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Welcome to Russ Williams' Website

Handwriting on the Wall — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 12:11:44 GMT

Hello Everyone,

Welcome to the literary, poetic and cinematic world of Russ Williams. I'm happy that you chose to visit this website. While you're here, feel free to read my poetry, check out my news and look around the site.

My film Darkest Night, that finished shooting in the Philippines on May 12, 2011, is almost finished with post production. It is scheduled to open in the U.S. in August 2012.

I am currently publishing all my poetry in this Blog, plus news and personal commentary. All of my most recent poetry is here. Sheet by sheet, I am going through my older poetry and word-processing it, to post it here as it is ready.

While you're reading or using this Blog, here is some handy information you may want to keep in mind:

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I may not be able to send a "thank you" for every compliment, but rest assured that I appreciate any and all you might want to send my way.
When you reach the bottom of a Blog page and wish to continue, click the "Older Posts" link in the lower left corner.

So thanks again for visiting my website. Stick around for a while and check things out. I hope you enjoy your stay!

Best regards,

Russ Williams

Filipino and American Film Team Produces New Horror Thriller 'Darkest Night'

Handwriting on the Wall — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 12:11:16 GMT

MANILA, PHILIPPINES – Gothic Productions International, a Philippine company funded by U.S. independent resources, will open its latest film, a horror entry titled Darkest Night in the U.S. in August 2012. Shooting was finished on May 12, in Luzon. Post production work is almost done. The film has almost all Filipino actors, as well as American DJ Perry of The 8th Plague, Wicked Spring and many other popular U.S. horror films.

GPI was founded in 2010 by a group of dedicated filmmakers from Asia and the U.S., with the mission to produce and encourage quality, independent Gothic and horror films in an Asian setting. Its goal is to make excellent films in these genres and to promote Asian filmmakers who wish to create new, cutting-edge Gothic-dramatic films. In keeping with its primary goal to create productions with intense drama and real characters, GPI is proud to present its latest film, Darkest Night.

Darkest Night was directed by experienced Filipino director, Noel Tan. It was written and produced by U.S. screenwriter, Russ Williams. Tan has 20 years of experience in creating quality drama on film and working with skilled actors. He has done directing work in other parts of Southeast Asia, including Singapore and Malaysia, where he directed photography for a variety of video programs for cable television, such as The Disney Channel, “Chef for Hire,” “I Will Survive” and Kliktv.com (Web TV). He also worked as co-director and videographer for “Manny Pacquiao's First MTV.” Williams has been a career writer for 30 years. In 1995, he began film-making in Los Angeles, including screenwriting and producing.

In this film, GPI is happy have DJ Perry, an edgy leading man from the U.S., playing the leading actor role, Ken Tyler. Perry has starred in several American horror/thrillers, as well as westerns and dramatic period pieces. Some of his better-known films include G.P.S., An Ordinary Killer, Book of Ruth, Journey of Faith and Lionsgate’s 2008 hit Dean Teaster’s Ghost Town. Perry co-starred in director M.R. Shahjahan’s thriller Karma Crime, Passion, Reincarnation, produced by Golden Ticket Films & Picture Perfect Films and released theatrically across India in 2009. Perry actively seeks projects to bridge audiences from east and west. He and his company, Collective Development, Inc., will be handling the film’s marketing and distribution in North America and the U.K.

The leading actress role, Susan Reyes, is played by French-Filipina Anne Gauthier. Always passionate about theater and film, she has a truly international background, including having lived in several countries. She took acting courses in France at the well-renowned Cours Florent and Acting International. She has performed in several commercials in the Philippines for Globe telecom and PhCare, as well as acting in plays and independent film. Her varied background makes her an open-minded and curious person, always eager to travel and discover other cultures.

Darkest Night has its roots in horror styles and moods from many eastern and western traditions. Filmed in a “found video and documentary” style, Darkest Night depicts a family holiday reunion at an isolated home in the Sagada Mountains. The family's celebration is shattered by bizarre, supernatural and tragic terrors no one can explain. Darkest Night is a psychological horror story with intense family drama, suspense, action and shock.

The Story Behind The Last Year

Handwriting on the Wall — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 12:10:56 GMT

The Last Year and its premise began long before I wrote it in late 1995. The idea began kicking around inside my head during the 1960s, when I attended my first "Christian School." I never thought of writing anything about the experience then, of course, but the ideas were taking root.

I grew up in a conservative Republican family in the South, and we were all traditional, Bible-oriented folks. Fundamentalist Protestantism was like water and air to us, so universal and ever-present, we never questioned it or realized how much it shaped our lives.

During my college days in Nashville, in the early 1970s, I rebelled and joined the "sixties culture." Soon afterward, I married and had a son. The necessities of family life forced my wife and me to leave the counterculture, so we joined the march of so many young Baby Boomer families, back to our “roots.” For us, this meant Christian fundamentalism (my wife had the same background as I) and yes, locking myself deep inside the closet. Of course, I had known since before my junior high days that I was gay and even took some tentative "coming out" steps in the sixties. However, in those days, everybody told me I could “change,” that it was a sixties phase, and yes, I believed them for a while.

So, armed with my newfound “faith,” I attended Evangel College in Springfield, Missouri, then Wheaton College in Wheaton, Illinois (near Chicago), both “Christian” schools. Along the way, my marriage fell apart, and my wife and I went our separate ways. Subsequently, I began questioning everything in my life. For certain, my efforts at remaining closeted were taking their toll. During my last year at Wheaton, I had my first gay love affair, and the changes in my thinking became complete. I had stepped out of the closet for good, including the prison of fundamentalism. When I left Wheaton, I knew I was leaving more that just a place.

My first gay partner and I stayed together for many years, a time of great change in my life. Eventually, I moved to Los Angeles in 1989 and settled down. I've lived in Southern California quietly ever since. Meanwhile, after I turned my back on Wheaton and during the 1980s, my former "orthodox" religious compatriots underwent a startling change. When I was a part of the movement, we were just a bunch of isolated “evangelicals.” Before my eyes, these same folks became a political movement dubbed “The Religious Right” by the press.

I watched these developments with quiet unease. Those of us who used to live in that right-wing culture know firsthand how much those people absolutely hate gays and lesbians. They are well-meaning in their intentions, for sure, but caught up all too much in a tidal wave of collective bigotry and prejudice. Over the years, my thoughts on spirituality and who I am changed so much, I quietly buried my memories of those conservative schools and my closeted past. More than anything else, I wanted to forget the pain of trying to hide my real self and putting up with the constant, virulent homophobia of such a parochial world.

I was almost successful, until the day a couple of years ago, when I heard of an interesting event. Some people were forming an organization, the Wheaton College Gay and Lesbian Alumni (WCGALA), and I got on their mailing list. Paul Phillips, of the gay music group, Romanovsky and Phillips, had been a “Wheatie” (school slang for a Wheaton student) and the driving force behind this new group. I happened to be a fan of their music and was truly amazed to find out Paul and I shared this experience in common. WCGALA began mailing out a newsletter, so I started reading articles and letters from others who shared similar experiences to mine. Often I found myself nearly overcome with emotion. As buried experiences came back to my remembrance one by one, I realized my life in the evangelical world had shaped me more than I ever realized.

A lot of folks call Wheaton the Harvard of the Religious Right. Much of the thought and rationale of that entire movement began there. For example, Wheaton is Billy Graham's alma mater, and in many ways, it remains the intellectual "buckle" of the Bible belt. For those of us who attended Wheaton and were gay or lesbian, it was the best and worst of times. We remember the homophobia, yes, but also the friends and security we had to leave behind. In my life, the memories were even more poignant, because that world, of all places, was where I had my coming-out experience.

