Intoning Malone:  My Tribute to Jim Powell

As I intend to record my sentiments with a genuine sense of heart-sick accuracy, the following thoughts will likely resonate with haste and, in a damning turn, I’m uncertain I’ll manage to edit these paragraphs in the way they deserve.  Though, to honor my mentor, Jim, I’ll do my best to apply requisite revisions. I’ll do my best to make the time.

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Jim Powell died on Monday January 27, 2020.  He was sixty-nine years old.  (You should read more here.)

One of the most formative discussions I had with Jim took place around 2011, not too long after the birth of my daughter.  I was explaining a clumsy strategy for “making time” time to write, and that some of my tactics had downright devolved into schemes.  Not necessarily lies for the obtainment of creative seclusion, but close enough. Whether political or artistic, Jim had a lot to say about liars and the varying shades of their taxonomic ranking.

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I wrote about Jim Powell last year, just after the release of Only Witness, his collection of short stories which coincided with the 40th anniversary of the Indiana Writers Center— an organization Powell founded in 1979.  That said, I’m not aiming for redundancy. Rather, I’m focusing on celebrating the lessons he’s left me with. Because make no mistake: He’s still teaching.

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I wouldn’t necessarily describe it as a “daydream” (probably more of a delusion at this point in my career), but harbor an optimistic reverie related to a scene in Brian De Palma’s 1987 film, The Untouchables.  (For the record, I’m not particularly enamored with the film.  I’d chalk it up to an overall tonal strangeness—a mishmash dissonance between gangster severity and David Mamet’s commentary on camp.)  

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Despite a few memorable moments, my favorite scene finds Costner’s Eliot Ness in the midst of collecting his crew; he and warhorse Jim Malone (Sean Connery) pursue a “rotten apple” crack-shot at the police academy.  They discover George Stone, the unassuming alias of Giuseppe Petri (Andy Garcia). After Malone intentionally provokes Stone into admitting his identity—“Oh please don’t waste my time with that bullshit,” says Malone—the veteran shoves a clipboard into the rookie’s chest.  Weapons are drawn in an impulsive face-off, and with the silver barrel of a revolver touching his throat, Malone reveals a wry grin.  “Oh I like him.” Jim Malone extends a hand to George Stone. “You just joined the treasury department, son.”

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Jim Powell was the Jim Malone that saved my literary life.  And although I sense that there will never be a grizzled, old-pro to extract me from my vocational low points—that help, essentially, is never coming—the daydream elicits a momentary mental smirk on bad days.  And like many dreams it does, in many ways, sustain me.

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Annual NUVO Arts Guide (2006)

As my understanding of what Jim Powell actually did on IUPUI’s campus (and across the state and insulative Midwest, for that matter) matured as did my sobriety for what the device of writing was actually meant.

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Annual NUVO Arts Guide (2006)

To be clear, I was no crack-shot, and in those early days of trying to understand what it meant to be a student worth his time and attention, Jim adhered to not only a high standard of production, but demonstrated a high standard of reciprocity:  If you worked hard, he’d work just as hard for you—but, damn it, you had to put in the earnest energy.  Don’t waste my time with that bullshit.  As I began to demonstrate more discipline (not just academically and creatively, but personally — the three were, for a short time, parallels), Jim rewarded these bouts of growth with providing not necessarily flimsy encouragements, but something more valuable:  A sense of identity. For me, in those nascent days, Jim Powell’s presence was akin to Jim Malone’s, though with a slight variation: You just joined the English department, son.

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I won’t invest too many lines dwelling on grief (these things often have an unpredictable lag time).  Besides, I can picture Jim bristling at any undue baroqueness, wincing, shaking his head, parted bangs wagging at his temples.  I mean, we’ve been talking about this part of life, in one way or another, for years, no?

