insect or god in each allusive millisecond.

An illustrated gloom draws in. The norse, turbinal rain brings a succession of bestial faces; old, familiar glances, merely one flashing sequence in an unfathomable retinal spool of burnt-out frames. By an almost metastatic transference we once more attain the lodge of our infancy, that broken weft as untenable as the duration of an undercurrent dream; a wasteland of erupting graves reclaimed.

On a night like tonight, I believe that mud is nobler, more sexual, than flesh. It holds in its memory the upheavals of planetary birth, the very statues of consciousness. The rocks, the trees, the shadows themselves are in collusion; every atom of every substance boasts its own irresistible force.

Tonight, they are begging to be loosed.

Lightning, hold my hand. Show me your face in black water.

Tonight, someone bad is wearing Satan's skin.
Edit: A belated minor correction.

Last edited by Viva June; 09-26-2009 at 07:36 AM..
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Old 11-10-2008   #12
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Re: Hysterical Passage of the Day

From "Death to the Keeper" by Barry N. Malzberg:
Oh God, to live through it again with Piper; to implode with him in the reach of the Eye, and to be done with it, to be no more, no more, no more.

Call the Keeper, I want the Keeper, give me the Keeper. Where is the Keeper? We have lost our Keeper.

Death to the Keeper, death to the Keeper.

Call the Keeper and give him death. Call the Keeper and give him dread. Let him know; let him know.

Let him know love.

Know love.

Love, love, love.

Death, death, death.

Love, love, love.

Death, death, death.
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Old 11-11-2008   #13
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Re: Hysterical Passage of the Day

The whole house seemed to judder to a halt, as if it had indeed been in imperceptible motion all the time.

Eventually, he reached the attic where a parade of slot machines sat flashing wildly, eager for their own jackpots to drop. His coins did not fit. Despite this fact, white Angevin pods dropped into the winning troughs, like grains of snow that had been boiled bullet-hard. In one spy scenario, Dognahnyi had been told to pop one in his mouth and suck it...

The bodies in the hallway were things-with-souls inside coffins of flesh – one looked like him, bubbling gently at the lips – he saw them through the squint-hole in the door – none of his coins fitted the slot in the door, so it remained locked – eventually the house flew off with a tongue of flame roaring from its coal cellar – hovering for a while before moving across the city, with the glint of a pilot’s goggles upon the chimneys – none of these thoughts fitted, being cogs in a mechanism far beyond the understanding of those that constituted it – he staggered to the bus station where he could doss down for the rest of the night – until he realized it wasn’t himself in the cockpit of his skull – he fingered the loose change in his pocket, gaining a precious moment of consolation by so doing – “Susan,” he addressed the person in his head – but it was not quite right – there came no answer – he withdrew by feel the shiniest quarter p coin from his pocket and saw reflected the face with its eyes so sunken the creamy white brain could be seen pulsing instead of the twin eyeballs – he lay on his back in the gutter and placed two old copper pennies upon his dimming sight – listened to the droning of the night – the hordes of gatecrashers on their way to the next party – the rustling of other spies pretending to be people – he wished he’d tried that finger buffet when he had the chance – what finger buffet? – “Sundra!” he jabbed with his tongue – but it was still not quite right – “Sudra,” he whispered – then wondrous release – beyond even a triple bluff – evidently imprisoned within a time loop with the keys thrown away – reprogrammed to be a police spy in a drug bust – Dognahnyi’s sacred anonymity thankfully preserved…

He arrived at the safe-house, expecting it to be dark by window and locked at door.
D. F. Lewis -The Angel Megazanthus

"What does it mean to be alive except to court disaster and suffering at every moment?"

Tibet: Carnivals?
Ligotti: Ceremonies for initiating children into the cult of the sinister.
Tibet: Gas stations?
Ligotti: Nothing to say about gas stations as such, although I've always responded to the smell of gasoline as if it were a kind of perfume.
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Old 11-17-2008   #14
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Re: Hysterical Passage of the Day

"We shaded our eyes from the giant buzzing flight above, as the frowning man fell, limbless, from the platform, his skull cracking on the edge of the BBC’s TV colour camera, but before he died, he stuttered out the following tale:

'I turned and turned again as I restlessly lasted the night. The moon glinted coldly through the hairline crack in the curtains, casting a peculiar glow throughout the room, but not enough to make any feature perceptible. From the eye of my skull, the nub of my brain, I churned, broke butterflies, like eggs, over melting cooking-bowls, sucked in gas, like sewage, through the muslin of my irritation, and blew out colourless bubbles, like beef gum, through the gentle night. Reaching my hand down, I felt (I knew I would) the crumpled form of a thickly twined manuscript, water-bottle bubbly, and I fetched it up, like vomit, from the bottom of the bed. Blowing the bubbles from the surface with my bad breath, I searched the dark pages but, of course, saw nothing in the aforementioned glow. Deciding to await dawn, however long this would take, I suddenly drowsed, soaked up dreamlets with my sponge and dawdled amid the non-Euclidean dregs of half-sleep. The bed was a boat on a sea of never. Dawn. Feelers of consciousness drifted into this substance, tentacular, becoming spectacular. Immediately remembering the pages that appeared beside my body during night’s vegetation, my hand stumbled over the coverlet, ginger-quick, quest-query, but grasped nothing. The bubbled parchment was gone. However, to entertain my attention, there was the most excruciating pain pain pain pain pain pain pain in my left (but as I speak, the memory is slightly swizzled, and right might be right) shoulder. Gurgled leaves forgotten, I rubbed at the nub of the blade and felt its garbled surface. (I do not wish to frighten you, but this I must tell...) it was as if I were rubbing half-solid tapioca, hot and moving! Shifting swiftly to mirror’s front, I turned and turned again before the crystal surface and, unmistakably, I perceived the crinkled visage of a minute, hag-like, snouted creature peering at me from the depth of my semiliquid shoulder. It snorted, silently, like a pig in soundproof placenta, words that, lip-read, meant nothing…'"
D. F. Lewis - The Visitor

"What does it mean to be alive except to court disaster and suffering at every moment?"

Tibet: Carnivals?
Ligotti: Ceremonies for initiating children into the cult of the sinister.
Tibet: Gas stations?
Ligotti: Nothing to say about gas stations as such, although I've always responded to the smell of gasoline as if it were a kind of perfume.
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