In early 1995, I took on the role of Southern California Coordinator for WCGALA. Our regional group of about a dozen people started getting together for times of sharing and reminiscing. These events accelerated my own personal “memory recovery” process. Then one night, I had a vivid dream. I saw a young guy, college-aged, driving a small red Volkswagen bug (like one I used to have) across an autumn, Midwestern landscape. He was alone and seemed determined. I asked myself, “Where is he going?” The answer, of course, was back to Wheaton. I woke up, knowing I had to write about his story. It was, of course, my own.

The clarity of the dream, especially the color and beauty back east during fall, made me want to see the events take place, not just put them down in words. These images had to become a film, and the idea gripped me so profoundly, I couldn't rest until it came to life as a screenplay. The guy in the Volkswagen became the main character, Paul, and the rest of his story soon came to life. Once I had finished the work, I realized that Hollywood's aversion to gay subject matter during the late 1990s would prevent me from getting it through any of the "accepted routes." So I put aside the normal pathways of sending scripts to agents and film companies. Instead, I set out on the independent road to getting this film produced. Since then, many others joined with me, including a director, Jeff London, and actors.

Finally, in 2002, London and Guardian Pictures produced the The Last Year. It opened to critical and festival success, but was quickly dragged down by needless controversy. Protests from the Religious Right limited its acceptability in theaters, and even got it banned from many "red state" video stores after its release on DVD. From the other side, scores of self-proclaimed "critics" and "auteurs" put the film down because of its perceived low-budget "rough edges" and London's in-your-face, guerilla filmmaking style. Sadly, the majority of these nay-sayers were gay themselves. What does that say about us as a "community?" Many of them proclaimed the film shouldn't have been made in the first place.

So why was there a need for this film? Essentially, it proves the lie of the Religious Right's cliché that they “hate the sin and love the sinner.” If anything, they hate us, as gay and lesbian people, even more than sin. And most of all they despise those of us “queers” who sojourn in their midst. We are (or were) deceivers, outsiders wearing and profaning the cloak of the elect. If they could, they would condemn us to the lowest levels of hell. We are the obvious and unavoidable signs that homosexuality comes from “us,” all of us, and not just “them.”

Happily, critics who wanted to bury The Last Year didn't succeed. Its main audience, those of us who actually lived this story one way or another, have seen and loved this film. Though The Last Year never received great media acclamation, largely it did serve its purpose. The film reached and moved those who share the experiences it portrays.

In many ways, The Last Year is autobiographical, but just partly. I have changed many of the names and circumstances for dramatic or protective reasons. For example, I was older than Paul while at Wheaton and Evangel. Eastmont College is not Wheaton but actually a composite of three Christian schools I attended. My romantic opposite at Wheaton was not a fellow student but instead a young townie, a part of the college crowd. I was lucky enough to keep my love a secret and graduate, though I had a close friend (the model for Hector) who was not so fortunate and almost had his life destroyed by the terrible experience. Finally, yes, the tragic suicide of a gay student did happen at Wheaton, but under different circumstances and a few years after I graduated.

Still, the main thrust of The Last Year is true and its theme universal. The human heart and nature will always rebel against tyranny because its tendency toward fascism is spiritually diseased and inhuman. This statement remains true, whether fascism masquerades as the “big lies” of despot or as the “sincere” self-righteousness of a religious movement. Does anyone remember the Spanish Inquisition? I firmly believe that runaway religious fanaticism and fundamentalism, whether Christian, Muslim, or whatever its roots, has become the greatest threat in our time, to decent civilization.

Unfortunately, a revolution against this kind of inhumanity brings out the worst, as well as the best, that is in us. However, I also believe that in the long run, freedom, compassion, personal loyalty, humanity, and above all, justice will prevail.

Neo-Medievalist Manifesto - Introduction

Handwriting on the Wall — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 12:10:37 GMT

Disintegration and Synthesis:
Neo-Medievalism at the Crossroads of the Middle Ages, Christianity, and Gothicism

Underlying the sunny optimism of modernist and postmodernist thinking in today's world lies a stark shadow. No matter how one views the future pathways and opportunities of our contemporary era, a basic, widespread, and disturbing trend of the twentieth century continues unabated into the twenty-first. Culturally, socially, and above all, spiritually the fundamental forces shaping global society, with few exceptions, are leading us into disintegration. In fact, one could easily argue that accelerating spiritual entropy is the defining characteristic of our current age.

No matter if we examine religion, morality, ethics, transcendent thought, or any of our social organizations charged with promoting these goals, we get the same result. We live in an age of spiritual decay. Why is this important to realize? Is spirituality necessary or even significant nowadays? In view of the problems, excesses, and even horrendous abuses of religion across the world and over the centuries, many proclaim we would all be better off without spirituality. They would see its disintegration, especially in our "Western" world as a triumph. "Good riddance," would be the common response. Especially in view of things like the Crusades, the Medieval Inquisitions, runaway religious fundamentalism, and even 9/11, spirituality might seem more of a hindrance to humankind, instead of a help.

The literary genre in writing and fiction, which deals most directly with spiritual disintegration, is the Gothic. It is no accident that Gothic literature was born in 1764 CE (or AD) with Horace Walpole's novel The Castle of Otranto, in the midst of the Enlightenment era. This time was the so-called "Age of Reason" (roughly the 1700s), the era when human rationality supposedly triumphed over superstition and religion. The most influential thinkers of the eighteenth century declared all things supernatural to be dead and celebrated their funeral. Yet, human beings appear to have a need for the mysterious, supernatural, and even the irrational or abnormal. Gothic thought and literature became the dark twin of a heady Romantic movement emerging from the 1700s Enlightenment. Amazingly, Gothicism, in spite of its often negative viewpoint, survived into the 1800s and beyond.

The ideals or Romanticism have their polar opposites in Gothicism. Romanticism declares that human beings have freedom from the past and an unlimited future. Gothic thought says we're chained to history and maybe have no future in this world. The Romantic sees himself or herself as the main agent of action. The Gothic remains more fatalistic, finding human action influenced by powers beyond our control, agents of the supernatural, unknown, or irrationality within. Finally, the Romantic ideal posits human progress onward and upward toward finding a utopian or near-perfect world. Gothic realism accedes to the inevitability of disintegration and death. It believes that almost all human endeavors end in doom and destruction, even the worldly drive toward a better world. Continual entropy without ceasing is its melancholy motto.

This Romantic/Gothic polarity is not just a choice between optimism and pessimism. The difference between the two extremes represents a duality of human thought in the Western World. This conflict between worldviews began subtly in the mid 1700s and is still with us to an even greater degree today. Is human progress toward continuing social and personal improvement inevitable and continuing? Or, like the Roman Empire, are all societies and human efforts doomed to failure and fall?

When examining their histories, one quickly realizes the Romantic and Gothic philosophies did not emerge from out of nowhere. Centuries of European thought preceded them, going back to the ancient world. In the sixth century, with the exception of Christianity, the Greco-Roman worldviews dominant during antiquity collapsed along with the Roman Empire. Afterward, the so-called Dark Ages covered almost all of Europe. During this era, little progressive or independent thought emerged beyond assiduous work in monasteries to preserve what was left of earlier writings. As these "classical" writings gradually emerged in a more educated West after Charlemagne in France (in the tenth century), the Middle Ages era was born. Medieval thought and philosophy built on and extended the ideas of the preserved ancient writings.

This re-emergence of European civilization grew up within the strong framework of the Church and Christian theology in that era. From around 900 to 1400, a powerful, unified system of thought and worldview arose and flourished, influenced by classical writings and of course, the Hebrew and Christian scriptures. Early Medieval authorities and the Church helped to structure and certainly enforced this new culture. It is interesting to note that the Christianity of this era emerged as a much different religion from what was practiced in antiquity.