During the individualized guided-writing course (a class which occupied over twelve months under the sole guidance of Jim), 

Though a separate essay could be born of memories orbiting the stories Jim assigned for deep reading over the years, one of my fondest is an examination of Kevin Moffett’s “Further Interpretations of Real-Life Events.”  Originally appearing in McSweeney’s (2010), the story stages a narrator assessing not only his shortsightedness as both a writer and a son, but how the two might be simultaneously reconciled.  In an orchestrated flex of desperation, the narrator—under the guise of a casual visit—pays his former English professor a visit with the hopes of validating his unproductive state as a writer, using the office as a confessional, of sorts; but the professor isn’t falling for it.  “So what are you pretending to be today?” he says, nonchalantly dissecting the self-serving scheme. “I’m paid to teach students like you how to spoil paper,” the professor says; and when the narrator—unaware of his smug, intellectual preciousness—admits his writing’s hit a dead end, the elder says, “Well, I guess that’s how it goes.  Talent realizes its limitations and gives up while incompetence keeps plugging away until it has a book. I’d take incompetence over talent in a street fight any day of the week.”

I’ve been guilty of this sort of simpering perfection and the desire for artistic verification, but Jim had seen too much, heard too many excuses, dismissed too many half-hearted confessions.  Jim simply wouldn’t allow real writers to take the easy way out.  

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Release party, genesis, 2011

As Jim did with most all aspiring writers under his charge, he helped us break habits that would—both in the moment and, if they committed to the journey—result as artistic hindrances.  Though we are, as fictioneers, liars by creative trade, he would also alert us to untenable bullshit: What was acceptable as art, what was lazy and insolent. 

In 1977, Jim and a band of literary comrades opened a bookstore in Santa Monica, California, called Intellectuals and Liars.  Jim is quoted as saying that they’re “two people you can’t trust”—an apropos description of both writers and poets.

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Photo Courtesy of Karen Kovacik

Chekov comes to mind—more specifically, an excerpt from his story, “The Lady With the Pet Dog”:

He had two lives:  an open one, seen and known by all who needed to know it, full of conventional truth and conventional falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another life that on in secret.  And through some strange, perhaps accidental, combination of circumstances, everything that was of interest and importance to him, everything that was essential to him, everything about which he felt sincerely and did not deceive himself, everything that constituted the core of his life was going on concealed from others; while all that was false, the shell in which he hid to cover the truth … went on in the open.  Judging others by himself, he did not believe what he saw, and always fancied that every man led his real, most interesting life under cover of secrecy as under cover of night.

As writers, we reveal ourselves in layers—yes, to our often limited audience, but this is also a mayday of sorts to the larger world.  “The greatest benefit we owe the artist,” George Eliot suggested, “whether painter, poet, or novelist, is the extension of our sympathies … Art is the nearest thing to life; it is a mode of amplifying experience and extending our contact with our fellow-men beyond the bounds of our personal lot.”  When we receive a response to theses cryptic signals, the world’s toothy machinations dull by a few degrees … contract a touch to become, if only for a time, more manageable.  “The secret cannot be kept,” writes poet Jorie Graham, “It wants to cross over, it wants to be a lie.”

At Tintern Abbey right after I made him read the poem with me

Tintern Abbey, Photo Courtesy of Karen Kovacik

And while the lies we tell ourselves are insidious, the lies we tell each other possess the potential for salvation.  

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“Anything worth saying is unsayable,” says the curmudgeonly mentor in Moffett’s story.  “That’s why we tell stories.” In the beginning, I simply wanted to (graceless as it may have been) elbow my way for a place at Jim’s workshop table.  In the middle, I wanted to be a good, literary soldier. And in the end, I somehow arrived at the undeserving luxury of calling him my friend.

Owing to its erratic architecture, the field of artistic creativity is one in which actual mentors are difficult to maintain.  Some of this has to do with the nature of perpetual (and sometimes divergent) growth, which makes kindred alignment difficult to maintain.  Some artists are just selfish assholes who are resistant to investing time to another person’s craft. But I think it’s the notion of emulation (particularly in the formative phases) which is both necessary and deceptive.  

