Large Fierce Mammal

On an individual level, Human beings are simultaneously insanely fragile and unbelievably hard to kill, both qualities having often been documented in the same individual. In our conceit, we find it easy to imprint that characteristic on other creatures, forgetting they don’t share our tendency to overthink things, overplay their importance, or react emotionally to even the implication of the death stroke.

No matter how dark or dramatic one’s end, it will never be so drear as to prevent someone, disconnected from it all, from finding some degree of joy there. (more…)

Welcome back Goode Reader.

You will no doubt recall that I have invoked the august names of Edgar Allan Poe and Vincent Price more than once in these October forays and tonight we will revisit both Gentlemen simultaneously.

Produced in 1970, An Evening of Edgar Allan Poe is just short of an hour’s worth of Vincent Price reciting four of Poe’s classic tales — The Tell-Tale Heart, The Sphinx, The Cask of Amontillado, and The Pit and the Pendulum — in his inimitable style. (more…)

Close on the heels of Day 26 comes this award winning German gem from 2018.

Directed by David Wunderlich, Pets tells its story from that vantage from which the obvious conclusion is you should have been careful what you wished for.

Take a draught of whatever you think will make the neutering hurt least — unless you’re one of those occasional visitors here for whom it’s already too late. (more…)

In the wake of a certain Swedish girl’s advent upon the world stage as the front man of a new crew of environmental influencers, legitimacy of urgency has come to be blurred so an already distrustfully polarized world is more entrenched than ever in Buridan’s Dilemma.

Tonight’s Dark Sentiment is a well crafted word from Mother Nature Herself, performed by Julia Roberts, and hand picked from the offerings of Conservation International. I present this to you now, Goode Reader, with the caveat that it does not in any way represent my endorsement of that organization or its agenda — merely that in this particular production, our views are convergent.

And Julia Roberts has a great voice. (more…)

The melancholy ballad from which tonight’s Dark Sentiment draws its title was written by Charles Aznavour and released in his 1964 album of the same name. Translated literally into English (always a mistake, but here we are), it means “Yesterday Again”, and you may know it best in the English translation by Herbert Kretzmer from which it was recorded by Aznavour himself, as well as such notables as Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, Shirley Bassey, Mel Torme, Dusty Springfield, Glen Campbell, and Roy Clark — Yesterday When I Was Young. (more…)

“Man, a social animal, seeks to live in communities, varying in size from remote single family homesteads, to congested cities made of high rise buildings. Where you live most likely fits somewhere in between – those popularly referred to as “homeless” I will speak to in a future article in this series, for they cannot be excluded. Regardless of size, Human habitations are not an environment apart – they are filters, carefully engineered to ensure that, insofar as possible, the species that built them can limit access to animals of its own kind or those of other kinds it has invited to be there, and to plants that it wishes to grow there. Humans are not alone in this behaviour – Ants, Bees, and other social insects have them too.

“But we Humans are not insects, so let’s confine our thinking to the filters that Man builds. Ask the microscopic creatures that live, die, mate, eat and are eaten, in their multitudes, generation after generation between a half millimeter by twenty centimeter crack under your kitchen floor boards how perfect and impermeable that filter is. The Moulds and Mildews that make their presence known whenever circumstances permit. The Silverfish that haunt your plumbing and bookshelves, the carpet beetle under your baseboards, and the Pseudoscorpion that hunts them. The Spiders, Woodlice, Centipedes, and Millipedes that lurk in every dark basement corner – all doing their jobs as Nature intended them to do, within the ecosystem you call your dwelling, and that you share with them. The Way of the Wild plays out around you at every moment. My office is an annexed bedroom on the second floor of my house. As I type these words to you, I’m sharing it with Mrs. LFM, our six dogs, and undoubtedly a presently unseen and rarely glimpsed legion of other fellow creatures, each doing its own business as we do ours, none doing us harm, and each in accordance with its nature.” ~ Worldly Wisdom Wednesday – That First Step on The Path (2012}

Tonight’s Dark Sentiment beautifully illustrates the point I was making when I wrote the article partially quoted above. Another product of the Ecole Supérieure des Métiers Artistiques (ESMA), Mycelium is described as a strange journey that, “… takes us to an unknown land where life is transformed with ferocity and elegance.”

That it does. Whatever you pour to enjoy with this tonight, raise your glass to all the fellow things whose gonads and strife made that alcohol possible. (more…)

In case you’re at risk of forgetting both the role a healthy dose of opportunism plays in the world, and that if you find yourself in a fair fight your tactics suck, tonight’s Dark Sentiment will set you to rights.

Little Tombstone is a 2011 child of the Ecole Supérieure des Métiers Artistiques (ESMA) and I’ll offer it absent further preamble beyond the advice to turn off the humidifier for a day and then pour yourself a glass of rotgut to wash this five minute beauty down. (more…)

Image Credit: Hyperbole and a Half

This is a song I wrote based loosely on actual events. There is music and I’ll be recording it for your edification in a future fit of publication. In the mean time here’s —

Dead Spider Serenade

By LFM

Dearest spider on the ceiling
I won’t ask you how you’re feeling
We’ve not spoken since the day I squashed you dead.
Hospitality was failing
When I caught you mid-abseiling
In descent upon my sleeping infant’s head.