This new Western system of thought and worldview constituted what the theologian Arthur C. Custance has called the "Medieval synthesis." In essence, this new Church-centered system became the foundation of all human life, work, thought, and interaction. Almost every facet of European civilization found unity and stability within this system. The tenets of this "new" Christianity rested on the supremacy of the Church and upholding as authoritative whatever it said was right and wrong. During this era the Church defined, strongly believed in, and propagated what became the Medieval ideals of everything from family life and community to economics, politics, and war.

As a result, from around 1100 until the Renaissance, this strong consensus on what constituted right and wrong came to pervade the entire culture. European society's unanimity centered on the Church. The bishops and other Church leaders determined all parameters of human life and behavior in the Middle Ages. Generally, this lifestyle combined post-Roman feudal manorial economics, divinely blessed kings as autocratic political leaders, relatively (compared to ancient times) civilized, limited warfare, and church dogma as the totality of human morality, ethics, and spirituality. Like it or not, our own contemporary Western culture grew from these Medieval roots and shares much in common with those times.

Examples of essential values in our society we have inherited from the Middle Ages are:

Belief in the importance of monogamy and the family as a primary social good
Conviction that government's main functions are to restrain violence and promote justice
Importance of education and learning as an antidote to the ills of ignorance and illiteracy
Restraint of the excesses of warfare
Building community and good community relations as the foundation of a stable society
Promoting the ideal that the best use of wealth is for endeavors that promote social well-being
Emphasis on perpetuating the ideals of ancient eras as found in their surviving writings, for example, scriptures, philosophy, science, and literature
Promoting and improving the arts, craftsmanship, science, and technology, as understood by each generation

This list presents only a sampling of major values and ideals bequeathed to modern society by our Medieval forebears. More detailed discussion of this cultural heritage will emerge in future Neo-Medievalist essays. It is unfortunate to note that many of the most desirable of these goals are nowadays either under attack or have almost completely faded (for example, limiting warfare). However, the bedrock basics of these concepts still form the broadest notions of what is normative and worthy of promotion in Western society.

As mentioned earlier, the Christianity of the Middle Ages differed markedly from that of earlier times. In essence, the main difference in Christianity from previous eras was that increasingly, after 900, the Church and its dogma prevailed over all disagreements and alternative beliefs. The earlier church was only one of many religions in Europe and tended to follow the Bible (Hebrew scriptures plus 27 books of the first-century "New Testament") along with various and often contradictory traditions handed down from nascent Christianity. Before 900 and especially before 312 when Roman Emperor Constantine declared Christianity as the empire's "official" religion, Christian practice and belief was localized and extremely diverse. So-called "pagan" religions strongly influenced individual church assemblies. Common religious values and observances varied greatly from place to place in Europe, even after Constantine.

From the time of Pope Leo III and Charlemagne (early 800s) to Pope Gregory VII and the East/West schism (1000s), this diversity was slowly crushed, especially in the Western Church. In the new era after 1100, what the bishops said was law, regardless of earlier beliefs. These bishops included the Roman Pope and Eastern Patriarch of Constantinople, after the East and West had split around 1035. Church pronouncements could change, but if the new "law" differed from the old, then so be it. Everyone, including kings and knights, lived and died under the power of the Church and its proclaimed dogma.

There were obvious drawbacks to this "new" worldview. The Church during this time was accountable to no other authority (apart from its concept of God and Christ) and often far from perfect. There were numerous instances of corruption and persecution, as well as crusades and inquisitions. Heretics and witches suffered death, while conversion to the faith often happened at sword point. However, in fairness to the Middle Ages, no era or civilization of humankind has ever been perfect, just as our own time is far from any kind of shining model.

Of course, some remnants of the old Christianity did survive into the Medieval era. For example, the church co-opted and even institutionalized many pagan practices, for example, exalting the Virgin Mary to replace pagan mother-type goddesses. Much of the earlier spirituality of the pre-fourth century church survived in the monastic movement. However, these types of remnants were either totally “laundered” for the new society of the age or marginalized into the monasteries. The main stream of European culture gradually adopted the organized church’s and aristocrats’ version of Christianity, for better and worse, a new synthesis of the faith and society.

Then, after 1400, this Medieval synthesis began to break down, as influences from eastern cultures flowed into Europe, for example, via Marco Polo (who opened Chinese trade to Europe), as well as others. Change is neither right nor wrong of course, but historically, it was inevitable. The rise of nations and nationalism, immigration to and opening the New World, the Renaissance and Reformation, and finally rationalism (the "Age of Reason") and modern science and technology all shook the foundations of the Medieval synthesis. It was replaced with a Balkanized "crazy quilt" of ideologies, philosophies, and worldviews. During the 1700 to 1900 period, many new worldview systems in the Western world were competing for adherents outside the Church.

By the mid 1800s, Romanticism and Gothicism were only two of a multitude of confusing choices between "philosophies." Since 1764 and the birth of Gothicism, many major and often conflicting systems have risen and fallen. Romanticism, as a widespread Western quasi-faith, died a tortured death on the battlefields of World War I (1914 - 1918). Even the most powerful and widespread of the ideologies to emerge from this period, Communism, finally fell during the early 1990s. Of course, various kinds of Christianity continued to flourish, albeit “modernized” to meet the changing culture. Interestingly, of all the extra-religious ideological movements that began and flourished in the Western world after 1700, Gothicism remains one of the most vibrant, relevant, and widely popular in today's times.

The Gothic mystique, as pop movement, literature, art, and even lifestyle, still influences the modern mind. What is Gothicism? As it was broadly expressed in its early literature, it is a worldview that life is the product of fatally conflicting and dark forces. Gothicism believes that human life is primarily shaped by the convergence of a dark history with a claustrophobic present, which causes a sickening descent into disintegration influenced by the supernatural, unknown, or irrational. Over time, many creative thinkers and writers have applied these literary ideas to other areas of thought and endeavor. As a result, Gothicism has morphed into almost any kind of art, philosophy, worldview, or lifestyle strongly influenced by or based on this original literary viewpoint.

Unfortunately, to most people in modern America, the Gothic sensibility often comes off like a horror movie dramatized in real life. To others, Gothicism describes the reality of modern civilization. Which concept a person believes in depends on his or her point of view. Those at the top of our social order have the luxury of denying the entropy of modernity. Money and power give one a feeling of being immune to disintegration. Those at society's bottom, or who perceive our culture’s darker underside, tend to see and experience America’s inward decay much more strongly.

Of course, the true victims of our modern order, persons who feel oppressed or left behind, react to their plight in widely different ways. They come apart emotionally or go insane, drop out of the accepted social order and defy conformism, turn to some kind of fundamentalist religion that offers a false sense of integration, or worst, become fascists, trying to regain a false feeling of control over their own lives, which was taken from them by society's cultural collapse. However, many others respond to these same forces by adopting the Gothic worldview.

Among the nonconformists who perceive America's (and the global order's) inevitable implosion, the Goth and Gothically inclined represent a major subgroup. Given the history and meaning of Gothicism, it is easy to see why. Though often not literally oppressed by society in any way and sometimes even affluent, the Goth subculture members in Western society perceive our cultural collapse for a variety of reasons. Usually, it is because they are both nonconformist and rooted in the Gothic tradition, which naturally focuses on the "dark" side of society.

Generally the Goth lifestyle associates itself with the extremes of depression and preoccupation with death. The unique Gothic sensibility often arises in individuals who, because of personal sensitivity or intuition, become acutely aware of our culture's weak, crumbling underbelly of decay. However, the present and historical strength of the Goth viewpoint has to arise from more than just a mournful yelp of protest. To offer a viable response to cultural collapse that is more than self-centered posing, the Goth worldview must move beyond nonconformity to embrace a positive acceptance of the Gothic tradition. This affirmation is at its best when founded on a belief in some kind of supernatural order.