We all require scaffolding to initial mimicry, but we’re often impersonating an aesthetic from a distant proximity.  This becomes, ultimately, limiting. 

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Indians game, 2013

After completing my degree, Jim and I stayed in touch; and while I could cite a number of humorous missives, Jim was less interested in discussing craft than he was in assessing life.  In 2013, shortly before he and his wife, Karen Kovacik (who I’m indebted for introducing me to Isaac Babel thirteen years) trekked to Saugatuck, Michigan for their fifth anniversary. We’d just attended an Indians baseball game with my stepson, Jack.  “And it was great to just hang out with you, and not worry about ‘schooling’ … And I am delighted to think your personal life is quite on track—the most important thing.  I’m sure we’ll come up with some future activities.”

The last message I received from Jim was on January 24, and it was, of course, a note of guidance, directing my attention to Catherine Lucille (C.L.) Moore, a science fiction writer who attended Indiana University in 1929 (she went on to sell her first story to Weird Tales in 1933). 

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Ahead of making plans for his return to Indy, which would have been in close proximity to his birthday on February 19, I asked for Jim’s address down in Fort Myers.  (He’d annually spent the winter months in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and was even working on a novel set in PV around 1916. “And, hey,” he wrote a few years ago, “it’s fine to drink margaritas en la manana here.”)  He’d planned on being back in town around February 28.  “Can’t receive mail here except through rental agent,” he wrote, “and that’s too difficult, so it will have to wait.”

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“Big chill heading down from the north…”

Don’t second guess getting together for that Scotch with an old friend or snag a burger with a buddy.  Resist the urge to assemble an excuse—because you’re too busy—to avoid playing an inane game with a child.  Though the two are braided they are often exclusive, so while there exists the scattered workbench of art, there remains the craft of life.  “I’m happy to think I’ve become my ‘best person’ in the last few years,” Jim said a few months ago. “I take great joy in seeing your happy family.”

No more excuses.  You have to make the time.

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The world, in macro sense, is replete with bad men.  On a smaller, day-to-day scale, our world is filled with feckless men.  Being a writer helps you calibrate your judge of character.  

On my part, I’ll never be able to write like Jim, never be able to imitate his intellectual perception or his knack for subtext; but more importantly, there are other traits I’ll never be able to emulate.  His patience, for instance. His compassion.

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Only Witness Release Party, 2019

Great men die twice, wrote Paul Valéry—once as men and once as great.  And even though he repeatedly warned against the solitary vagaries inevitable to a life dedicated to this craft, Jim—Jim’s guidance—made this existence as a writer, and made the world itself, a little less lonely.

 

A Celebration of the Unsettling: Gordon B. White’s Debut Collection: AS SUMMER’S MASK SLIPS AND OTHER DISRUPTIONS

 

I have it on dependable authority that Gordon B. White maintains a daily regimen of long-hand writing exercises (you might glimpse a mention of this practice by way of some of his social-media posts). It’s a presumption, but I can’t help but consider that this pen-to-paper practice (diurnal journaling not being a unique task for many writers, though possibly an exhaustive disciplinary tactic to civilian sensibilities) has been a galvanizing ingredient in the syllable-by-syllable precision of White’s fiction.
“Writing exercises are maps, not the destination,” writes novelist Bret Anthony Johnston. “They are the keys to the castle, not the castle itself.” As such, Gordon B. White reveals himself as both cartographer and locksmith in his debut collection, As Summer’s Mask Slips and Other Disruptions.
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A coiling of quality and control, White’s collection houses a reverence for language and style, and showcases a devotion to the expansive spectrum of influence — a fictive continuum ranging from an intellectual, arthouse aesthetic to Creepshow escapism. White flexes enough of a scribbler’s muscle to make the collection, in its aggregate, subtlety instructive — pay attention to not only how he’s crafted the tales, but how (and perhaps his editorial collaborators) have elected to structure the collection.

