Six Sentence Sunday: Revelation

Today's six come from a pivotal story in my life: not for its quality (though I find some things to enjoy even now) or because it was my first "official" publication (though it was) but because it brought me kind words from Clive Barker. His Lord of Illusions short story contest inspired me to write this story of a child preacher and the apocalypse that begins at Disneyland. I think Clive had been on some talk show mentioning how much the ride horrified him (as it does all right thinking people) and suddenly the idea was there.

I won the contest, which was cool; even better were the kind words in the letter he wrote me to tell me my story was full of "fluent style and poetic dialogue" and the big hug I got when I first met him and told him that I wrote that story. Clive is a swell guy: every time I see him, he seems to remember me (considering how most people seldom remember me, that's a lot). I have seen him greet the last fan in a very long line with the same enthusiasm he had for the first. It's a good life being an imagineer.

This story appears in full at the official American Clive Barker site.

Michael snapped open his folding-table by the exit of "It's A Small World," one of his favorite spots, despite the risk. The scissoring legs telescoped toward the pavement and locked with a pleasing thwack. Other children, some younger, eyed him surreptitiously, waiting for the show to begin before committing to the spectacle.

In a single practiced motion, he slipped the heavy book from the crook of his elbow to the slanted table-top where it opened at will. Not by my will, but by Thy will, Michael repeated silently with satisfaction. He shaded his eyes to scan the well-tanned pages.

Stop by the Six Sentence Sunday blog to discover new writers!

BitchBuzz: Good Witch/Bad Witch

My latest column engages with an old topic:

Christine O'Donnell: Good or Bad Witch?

If you were living under a rock you might have missed the fact that television personality and part-time poker of hot topics, Bill Maher, resurrected footage from a decade or so ago showcasing rabid right-wing American Senatorial candidate Christine O'Donnell, darling of the Tea Party and self-confessed non-masturbator, as she admitted to hanging around with questionable young men and "dabbling in witchcraft,", words which have rung across cyperspace via snark express ever since.

No, it didn't help that she was sitting next to Clive Barker as she spoke about it—clearly part of the monolithic illuminati of the Gay Agenda, which operates by making rabid homophobes kind of gay.

The dividing lines are clear: on the sympathetic side, cries for a moratorium on youthful transgressions (hmmm, when did we last hear that?) and a waving hand of irrelevancy.  Yet—perhaps not that surprisingly—among the wackiest of the wack jobs—i.e. Karl Rove—there is also a concern to "cleanse" their candidate to a pristine, non-masturbating, no-premarital-sex purity. In other words, they want her to clarify her "witchy" past and show contrition and a will to do penance (oh, wait—wrong branch of the monotheism) for the error of her ways.

Read more: http://news.bitchbuzz.com/christine-odonnell-good-witch-or-a-bad-witch.html#ixzz10RqdM2az

It has proved incredibly popular, generating a lot of retweeting and Facebook repostings, as well as a long conversation on my Facebook wall. The funny thing is I saw that show when it first aired and remember it -- though I didn't remember her specifically -- because of course Clive Barker was on the show. He appeared a few times; I think he's pals with Maher. The insanity around this non-issue really steams me. We have so far to go yet: it often feels discouraging.

The best cure for discouragement: hang out with people full of energy and hope! Out at my friend Mary's with a bunch of people for a full moon/equinox bonfire last night. Have you seen the moon the last couple nights? With Jupiter hanging out nearby? Gorgeous. Mary has the most incredible sanctuary and the most amazing gardens, too. Incredible to see the gigantic blooms of the moonflowers in the dark. She told us to take one home, so I did. Enormous, isn't it! As wide as the length of my hand.

BitchBuzz: Repetition

My latest piece for BitchBuzz is all about repetition, i.e. our addiction to sequelitis. I manage to name check the Fall, Clive Barker and Doug Bradley. Pretty good record for this vicinity:

"This is the three Rs, the three Rs," Mark E. Smith sang back in the late seventies, "Repetition, repetition, repetition."

I think that's become the theme of the naughties.

Of course it was already a trend ingrained in the minds of Hollywood moguls (if I can be forgiven for using the word "mind" in that context). Whether television or film, the sure-fire fall-back position has been repeat what worked before. Someone bought the straight to DVD Hellraiser: Hellworld (presumably), the eighth in a series which began in the late '80s and is about to be rebooted again.

Saw VI. Live Free or Die Hard. Star Wars III. Ernest Goes to Camp (Jail, Africa).

We dig repetition, apparently.

Read the rest and use the handy link below to share it on Facebook, Twitter (now that it's working again) and so forth.

Clive in Chicago

If you're in Chicago, you have a great show to see: Clive Barker's art at the Packer Schopf Gallery. One day only -- this Sunday. If you go, get me something, eh?

He'll also be at a screening of Midnight Meat Train at the Music Box. The trailer does make it look like a slasher film, but the trailer's job is to sell it to a perceived audience. I hope it retains some of the mythic weight of the original story.

Thanks for the tip-off to Boing-Boing, Gene.

In the Great Grey Beast

The great gray beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive. Here he was, buried in the belly of that smothering month, wondering if he would ever find his way out through the cold coils that lay between here and Easter.He didn't think much of his chances.

        Clive Barker, The Thief of Always

Everyone seems to be in the jaws of the great beast lately, sounding gloomy and keeping to themselves. February usually seems to have that effect. Snow yesterday with a bit of ice -- more snow to come Monday, I believe. This time of year, snow has lost its charm and we dully turn to shoveling with grim persistence. Sometimes we just have to hunker down to work and wait for the first signs of spring. But would spring be as sweet without the bitter days of February?



By a river in a green meadow, where there is at all points so much sweetness, I saw a garden, full of blossomy boughs, with white, blue, yellow and red flowers; and cold fountain-streams, not at all dead, full of small shining fish with red fins and silver-bright scales. On every bough I heard the birds sing with the voice of angels in their melody. Some busied themselves to lead forth their young. The little bunnies hastened to play. Further on I noticed all about the timid roe, the buck, harts and hinds and squirrels and small beasts of gentle nature. I heard stringed instruments playing harmonies of such ravishing sweetness that God, Maker and Lord of all, never heard better, I believe. At the same time a wind, scarce could it have been gentler, made in the green leaves a soft noise which accorded with the song of the birds above. The air of that place was so mild that never was there discomfort for heat or cold. Every wholesome spice and herb grew there, and no person could age or sicken. There was a thousand times more joy than man can tell. And it would never be night there, but ever bright day in every man's eye.

        Geoffrey Chaucer, The Parliament of Fowls, Translated and Edited by Gerard NeCastro