In this view, such an affirmation leads one to a larger, more all-encompassing tradition, deriving from the highest ideals of the Middle Ages. Take this tradition and shear it of all the negativity discussed previously (narrow-mindedness, dogmatism, sexism, and so on), and the result takes one beyond the historical Medieval synthesis. Following this path, one can emerge into a modern, positive philosophy and worldview that the author refers to as "Neo-Medievalism." This Gothic system of thought transcends the old pitfalls of original Medievalism and reinterprets the best of its traditions in light of modern life and contemporary human needs. More importantly, such a "renewed" Medievalism offers a positive response to the cultural disintegration we find inherent in our decaying society. Yes, the materialistic, trivializing, jingoistic, pop-spiritual shallow, and politically and ethically corrupt nature of our culture can be intensely depressing. The Neo-Medievalist Gothic mindset moves beyond bemoaning the ills of modernity and builds a positive, coherent worldview. This philosophy responds to such despair with a new hope that is both genuinely Goth and affirming at the same time.

Of course, no one is recommending a return to a regime of autocratic bishops or power-hungry kings. Also, the Medieval synthesis never meant theocracy. Even during the Middle Ages, though there was no separation of church and state as we know it, kings and bishops retained their distinct sets of powers, and political rulers never let the Church entirely run Europe. The Church did not try to usurp the prerogatives of kings. Any form of Gothicism or Medievalism can become a reactionary movement bent on returning modern society to an idealized "golden age" that never truly existed. No society is perfect or ideal. All that any worldview or philosophy can do is try to apply the best of its ideals to the realities of current existence.

Neo-Medievalism means integrating Medieval Christianity and lifestyle with the Gothic tradition and using the Medieval synthesis, in a modern context, as a guide to overcoming cultural disintegration. Placing this concept in contemporary times means stripping out obsolete, ignorant, and destructive Medieval customs and ideas. More importantly, such a "reintegrated" lifestyle provides a positive response to the forces of death and destruction in our society, just as the early Medieval reconstruction of European society after 900 rescued its citizens from the Dark Age. Also, this constructive Gothic response offers a more attractive alternative to fatalism in our society than the standard outcries of "gloom and doom" from Goth and other similar quarters.

Taking a longer view, many serious problems hover over our modern world and cloud our future. The “new global order” may end up coming apart and instead bring on a new Dark Age, if it has not already. This is not inevitable of course, but few would argue that many in our modern world grapple with a real Dark Age of the human spirit. This failure of will may soon lead to even greater social, cultural, political, and economic disintegration in our society. What positive values does the Medieval synthesis and Neo-Medievalism have to offer our modern culture? How can this worldview provide a "light" at the end of a dark Goth-centered tunnel? Can the two viewpoints work together to offer hope to today's society in America and elsewhere? These are important questions that the author hopes to address in this blog commentary.

In future essays, these subjects and related thoughts and concepts, will be explored from a Neo-Medievalist perspective, under the following categories:

Personal lifestyle and ethics
Social and cultural life
Art and the role of the artist
Religious, theological, and spiritual implications
Political organization
Economics

As time permits, I will be adding these commentaries to expand my views on Neo-Medievalism to encompass these topics plus a final essay to summarize conclusions. I hope that, during the coming months, you continue to read these essays and comment.

Citations of Sources

Because of space limitations, readability, and the primitive nature of the word-processing tools in this blog, I am not including elaborate footnotes and citations with this series of commentaries. Here is a list of the authors of my bibliographic sources:

Religion, theology, and spirituality:

Arthur C. Custance
Robert Webber
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Karl Barth

Gothic thought and literature:

Gavin Baddeley
Catherine Spooner
Nancy Kilpatrick

European history:

Barbara H. Rosenwein
C.H. Lawrence
Charles Raymond Beazley
James Marchand

Medievalism in contemporary thought and culture:

Umberto Eco
Cary John Lenehan
David Ketterer
Eddo Stern

I strongly encourage you to read books by the authors listed previously. If you have any specific questions about book titles, footnotes and citations, where I got my ideas, or just general questions and comments, go to my Contact the Author page and feel free to email me. Make sure to provide all the required information listed on that page. Please give me a week or two to respond. I will answer all inquiries.

Choose Your 'Poison': Horror or Gothic

Handwriting on the Wall — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 12:10:12 GMT

When you start to write, direct or produce "horror" stories or any feature film fiction of this type, one of the most helpful questions you can ask yourself is "Am I really doing a horror story?" This may sound like a strange question, but actually there is much confusion nowadays between horror and Gothic storylines. The two genres are closely related but remain totally different animals. There are other similar questions you should also ask as well. If you want to do horror, is your story really Gothic with a horror disguise? Is it Gothic horror, and if so, how much is it one or the other?

Most people can easily distinguish horror stories, but don't have a clue about what constitutes the Gothic tale. Horror is scary, right? The fear element definitely predominates. Gothic may or may not be scary. If it's Gothic and scary, you have Gothic horror. The first Gothic story (actually a novel) was written by Horace Walpole in England in 1764, a ghost story of sorts titled The Castle of Otranto. Its success began a thriving literary trend, first in England and then, by the nineteenth century, all over the world.

The horror genre sprang from Gothic literature during the early 1800s, almost simultaneously in Great Britain and the U.S. By 1850, horror stories were a thriving genre all their own worldwide, along with their purely Gothic brethren. Incidentally, not only horror, but crime drama, Medieval-type fantasy (think "Middle Earth"), and even science fiction all originated from the Gothic literary stream.

Description of Gothic Vs. Horror Fiction

So what is Gothic fiction? Chris Baldick's "Introduction" to The Oxford Book of Gothic Tales defines a Gothic text as being made up of "a fearful sense of inheritance in time with a claustrophobic sense of enclosure in space, these two dimensions reinforcing one another to produce an impression of a sickening descent into disintegration." I would add that the agent producing this disintegration is of a supernatural, preternatural (mysterious/unknown), or fantasy/psychotic-related origin.

So, for a story to be Gothic, some kind of dark history has to be there. For example, an evil from the past confronts a group of people in an isolated area. The isolation equals claustrophobia. So how does this group react? If the fear element is strong, you have Gothic horror. On the other hand, such a story can be merely suspenseful, without being scary at all. Keep in mind that the claustrophobic "area" can also be within a person’s own mind, for example, someone in an extremely dreamy, deranged, drug-induced or nearly psychotic state.

An essential element of the Gothic is almost always "romance," either the erotic or literary type, or both. What is "literary" Romanticism? Well, check out the classic American horror author, Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849). His stories are mostly lacking in man/woman romance but are full of dark, literary Romanticism, that is, things like old castles and ruins, persons near-madness, damned souls, unspeakable desires, darkly mysterious elements, people attaining "freedom" as stark isolation and so on. Just as Baldick leaves out the supernatural, which surely "haunts" much within the Gothic territory, he omits romance and Romanticism as well.

Nowadays, if you want to write a good Gothic story, especially one that sells, "romantic" almost always means a male and female in love. To hold your audience in today's world, you need to have a strong romantic interest to animate your plot. Doomed or daunting love is the Gothic romantic theme par excellence. However, you can also have it both ways, as does Emily Brontë (English, 1818-1848) in her novel Wuthering Heights. Brontë's main storyline is about a tragic romance, but she manages to insert a romantic subplot with a happy ending. Also, her story contains both literary and man-woman romance. Volumes have been written about the relation between the Gothic and Romantic. All you really need to know about the two is that to write a successful Gothic story, in the words of the song, "You can't have one without the other."