The first half of the collection is threaded with themes of psychological precariousness and the necrotic logic of religious delusions; we abrade here too glimpses of deteriorative mental states and the gloomy aspects of domestic relationships.

The collection’s opener, “Hair Shirt Drag,” is a brief examination of social-sexual norms and a meditation on ritualized expectation — certainly, for our protagonist, but also for us as participants. A tale riddled with telegraphic pinpricks which act as an accretion for a final incantation: the story’s hue also functions as a reflection for White’s collection itself. “Words don’t mean nothing,” says the tale’s narrator. “It’s only intention that makes things happen.” White, however, is all too aware of the potency of words.

White’s initial acts also bear a sequence of shorter, flash-fiction pieces which successfully play like tonal interludes between stories (“But you were right. The Beast is coming”); likewise, further on readers will find “The Hollow,” a brief piece which works more like a well-defined sketch — a fermenting barm with all the characteristics of a fully-formed story eagerly waiting to be fed.

But by the second half, White quietly gives readers over to a series of more sober stories with an analysis of duality and the significance of altruistic paternality (which I’ll get back to in a few seconds).

Of note is “Open Fight Night at the Dirtbag Casino,” a poignant contemplation on the oxidizing qualities of revenge in the face of forfeited salvation. As short story collections are a useful tool for showcasing an array of creative capabilities, White demonstrates a variety of devices — on display here, a penchant for voice (“believe me, babies”) is shrewdly executed.

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I can’t help but subjectively project the possibility that this tale was borne out of White’s laborious ethos when it comes to his craft. “I don’t have a way to keep track of how many times we’ve done this,” admits the narrator, and it’s interesting, in a macro sense, to wonder at White’s back-to-the-drawing-board awareness — which all writers resignedly confront — as he repeatedly slips on the skin of would-be short-story protagonists. “You’re never the same train hitting the same wall, the same straw on the camel’s back … [y]ou just gotta keep spinning, again and again, to see where it lands.” White’s violent piece concludes with a tenebrous and potent punch.

Opening, on the other hand, with a flurry of fistacuffs, is “Eight Affirmations For the Revolting Body, Confiscated From the Prisoners of Bunk 17.” Bound to a prison camp during an Us-versus-Them global war, the story hits satisfying dystopian notes while narratively balancing on razor-wire between horror and science-fiction. It’s scary and bleak, but closes on a bittersweet “note.”
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But it’s “The Buchanan Boys Ride Again” that breaks the thematic fever of the first half of the book. A sort of salute to 80s horror and stitched with action-comedy quips, my main nit is a lack of clarity in the “creature” component’s explanation, the story, in commendable capacity, suffers from the same symptom as “The Hollow”: the skeletal system clearly urges expansion.
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“The Buchanan Boys” is infused with enjoyable humor, but the underpinning preoccupation is clear and quite touching: the (ostensibly mundane) magnitude of fathers.

And while readers will glean as much in the closing sequences of stories, the collection’s dedication page is succinctly poignant. “For my father James — a teller of tales and gone too soon.” Gone, yes, but White has ensured that the man’s presence, and influential legacy, reverently resonates on our page.
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Aided by a sluicing first-person execution, and imbued with themes of duality, loss, responsibility, the reflective “Birds of Passage” stands as the collection’s closer.  “As I myself grow older, I often think back to that night on the river. About how there’s a world around us, but beyond us, too. A world that takes things, changes them, but sometimes gives them back. All of it — all of it is ripples.”

The catchy cadences of Gordon B. White’s prose serve as stepping stones for readers crossing the pleasantly deceptive arteries of his disquieting narratives. As Summer’s Mask Slips and Other Disruptions is an impressive exercise in precision, and a celebration of the unsettling.