If Emily Brontë (and her sister Charlotte, 1816-1855) typify the romantic end of the Gothic spectrum, authors like Poe and H.P. Lovecraft (also American, 1890-1937) champion the horror side. With these authors, the evil from the past confronts and overwhelms its lonely, forsaken victims, and they're usually damned forever. Whether the main characters in Gothic horror are trapped in a threatening location or within their own tormented souls, they writhe in abject fear until they meet their untimely demise, or worse, a "lifetime" of some type of living death, insanity, agony or eternal condemnation.

Gothic & Horror Stories in Film

In film, an excellent example of a "purely" Gothic tale is The Sixth Sense (1999). Called by Hollywood a "supernatural thriller," this story is actually Gothic in the best sense of the word. Without retelling the whole plot line here (the film is available on DVD if you haven't seen it), let's check out why Gothic story elements clearly predominate.

The main character feels trapped by what happened to him in his own past history and senses a disintegration and isolation in his life, all of which he cannot understand. The theme of the supernatural is established early on by the boy with strange visions of dead persons. The romantic element clearly predominates, with the focus on the main character's relationship with his wife, and in fact this entire story turns on this man's undying love for her. In the end, the tragic reason his life has "fallen apart" stunningly reveals itself. Death has indeed triumphed over love, but there's a final hope that love can be stronger than death. This is authentic Gothic stuff and could have easily been penned by a modern American version of Emily or Charlotte Brontë. The film's writer-director, M. Night Shyamalan (Indian-American, b. 1970) went on during the next decade to establish himself as one of the Gothic masters of Hollywood film.

On the other hand, stories like the Friday the 13th film series (first film directed by Sean S. Cunningham in 1980, spawning a raft of sequels and a remake!) represent total horror, for better or worse. Cunningham (American, b. 1941) and his successors didn't throw much of the Gothic or romantic into these stories, in any sense of either word (these films also available on DVD, if you don't mind the blood). The films' plots are like gory "funhouse" rides and depend entirely on shock, panic and the fear factor. In most horror stories, good conquers evil, but often the opposite can happen as well. Regardless, these stories invariably end in a feeling of devastation, a kind of breathless exhaustion like most people feel after a traumatic or terrorizing experience.

In better-done virtually "pure" horror stories, for example, The Exorcist (1973, American, directed by William Friedkin) fear compounds fear until a final suspense sequence pays off with near-unbearable fright. The conflict between the good and bad characters (or bad "monsters") becomes a near-epic struggle against jeopardy that, at every turn, could possibly end in death. On the other hand, really bad horror tales have a near-pornographic feel to them as plot and characters come off as just "filler" between the often grisly, blood-filled scare scenes. One feels sense of impatience when there's no violence or gore happening, a desire to "speed things up" so the plot can get on to the next horrific scene.

Keep in mind that horror can be gory and visual or driven by more psychological, unseen menaces. The offstage tends to be more powerful because it leaves much to the imagination. An unseen, ubiquitous menace has the uncanny ability to generate powerhouses worth of suspense. Still, shock and awe predominate in pure horror, and good authors in the genre milk human hormones, sexual, as well as adrenalin and others, for every drop of thrill they can provide.

Combining the Dark Genres

Gothic horror provides a broader story canvas because it can blend and play off both genres. Poe and Lovecraft demonstrated this ability in its most classic sense. Modern authors like Stephen King (American, b. 1947) and Anne Rice (American, b. 1941) continue writing in this tradition. Examples of Gothic horror abound, including stories about vampires, werewolves, exorcists, Frankenstein types, succubae, incubi, and undead ghosts.

Vampire stories are excellent examples of marrying the Gothic with horror. By its very nature, the vampire tale can combine themes of entrapment, evil history, disintegration, and the supernatural equally with stark, awesome terror. In nice addition, the male vampire, as an object of desire, can pump the hormones totally while inspiring romance at the same time. Lately, even female vampires have been stirring up their share of fictional and cinematic libido. What an amazing character type! Bram Stoker (Irish, 1847-1912) created the model of the modern vampire with his classic 1897 novel Dracula. These ubiquitous blood-suckers have become a main staple of Gothic horror ever since.

Anne Rice pumped "new blood" into the vampire tale by giving the world loving, sensitive vampires. Her cemetery ground-breaking novel Interview With the Vampire (1976), features a memorable denizen of the undead, the dandyish Louis le Pointe du Lac. He hates killing humans, dotes on children, romantically entices women without draining them in any sense (except maybe sexually) and even has a good PR relationship with the media. The "Twilight" novel series by Stephenie Myer (American, b. 1973, first book, 2004) has taken this trend many steps further with vampires so lovable, attractive and successful, they have become positive role models! Who wouldn't want to be a vampire like Meyer's main man, Edward Cullen? At this rate, vampires will most likely be propelling the successful marriage of the Gothic and horrific far into a fascinating and fun-filled future.

So, the main rule is don't confuse your genres. You run the risk of turning off your readers, who may not be able to define "Gothic," or even horror, but know either one when they see it. More importantly, they know when your genres have been botched. You’re certainly free to write Gothic, horror, or both. However, be aware of the specific properties of each genre and use them wisely.

Especially when you combine them, do so with the care and skill of a French chef mixing onion and garlic (vampires beware!). These seasonings are similar but distinctly different flavors in your spice cabinet, just as Gothic and horror sit side by side among your genre sources. Treat them that way, stir carefully, and serve with élan. Incidentally, you may want to include a dark red wine. Unless, of course, you never drink ... wine!

For more information: To read an excellent examination of modern trends in things Gothic, check out Contemporary Gothic by Catherine Spooner. I am indebted to her for many (but not all!) of the ideas in this article.

Poem for Michael

Handwriting on the Wall — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 12:09:32 GMT

"Daybreak"

Dark is the light that bows before the dawn,

yet it grows still brighter by the breath,

and more it shows each second.

Daylight waxes full and soon reveals

the destined, hoped-for

death of night.

Tears dry up and vanish like echoes,

as day resounds through reddish-dappled skies,

and sunrise grants

its glory promised.

A growing sunglow surrounds

the towns with striking

light-stained colors.

Hillsides, houses and even up-reaching skylines

shine anew

held close

in morning's tender hands.

American Haiku

Handwriting on the Wall — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 10:56:00 GMT

"It's called the American dream because you have to be asleep to believe it."

-George Carlin

I see a people falter.

Their pillar crumbles

from its roots.

False destiny cries out.

Its hoarse voice echoes

as others cease to listen.

The bell rings again today.

Its damning dirge knells

tortured deaths of dreams.

Broken leaders blast the air.

Currencies of choice reveal

such soulless sounds.

Papier-mâché prophets drink tea.

Angry actors tilt

at tinny targets.

The belligerent block bridges.

Protectors and servers

beat them bloody.

Money dances through the sky.

It chooses chancey partners

as masses sink thorugh sewers.

Suffering throngs salt souls on city streets.

Laughing, others leave lone graves,

Glad to whisper jokes and gaze away.

Wasting wars wage on.

Fast like freight trains rushing downhill,

unstoppable, the conflicts crush up corpses.

Music rings around the rose.

Barter bears the broken

into global black holes.

Skeletons grin everywhere.

No one cares enough

To bury the bones.

Skulls wash up on soulless shores.

Sailors watch sodden seasides

for tides that don't arrive.

Those aware behold blindness.

The unaware see only glittering city lights

Sparkle above carloads of carcasses.

Within, many shout "All is mine."

They consign to hopeless hell

all those without.

A plague pillages the land.

Those untouched put on pinkish glasses

and only hear of health.

Will judgment come?

The judge now sleeps

Only to wake too late.

House on Granny White Pike

Handwriting on the Wall — Sat, 16 Apr 2011 07:27:00 GMT

Standing by the street,

I saw that house again

after phantom fleeting years.

Decades of change

have washed across this land

like restless ocean tides,

wresting sculptures of sand away.

Yet this time-spared home

still looks the same.

I grew up here,

spending my youth

among trimmed hedges and trees,

like a vagrant weed

in such a sheltered garden.

Sitting in its shade,

I played the endless games

of childhood's feckless fancy.

Each summer day

grew hot and long

with buzzing crickets'

song and sounds

of beating wings.

Winter rains and dark

raced on

to colder climes,

made stark or grayed.

In those dusky days,

ceaseless seasons

lingered or slept

as if made to stay

till even time

evaporated

into air.

I moved away,

afraid to wait

for endless dawns

by a forest lost,

where long-cast shadows

arrested hours.

Along my later restless way

my seasons

slipped off soundless

to a far-gone place

and quietly they ceased.

Weeks and years

droned on.

They betrayed me,

fooling my fettered hours

like a broken clock.

My foot-ways

lumbered forward, listless,

toward hard-fastened limits

on my life.

Sameness

dulled my senses,

shutting out

the sun-made rhymes

of passing dark and light.

Soon I lost careless sight

of any road

where I could flee

or freely wander far.

My pathways ended

at a vine-encrusted cul-de-sac.

Detrius surrounded

and piled high about me.

I shouted,

"Here is the true

but woeful pay

for numb, near-endless labor."

No one heard

nor dreamed or dared

approach me there.

I fell to earth,

so closed-in, cast away

and left behind.

Like a sparrow

seeking warmer climes

but finding sleet instead,

I froze.

My taxidermy-like

repose in my trusted roost,

found only cold.

Ice-wrought fingers caught,

encased and crushed me

with crystal claws.

I found no life,

but only snares

with a lone and rigid hold

far worse than winter.

I only want to see

October again.

Memories of amber woods

and ancient red-stained

leafy trees, far-reaching,

surround

that house

on Granny White.

Recalling child-play sounds

and smelling smoke,

still I see grace-painted

sunsets seared,

as if by branding flame.

All of this

still aches inside me.

I remember times

when I lay with those I loved

on heaps of dying leaves.

All of us stared

into a deep and dazzling

blue-dark sky

impossible to touch.

We stayed

and didn't dare to move

till day turned dark.

Requiem for a Friend

Handwriting on the Wall — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 16:45:00 GMT

We leaped across rocky ledge-parts,

seeking a secret veil of water

shadowed in sacred Yellowstone.

Camping together, we huddled against

cruel cold that caught

ice-barren wasteland winds.

Watching whirling air,

we saw dusted devils blow through

deep-carved canyons.

They howled their coyote

wistful-throated wails

past red-rock sandstone.

We climbed weighty slabs of slated

rocks in layered creek-carved labyrinths,

betraying eons of earth.

Bones of living things lay there,

long interred before

the birth of human minds.

I had never witnessed the West before,

and he showed me its

wild-edged ways.

In college, we laughed

with our women and other friends.

The ladies smiled,

and some men fought

or marched in dour defiance.

Learned ones stood

before us and taught strange,

tortured histories

of tarnished, vanished times.

We wasted days and drank,

listening to music loud,

lusty and luminous.

Running mental courses

through restless thoroughfares,

our sprinting spirits drifted.

Yet, they lifted upward and proud

together.

In later life, we parted,

picking pathways

distant and drained

of precious things we prized before.

He called it "God's country"

where he stayed, our home,

but I strayed far

from Tennessee.

Visits and talks

grew fewer and fell to none.

Finally strangers to one another,

we quieted ever more

until no voice could cross

the void between us.

Late in nights' long sleeplessness,

I thought of him at times,

seeking but finding no solace

in his absence.

A spirit lay beside me,

whispering wondrous tales

of sweet sequestered places

where we ran as one before.

Younger, fonder days paraded

dusty, down through darkened hours.

Restless remembrances

skewed out like skeletons

from fallen coffins.

My thoughts conjured friends and fun

as if from far-off planets lost,

where younger suns shone bright

on seas' forgotten shores.

At last, the moon set black

within that seared-looking

barren space before dawn.

Its face revealed failed remnants

of a faded firmament

pushed far

beyond my grasp.

News came to me he was gone.

I paused to hear a shutting door

sound solemn far within me.

His smile would be no more,

nor would I know his voice again.

A flame went dark,

and blindness

sealed the snake-like passage ways

that pierced those far-flung

reckless, roaming years.

That same fire left me too,

and only an aching stayed,

reminding me of an empty place,

something in my gut

now ripped away.

Numbness and pain

thrashed within,

as if a spinal sprain's convulsion

spread throughout my limbs.

Just the knowing

was like a torrential mudslide,

dragging needed highways

downhill deep into crushed

and crumbled dirt.

Today I recall a still-hidden

waterfall, rushing clear and coursing

down a cliffside.

Two men beheld it then,

testifying to its tender,

white-graced tracery.

Waters welled into a misted gorge

and filled a glassy bright,

light-crested pool

forever pure and free.

In dreams I drink there,

bathing naked, aware of

things those hollows keep

from everyone else.

Staying long in sentinel shadows,

I rest alone.

The Stone

Handwriting on the Wall — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 22:12:00 GMT

He sits within my dreams,

a troubled tinge that tosses me

and throws my covers aside.

I dwell on him sometimes

and run from such a thing

in thoughts.

His glaring stare looks down

upon my daily ways

like searing sun

strikes heat

on desert dunes.

Always seeing, never leaving,

this stalker walks

and watches behind me.

At times, he catches bits and parts

of my fleeting, flitting shadow.

He jeers and jabs my every effort

till only tatters stay behind

to tell me

of a darkened day.

His breath is rank

and stinks of rat-filled sewers.

He won't go away, though

I shout at him and try to strike

his bony face.

He'll only gaze,

and I know he'll stay

until I pay his price.

Those who mocked my workings

or ransacked me for the taking

must one day also find him,

whether they're waking or still in sleep.

He'll seek and take each one

to a place where echoes

fade to ghosts.

The ones who tore away at me

and foes unfeeling

will meet him too

in burrowed blackness.

Will you bear my money there

or take my talismans to him?

Are you to carry my close attentions

into his constant smile?

Can you still taunt me

with lips so stitched and sealed

forever still?

We will melt into one,

molded by him

to make marshy earth.

Rushed to his realm

among roots of trees,

we'll gather there,

whether by will or from waste.

Each in turn will eat

his hollow dirt

and inherit his blank testament.

Following scores of forsaken footprints,

one by one, we shall wallow

in sodden, shallow soil.

Find us beneath

his half-buried stone.

A Day Remembered

Handwriting on the Wall — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 06:53:00 GMT

Easter lingered late and long that year

in Tennessee,

while my family rested

under leaf-filled maple limbs.

The tree perched creature-like,

rooted amid some garden rocks,

and reached its tendriled arms

to scratch the sky.

Surrounding shade enshrouded us

and helped our after-dinner rest

give rise to idle jest and tales.

Words faded into silence,

crushed by locusts' buzz

and summerish hot, still,

suffocating air.

We children rushed by

with harsh and hardy shouts of:

"Let's play softball."

So despite the sun, some took the dare

and followed us to a field

left fallow on my aunt and uncle's farm.

We played in weeds and mossy mud,

running, sliding our dirty way

through April's dampened earth.

Shouts and spit mingled with cheers,

echoed among serrated, snake-like hills.

Then, a sudden surprise

snatched everybody's eyes and ears.

I hit my first-ever home run there.

All faces searched above,

showing rawest shock at such a thing.

I walked the bases slowly,

with arrogance only a boy of ten could bring,

and like a strutting rooster,

finally found my way to home.

I remember now those so beloved,

who played or lazed with me that day.