To My Chums In This “Wretched Slum”

You’ve likely seen the late-night talk show bit before:  Their “man on the street” (read:  charismatic intern or witty sidekick) conducting random, sidewalk interviews, the topics of which your average, at-home viewer would have some knowledge or awareness—elementary-level history…a geographic softball…pop-culture trivia.  The edition I have in mind is a segment on Jimmy Kimmel Live over the past year or so, wherein participants are asked to simply name a book.  Any book.

Yes, yes:  The video has understandably been edited to highlight the more dopey pedestrians, and as a vox-populi viewer, I too chuckle as the participant struggles against the straightjacket restraints of fleeting recollection; but the composition also accentuates a suspicion (and corresponding, inextricable malaise) I’ve harbored for quite some time:  that our audience is not only dwindling, but writers are either fawning on or searching for an unknown audience that is increasingly indifferent.  As such, I have in mind a piece of a passage from Eudora Welty’s 1965 essay, “Words Into Fiction”:

[W]riting fiction, which comes out of life and has the object of showing it, can’t be learned from copying out of books.  Imitation, or what is in any respect secondhand, is precisely what writing is not.  How it is learned can only remain in general—like all else that is personal—an open question; and if ever it’s called settled, or solved, the day of fiction is already over.  The solution will be the last rites at the funeral.  Only the writing of fiction keeps fiction alive.  Regardless of whether or not it is reading that gives writing birth, a society that no longer writes novels is not very likely to read any novels at all.

Aside from my cooking endeavors in culinary school, my life is notably absent of a dossier for having been an academically stellar student.  Yet (along with heavy metal), books—even when I was not consistent about a readerly accumulation of pages in the later phases of adolescence (I was, for a time, deeply steeped in illustration, music, and the absorption of film)—have been a companionable constant; and although I submit the preceding paragraphs with mild irritation, it’s braided with an underpinning humility.  I am, to be grievously commonplace, grateful to have been provided modest quarters from which to communicate my fiction over these past ten years—the fiction being a manifest repercussion of my objective admiration of stories and their creators.

As I’ve consciously navigated these literary tributaries over the course of my adult life, the arteries and thoroughfares have repeatedly led me, and returned me, to horror.  And so before I continue, I’ll supply a name-a-book assist for those pitiful souls on the street.  I’ve even provided some delineation as to the most tangibly formative phases of my life and the books that compelled and indelible alterations to my creative habits:

Phase One (earliest memories):  Instillation

Instillation

Phase Two (elementary and middle-school years):  Dependence

Dependence

Phase Three (adolescence):  Transience-Insolence

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Phase Four (young adult years):  Independence

Independence

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Recently, while conducting a freelance class for client, someone casually asked what I wrote in my spare time.  Across disparate, overlapping discussions within the room, I said, “Horror.”  Mishearing, they (with no small amount of jocular shock) responded, “Porn?”

A hiccup of hesitation—a feeble, straightjacket clamoring for clarification.  I chuckled, this time projecting the word with precision.  Horror.  There was a moment of, perhaps, evident disappointment—as though the prospect of such a salacious avocation were of higher conversational value than the discipline of a genre category like Horror:  “literature’s,” wrote Straub with a fair amount of irony, “wretched slum.”  As the dialogue began to dissipate, I even admit to desperately term-dropping (with no small amount of capitulating shame, mind you) “literary” and “elevated horror,” with the intent of bringing some validating gravitas to my craft.

I’m still uncertain what my writing-product is considered.  I can, subjectively, term it whatever I wish, but it’s ultimately a determination of my audience and my critics.  My goal (sometimes engineered, though often jarringly organic) is to create stories that are braided with difficult-to-define helices.  An example would be something in the narrative and aesthetic effectiveness The Reflecting Skin (1990), not only one of my north-star films but a centrally formative creative compositions.