Almost all are gone.

Although I didn't know it then,

many dark farewells lay hidden ahead

to touch me each in time.

They only left fast-fading trails

like footprints lost

in far-blown snow.

Some stretched before me cold,

waxen dummies made up

with coffin-covering colors

framed by fluffy, fine-placed flowers.

Others went with only words,

among black-bordered print

on backs of news-gray papers,

where just a name remained.

Often dreaded letters

littered my dining table,

heralding in envelopes and hounding script

penned, tear-stained stories

of their passing.

Phone calls came to share,

with hushed, near-whispered words,

telling me when or where

and who was now no more.

Saddest were the ones who merely disappeared

beneath a blank horizon.

So many lives blinked out like empty suns,

setting their final days

in a gutted galaxy,

black and far beyond our ways.

Decades sprinted into dust

and silent shadows.

One morning I awoke, aching within,

to know I had no home.

Yet, even now,

I remember hitting that ball.

It sailed, careening skyward

as if above the curling, cat-like lazy clouds.

For a moment, I thought it maybe

vanished

in bright and breathless blue.

The River's Children

Handwriting on the Wall — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 16:36:00 GMT

Liquid-like hills of the Klang River

recline around her cloud-veiled valley.

Low-lying light reveals

masses of restless people,

rising slowly from their blank and blinded night.

They walk or wind about on roughened roads,

a cacophony of multicolored cars and buses

or ceaseless cycles.

Hordes cascade out

to take their toilsome day.

Many pious and impassioned faithful

cry out with anguished, wistful prayers,

seeking to save themselves

from a postponed certainty of Sheol.

Others simply wake, avoiding prayer

to take a faster time to get to where

the checker-board streets will bear them.

The rushing seeming feral-driven seekers of work

stop in roadways clogged

as rivers dammed by heavy rain's debris.

Are those who don't pray

damned as well by hardened tasks

grown tough and cold as shards of clay?

Still, highways push the steel-imprisoned minions,

like flash floods rushing down

their rain-filled ways.

The Klang River still wanders softly,

silently through the valley

among her orphaned children:

Rounded ridges, carved roadways,

and peoples living their days.

Syrup-like, its green-gray waters

ease great silted burdens into the sea.

Like all of us,

for sure, each drop will one day pass

into a still and darkened depth.

With You

Handwriting on the Wall — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 22:47:00 GMT

Your softest touch,
the close entwining cradle
of your sleep-entrusted limbs,
wrap around me
in full-tight embrace.
You hold me close
through untold hours together.
Yet I know this time must fade
like mists of morning air,
warmed with day's renascence,
damp to touch.
Soon it's driven off
by sunlight's harshest glare
and never seen again.

Still, in your face I glimpse
such spirit,
that I know some mystery must
bind us both
and keep us safely close
for time and now, and yet another time.
Your breath on me
in aftermath of sleep together
exhales the only rhythmic sound
to break the cathedral quiet
of this place.
I feel as if awaking to some far-off
mountain sunrise
over mythic lands of unicorns and questing knights
I dreamed of as a child.

We embrace in still devotion here,
like holy martyrs' prayers,
to live each sacred moment
on our pilgrim way
as both for one.

So our tiny raft
will bear us forward
on life's rough-surging rapid waters.
Where?
We journey fast through wind-torn
mountain passes,
to the rock-held, highest places,
over darkest seas.
For how long?

I'll never care
as long as we remain
transfixed
in one another's arms like this.
I'd rather give away
the riches of a hundred thousand
passing nations,
than lose the peace I feel each day
with you.

Two Forged

Handwriting on the Wall — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 22:45:00 GMT

I have your secret name
inscribed within.
It lies where none can see save me
like a cherished anniversary engraved
on the hidden side
of a golden ring.
It's in a place far taken, way beyond
any space human minds
may inhabit, see, or know.

I've shaped you there and wake
in mornings with that name
whispered reverent-silenced by my lips.
Falling asleep, the cant of it
resounds in darkness round my room.
In noonday quiet, I hear its sound
as if prayer-chanted
by holy wise men thralling sleep
for ancient serpent dragons
in their lair.

Mystery is the name
of this unknown sure enchantment,
old as untold human time.
The puzzle remains,
how two precious-made metals fired together
in some divine-created foundry
flow into one.
Sparks scatter-spray under hammers
of giants who meld
alloyed hearts together.

Crafted in fiery forges and pounding,
heat strives with cold
as annealed gold emerges,
now initialed.
In steam-sizzling flames of furnace and ash,
a new ring stronger than before
enters grave blackness.
Then flowing blindly upward,
its circle seizes
the light.

Communion

Handwriting on the Wall — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 22:32:00 GMT

My lover, your face greets me in the morning
from silent pillowed mooring
of soft, unharried sleep.
You're unaware
of slatted light that seeps still inward,
to invade the quiet room
as mist steals in from rising tides
toward Big Sur's mythic coastline.
Careless dust motes dance
like a thousand daylight fireflies
above your unfurled form.

I pray,
"Dear God, be ever with you.
Guard your soul and reveal
to you
the proud iron-girdered strength
of my love,
unbounded as the stars."

You stretch, dozing cat-like,
with generous yawn and akimbo arms, thrust legs
that force bunched breasts and muscles to awake.
Your back unfolds like slow unrolling furrows
of wave-corrugated waters.
They flex like ocean ripples seen
through a soft sun-haloed fog
as water washes up on craggy boulders.
Your skin's like that,
and yet so soft, inviting.
The tightened flesh pulled down across full
buttocks now swells out
and pushes upward
to receive.

A single hand spans intimate space
between us
to explore the meadow freshness
of my unmown, rounded chest
with nipples tight and hardened
as acorns.
You scratch and rub each hair
until I almost feel the fire sparks
flying as if tossed
from a welder's workbench.
Or is it strength of my flowing
heartbeat's constant pressure,
pushed into my legs' conjoining,
that fulfills the pillar
of my desire?

Like a careful sculptor, you move hands
slow-working,
down the center-tuft of hair,
on my belly
carpeted
as if by tree moss.
Like a restless tide, you overthrow me
and grasp my upthrust limb
to straddle me entire.
I probe the surrounding wet-warmth
of your wide-spread now lower caverns,
so soft as dewy grass at sunrise.
Then I push
with thunderbolted fury
inward.
The spear comes close to rage
as if to rend the curtain
separating sanctum from sanctissimum,
man from God,
or sky from earth.

Like a bull I paw the bed-sheets
and bellow loud toward cross-laid rafters.
Perhaps I seek to impale you
with my ivory-colored horn,
as I stab so long and far,
stallion-like,
within your lowparts.
You scream
like a captured cougar
and claw my shoulder-skin
in close embrace.

I kiss, to find the hidden well-spring
of your innermost-kept secrets,
and you reveal them, nectar-like,
only to me.
I am the guarded stamen that
seeks from life's brush-flower,
and seeks the true-one
mountain-bearer.
And you, as if to the forest born,
are ever mine.

Like a wolf held fast to prey
in breathless hunt,
you seek the magic ichor that wells forth
from men.

We sting each other,
locked in mortal combat,
as restless warring bees.
You bite as I stab again.
We've become more than siblings,
cross-pollinated now
by honeyed-white
warming richness.

Our bodies tighten into grimace,
frantic, bound from face to foot.
We pound sheer flesh and sinew
as if Hephaestus,
earth's immortal blacksmith,
smashed the heavens' anvil with his hammer,
great as Everest.

We, like pulled-taught drumheads
struck from leather skins,
keep pace
and resonate
together.
Tuned as one, we stay
full close,
until at last our voices cry out,
scream
in wildest ululations.
Like embattled, injured wrestlers then
we fall, as if to die
but rise tomorrow,
twin souls born of Phoenix parents.

Afterward you lie upon me
and sigh your warmth around my face.
You press thighs against my ribs,
massaging tangled sweat-damp hair,
but we
dare
not move nor speak.
Instead, entwining outstretched limbs,
we both hold firm like ancient redwoods,
grown together,
ever bonded,
bathed in sundawn-swathed brightness.

I pray,
"Thank God,
for such an angel-song of sheer delight,
and peace of
both-shared love."

We touch
our mineral spring-wet tongues
and lips,
inhaling mud-earth sweetness
from inside.

The Later Harvest

Handwriting on the Wall — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 22:25:00 GMT

1.
We spent those days
at a crossing place in time,
and only we
knew what could be,
and what was left
behind.

The prairie wheat blew
gold and soft
on Illinois-planted fields of fall.
Then later on, the whitened snow
lay gentler still
on a campus where we lived and laughed,
and lied.

2.
Who was I then?
Or any of us?
Sometimes, I can't tell, even now,
because I only
thought I knew.
I played the role
and joined approved-of crowds,
but inside
stayed alone.

I met so many folks there,
those who helped me grow
and maybe a few
I'm better off
forgetting.
But I remember them all,
wondering
what might have been
if I had changed
to whom they wanted.
Because I never could.
At length,
with silent disappointment,
I left.

Yet the years betrayed
those heartland days.
They all stayed
stored away within.
Vagrant thoughts still recollect
the many tears and smiles.
I see faces I knew,
girls who dreamed
of husbands to be
and guys
who thought they would win
the world.

3.
Remembrances of northern seasons
stay with me most.
Stark, flat-plain winter nights
blew cold and taught enough
to ring like high-pitched strings
and shatter glass
before my face.
Pied and withered leaves
quietly dried
and later rustled somber over
starting classes in September.
Flowery, swamp-smelling spring,
then muggy, stormy summer months,
all marched in time.
Their onrushing tide
fast raced me forward
to change.

4.
Teachers told us
to look for truth,
but my verity, to them,
was gross disgrace.
Yet, during those days,
I found a better place.
I'll tell you of it now,
if only as a tale:

If a grain of wheat fall
into a furrow's crevice,
it first must wither
and sleep in earth.
Before the new and infant seed
can come alive,
the older shell
must pass away.

5.
On a glory-hued, autumnal day,
I left my grave.
The price of being born anew
is having to die.
But by that end,
a newness steals
upon your self, as morning seals
the darker place
of night.

"How could it be wrong," he asked,
"for a man to love another man?"
His question ripped away
a brittle husk
drawn close about my life.
Those words exploded, pinecone-like,
as a forest fire burns off
scarred deadwood trees.
Those brittle syllables,
covered me with ashes.
Years later on,
I, a pipping Phoenix,
crawled from ruins
remembering those yesterdays,
to make myself
anew.

6.
So, in looking back,
I stopped to grieve a moment brief,
and now
I never turn at all.
Still gazing ahead,
I only let myself recall
the icy morning
I awoke remade.
Upon that dawn, my soul sprang up
like winter wheat,
treasured still today
and harvested
in my heart.

December 1995.
For Wheaton College's many Gay/Lesbian Alumni:
Who we were, are, and yet shall be.

Far Away

Handwriting on the Wall — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 09:40:00 GMT

You've opened for me vistas of peace
like a mountain valley across a quiet glacial lake.
I take of your heart such color
as a tapestry spread large across an ocean,
tranquil enough at best
to be called Pacific.

Desert Wanderings: Thoughts

Handwriting on the Wall — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 20:40:00 GMT

You and I see
shadows fall upon our destined days.
Eventide takes all,
as sun-glow journeys on.
Then, later still, pale after-light
haunts sky and creeps across its vast
unquiet heart.

Past barren night, appears another glow.
First barely seen,
bright sunrise steals
then kills
the desert's darkened cold.

So, the cycle courses on
And carries us along.
We only rend its grip
when our own sure sunsets
sever all.

I ask
about a child.
Yes, even this one slept in womb's wet blackness
before he dared rush out
to bask and dance in day.

Light and dark together dwell
within this deep-drilled well we call
our world.
Each soul must meld the two as one
before sight dawns with eyes
made fully wide.

In some child-time before,
I once explored
a dusty, cob-webbed attic room.
Holding a candle
high, I saw the place
anew, allowing restless
shdows to show my way.
All
remains unseen
without the dark.

On some appointed date unknown,
sun and moon will die as one,
with all of earth aflame.
The child,
then grown, shall
dance anew.

More must await us after.
What shall illuminate our pathway
during that endless, rushing no-time
of stifled stars?

Lightened or no,
we'll wrest a way
to live on
and dance through endless space.
Then, I say let's wander
far
beyond these bounded desert
sunset days.

Evensong

Handwriting on the Wall — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 03:34:00 GMT

Poem in Two Parts:
Magnificat and Nunc Dimitis

Part I: "My soul magnifies the Lord."

Jesus sought
Lazarus
in the sweaty stink of crowds.
They pointed at tombs
amid fly swarms
over dog bones.

"If only you'd been here,"
Martha wept.
He sat
to catch her tears
and add them to His.

"Believe the mystery,"
his face replied.
Her eyes grew wide
into black reflections
of Judean rock-cliff mountains.

Crowds pressed in and
laughed at Him.
He looked at skies,
tracing ragged-laced horizon lines,
snake-drawn and jagged.

Martha heard Him speaking
like desert winds,
"Lazarus lives
in the shiny spaces
next to your tight-wrapped hair pins."

Turning to the tombs,
He shouted,
"Come forth."

They saw Lazarus
frolic out
in thready, shedding bandages
He took
roses,
and held them with his grimy hands,
bowing before Jesus.

The Lord laughed and
waved the flowers
in clouds
of butterfly-fluttering
petals.
They embraced and
He left Lazarus with a whisper,
then vanished
into massive, shoving crowds.

Martha rushed to Lazarus.
"What did He tell you?"
She asked,
as her face sought words
with eyes that blinked
behind long-white streaks.

Lazarus near-whispering answered,
"He said:
Believe.
The rose
will bloom again."

Part II: "Lord, let your servant depart in peace, according to your word."

Fog slips down
a Tennessee lakeshore.
Village townfolk
rest
under clay-red sundown.
Curtain clouds
arise.

Kingfisher sits
on driftwood twisted
witch-hand branches.
Tree stumps
cringe as if away from
falling cloud-fire.
Knotted wood knees
thrust and break
into bleak horizons
casting serrated shadows.
Black mud covers
deserted clapboards,
rotted corpses of barns
and horse bones.

Kingfisher's wings
take to the sky.
He flies
above the sheeny purple-cloud reflecting
mirror like a spirit dimly seen.
Deep in the river's green
wet innards,
catfish spawn their offspring,
channelbottom born.

Kingfisher's voice
grows shrill and seems to me
to cry,
"Cold waters
called out
all the old men's names
and swallowed
their flesh."

Still, kingfisher
searches skies
for home.

Farmhouse lights
join stars,
while windows
fade
in blackness.
Swimming lightsnakes
shimmer
on a misted laketop.

Kingfisher, silent,
takes his rest.

Friend (1950-1978)

Handwriting on the Wall — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 03:18:00 GMT

I kneel,
cry out
for soothing touch
sure to heal
like summer's rain,
but get nothing.

Friends' faces
move in memory
like frightened mice.
They scurry away.

He gave up life
for a handful of dope.
His street buddies must have
jeered his passing
into earth.

In near-forgotten years,
we talked of dreams, plans,
wonders,
with laughing girls.
Other guys lounged about,
we young bucks,
blind for time.

He traveled his own tunnel
into a black-fringed news story,
with me
left weeping.