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Nevertheless, while I continue to dwell on what the hell my thing is, the mere ambition and pursuit of writing for publication has been further complicated this coterie-based designation.  The result is a habit of contrarian withdrawal:  The closer I list toward one designation or another, I sense a shift in not only my personal habits, but also the sites of intrinsic excavation.

In all its chimeric characteristics (and no disrespect to Mario Vargas Llosa), one of the more hackneyed adages is that the discipline of writing is a form of exorcism.  It’s true, of course; but frequently, I’ve unearthed things in my own digging—wandered into curious corners in the catacombs of reflection and appraisal.  I have no regrets, but it does elicit the compulsion of more work:  Self-assigned homework which often compels some ugly calculus.

Which demands not only isolation but profound methods of balance in order for “work” to take place; too, within this self-imposed, though necessary isolation, comes the often self-defeating business of an inner voice that is not always coherent.  “Society is all but rude,” wrote Andrew Marvell, “[t]o this delicious solitude.”  But perhaps it’s more helpful to listen to Hermann Hesse’s hyperaware Harry Haller in Steppenwolf—an awareness that emerges in those who accept “no reality except the one contained within us.  That is why so many people live such an unreal life.  They take the images outside them for reality and never allow the world within to assert itself.”

It’s lonely work, in other words.  Work and exertion that demands an unceasing scramble as we seek fecund balance.

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I imagine I have saved quite a bit of loot in my private writing endeavors—those early morning examinations that, I say with no small amount of insolence, go nowhere (when we intuit that they not futile).  More than that, I have come to understand, and be grateful for, the benefit of exchanges with other writers, some of whom often fill in as impromptu therapists.  These dialogues, on occasion, reveal infrequent covetousness that, left undiscussed, bears the potential for a distracting variety of corrosiveness.

I like to believe I’ve held up on my part of this unspoken bargain, offering help where I can, camaraderie where it’s perhaps lacking, all while attempting to maintain meaningful correspondences.  Though distance itself could be considered a drawback, I’ve found that, over the past few years, maintaining a correspondence across “place” has fortified a sense of devotion as the habit plays to counter inconvenience.

One of the more rewarding activities to which has proven a network proclivity is the exchange of books—perhaps a rather mundane activity in the estimation of some, but it has provided a dependable pulse in the isolated landscape of this often solitary discipline.

It was a coincidence that I was reading one of those friend-gifted books at the time of Dennis Etchison’s death.  “Only after the failure of consciousness can the dream come,” Etchison writes in his introduction to Cutting Edge.  “It is at this edge that change takes place.”

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In this, Etchison mentions one of Kenneth Patchen’s lines in Sleepers Awake:  “It’s a long way to the morning, but there’s no law against talking in the dark.”

Etchison shares a touching anecdote about a series of correspondences he’d had with Kirby McCauley.  “[McCauley] taught me that I could, after all, survive without altering what I wrote, and that I was not alone on the rock.” / “This book, then is my offering of gratitude to those who have made the fever dream of safe harbor a reality.”

As journalist Anneli Rufus wrote in 2003’s collection of essays, Party Of One, “For loners, friends are all the more essential because in many cases they are our sole conduits to the outside world.  They are channels, filters, valves, rivers from the outback to the sea.  When we find good ones, we pour ourselves into them.”

And it’s in these friendships (casual or continual) that I have found most valuable byproduct over these past ten years of publishing stories—as I continue to shakily navigate daily productivity, my desire or dismissal to adhere to genre labels, my vacillating regard for status—and it’s in these kindred companions that provide the most sober galvanism…a little lantern light in those sinuous, subterranean conduits—some oxygen in the catacombs.

Cover Art Reveal: PLUTO IN FURS

Here we have the stunning cover art (created by the brilliant Matthew Revert) for Scott Dwyer’s forthcoming anthology, Pluto In Furs:  Tales of Diseased Desires and Seductive Horrors.  My story, “Behemoth,” is contained therein.

Pluto In Furs, cover

Cover Art by Matthew Revert

I’ve once before shared the table of contents, but will do so again to emphasize the chilling talent Dwyer’s assembled for his latest endeavor:

Introduction:  “An Abysmal Masochism” by Scott Dwyer
“The Tangible Universe” by Jeffrey Thomas
“The Wolf At The Door Or The Music Of Antonio Soler” by Devora Gray
“Other Yseut And Romance Tristan” by Adam Golaski
“Dermatology, Eschatology” by Kurt Fawver
“Headsman’s Trust: A Murder Ballad” by Richard Gavin
“It’s Hard To Be Me” by John Claude Smith
“The Gutter At The Bottom Of The World” by David Peak
“Tender Is The Tether” by Rhys Hughes
“With Shining Gifts That Took All Eyes” by Mike Allen
“Stygian Chambers” by Orrin Grey
“Behemoth” by Clint Smith
“Worm Moon” by Gemma Files
“The Silvering” by Thana Niveau
“Walking In Ash” by Brendan Vidito

Dwyer has his sights set on an August, 2019 release — keep your eyes peeled for news and announcements here (and drop a “like” while you’re at it).

RUE MORGUE Gives a Grim Wink at the Duality of TWICE-TOLD

Dejan Ognjanović, in Rue Morgue, Issue #188, provides a tidy synopsis of several stories in C.M. Muller’s doppelgänger-based anthology, Twice-Told: A Collection of Doubles (Chthonic Matter, 2019).  My contribution, “Details That Would Otherwise Be Lost to Shadow,” receives a generous mention, along with several astute scribblers including Gordon B. White, Tim Jeffreys, Shannon Lawrence, Jason Wyckoff, and Jack Lothian.

RueMorgue 188

This story (running a touch over 8,000 words) was a challenge to compose, in great part due to its structure, but more so in my attempt to bring some nuance to the tropes of duality.  The key was employing the presence of what I’ve termed as the Motley House, a sort aesthetic tessellation, the construction of which, perhaps, warps the perspective of my central character, Tara Keltz.  On the other hand, the house’s personality may be the only thing providing clarity, even if it elicits a realization which is not only difficult to perceive, but also to accept.

 

 

HELLNOTES INTERVIEW: A DEAD THINGS Exchange with Gordon B. White

 

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Artist Vernon Short’s depiction for Horace Liveright’s Broadway production of Dracula, 1927.

I recently had an opportunity to speak with author Gordon B. White over at Hellnotes; the basis of out discussion being my recently released novella, When It’s Time For Dead Things To Die.  A veteran writer, reviewer, and  literary raconteur, Mr. White is pursuing new format on the Hellnotes site, with this particular interview-review structure being a first in an intended series for the “quick reads” of novellas and chapbooks.

Gordon B. White is a 2017 graduate of the Clarion West Writing Workshop, and his fiction’s appeared in venues such as Daily Science Fiction, Tales to Terrify, and the Bram Stoker Award winning anthology Borderlands 6.  Recently, you can find his chilling and poignant story, “Birds of Passage,” in C.M. Muller’s anthology, Twice-Told:  A Collection of Doubles.  Get to know the man a bit better:  www.gordonbwhite.com

Hellnotes

In the meantime, check out the Hellnotes interview, then pick up a copy of When It’s Time For Dead Things To Die.

SHADELAND’s Bittersweet Serenity

A little over two decades—twenty-two years and some weighty change:  this’s been the formative interval of committed cultivation which now defines the band Shadeland.  With their latest full-length, self-titled album (released in December, 2018, with vinyl available on April 13, 2019), the group has produced not only a sonic distillation, punctuating aspects which have distinguished them thus far, the LP Shadeland (Radio Cake Records) is a sonic saturation that—in a more macro perspective—reflects a mature concretization as creative craftsmen.

shadeband 1

2018

Allen Kell (lead vocals and guitar) and Brad Hudgins (drums), creative comrades since the band’s inception, have overseen the progression of this nebulous endeavor that is Shadeland, with brothers Matt and Brad Johnson (guitar and bass, respectively) contributing the remaining angles of this four-corner frame (I’d be remiss not to mention Andrew Hibdon, who occasionally supplies skills on bass).

Kell and Hudgins have been candid in discussions and interviews about the challenges which have presented themselves since the late 90s; but embracing theses real-life, often mundane obstacles has proven their resiliency (as both musicians and men who are occupied with jobs and the true “fans” that are their families), and they’ve managed to maintain their momentum despite the vox-populi pitfalls which set most other bands to fail.

With their latest album, Shadeland, the band has coordinated the potential of pursuing a new artery of artistry, and making the decision to self-title the album has the resonative effect of a sobering rapprochement of their identity.  If you’re aware of their reputation, any encounter (whether live or otherwise) will prove to be fulfilling. If you’re new to the band, their determined persona will cling to you. Shadeland is a ten-song admixture of melancholy tempered by bouts of warm—sometimes painfully so—illumination.  Even the album cover articulates this underlying duality.

shadeband

Left to Right:  Matt Johnson; Allen Kell; Brad Johnson; and Brad Hudgins (Photo Courtesy Jon Ball)

In a piece of creative prose when managing characterization, it’s lazy, as a writer, to appropriate blatant descriptive comparison to, say, a well-known actor.  But, with the intent of drawing in a curious audience, I know few other ways than to make loose comparisons and struggle to do otherwise. Kell’s vocal textures—a petulant Jeff Buckley exercising occasional tinges akin to Muse’s Matt Bellamy.   

The tracks on Shadeland are seamlessly connected—even in the spaces which suture the tentative silences between the weave of songs.

did-not.jpgAs with their previous albums (Escape Plan; Red Giant; and This Ghost), the opening melodies—“Not The Only One” and the first-released single, “I Did Not”—operate as incremental snares, both setting an inclusive hook and telegraphing the embraceable vibe beyond.  The third track’s signpost is the lyrically loaded, “A Stranger Passing By” (which receives a brief, lyrical callback in the latter track, “Away In The River,” reinforcing the album’s bookend duality); but the pattern grows more complicated with the infectious fourth track, “Cicadas.”

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“Look Around You” closes out Side A, with a humble “hiding-on-stage” polarization—a humble, subtle Janus-mask exultation.

“Walking Into the End” is a punchy number, slyly coated distortive primer, and showcases the respiratory relationship in Hudgins’s phenomenal rhythm section—the bullseye union of burrowing bass and denting drums.  The song tonally operates like a curtain being swept aside in its denouement of the final three tracks.

Mentioned a moment ago, the ninth track, “A Stranger Remains,” employs a touch of intentional repetition in its wink to the “A Stranger Passing By” — there’s a circularity in it, as though both songs are gazing at each other in a warped mirror.  

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Shadeland is slated to release the vinyl version of their self-titled album on April 13, 2019, at Indy’s Square Cat Vinyl.

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An Indy local, I’ve come to know Allen Kell, as an artist, from a distance.  His discipline has transformed him. Sure: he’s a meticulous musician, a craftsman; but he’s also the rock star—and Shadeland is the rock band—that our city deserves.

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(Photo Courtesy Jon Ball)

Whether Shadeland achieves national or international acclaim is not the point (I’d wager any of the band members would accommodate the possibility, but have never created music with such an intention).  In their journey, Kell and Hudgins have navigated an unpredictable map bearing alterations in both their personal lives and in the industry at large.

The album, Shadeland, is not a new map for the members, but it’s an opportunity for them to flatten out the folds and smooth the creases—it’s an atlas that bears fresh conduits and encourages the listener to join them through the next trajectory of this impressive journey.