My arrival sent you climbing
In attempt to thwart my timing
And arriving at your apex met my shoe.
You knew not who you played with,
The great outdoors you should have stayed with
So now you’re just a purple streak of goo.

Had this played out in the garden
I’d have granted you my pardon
You’d be out there spinning webs this very day.
But I hold no guilt nor sorrow
I’ll just scrub you off tomorrow
As admonishment you should have stayed away.

You went far above your station
When you came sans invitation
To take liberties with family of mine.
Such sin bears no repeating
No more flies will you be eating
For now you’re but a stain upon the pine.

Credit: Incredible Polish Artist elleneth (Monika Gozdziewska)

Another rite of passage piece with echos of last season’s Willie and the Bear.

The term “traveller’s lantern”, perverted to Hunter’s lantern here, and not to be confused with Hunter’s Moon, refers to a time when safe travel was denied to the average bloke between the last quarter, through new, and to the first quarter of the moon, simply due to the risks of pitch darkness. For more on that I refer you to my earlier piece, Dark Sentiments 2014 – Day 28: Darkness – Literally, in which I said in part —

“Speaking for North America, it’s hard for the average 21st century town or city dweller to grasp how recent a thing it is to enjoy the benefit of street lights at night; and even more so, indoor lighting because even in the days of candles and lanterns there were those who lacked the wherewithal to keep the lights on.. Beforehand, the Moon was called the traveler’s lantern, and nobody went any further than the barn or privy after dark unless the Moon was sufficiently in play. Potential for misadventure don’t you know.”

So you keep your wits about you, I would suggest nothing to drink with this one until watch has ended.

Keeping Watch

By LFM

An hour afore the sunrise on an island in a lake,
A Father touched his sleeping son to give his knee a shake.
“Come with me!” he whispered close, “And not a sound, you hear?”
“Waste no time and show no light, forget thee not thy gear!”

The cobs of sleep now tattered by such words of dark intent,
The boy, full dressed and shod, soon found himself outside the tent.
His pack upon his back, his belt and knife caressed his waist,
And sought his Father’s company in quiet, urgent haste.

He glimpsed his Father dimly at remove, near out of sight,
And clearly saw him beckon ere he turned to join the night.
Just then, the boy was wont to cry, “Please Father! Wait for me!”
But kept his silence knowing that was not a thing to be.

The Hunter’s lantern, nearly spent, lent half-light ghastly pale
In dappled pools that little helped his feet upon the trail,
And so the boy looked overhead for trueness of his path,
For as a trail lies through the woods, so too above its swath.

His Father was another stone on boulder covered ground —
To one who knew not how to see, a thing more lost than found —
But to the Son who sought him he outshone the light of day,
And soon the boy was nestled next to where his Father lay.

His Father gently gripped his arm but gave no other sign,
And why they manned their silent post was nought he could divine.
The boy lay still and followed with his eyes his Father’s gaze
Upon the snaking narrows in their shrouding moonlit haze.

The mainland shore beyond stood but a well thrown stone away,
That might as well been leagues for all the questing eye could say.
And straining every sense to find what might be passing there,
A wild parade of phantasms came to meet his wide-eyed stare.

Still every horror playing out, his Father’s calm defied,
So quiet still, the boy moved all the tighter to his side.
And there they lay on silent guard ere gleam of risen sun
Brought Father to his feet to say, “To breakfast lad, we’re done.”

Silence is a funny thing, it doesn’t want to be,
Yet still, in wake of needfulness, so rarely wants to flee.
Breakfast was a memory before the boy could ask
His Father of the reason they had set upon their task.

“What was it we were watching for?” when voice at last returned,
And finding not within himself the lesson to be learned.
“Nothing happened Father, there was nothing there to ward
“That might rain down its horrors had it simply been ignored!”

His Father smiled and nodded, saying, “So it may have seemed,
“Not every ray of insight comes in day, and brightly beamed.
“A cavalcade of happenings, as you will learn to see,
“Moved through and all around us Son, each as was meant to be.”

“None was good or evil, that is not for us to choose,
“What battles that were fought were not for us to win or lose,
“We stood against what never was, but might have come to be,
“Had night been left unguarded, and with not an eye to see.”

“Night Watchman” by Jason Engle

The eye is the primary sensory tool of the Human animal. Coupled to a brain predisposed to seek out patterns and sift them through a sieve of instincts and memories, the sense of sight is and always has been instrumental in keeping us alive. But it has weaknesses that become most evident when darkness falls, whether due to time of day, physical location, or both.

An excellent treatment of this is found in Night Movements, a Japanese military text used in the training of snipers, scouts, and saboteurs active in the late unpleasantness called World War II, translated into English in 1913 by one “C. Burnett”.

“Having seen a thing with my own eyes, I can form my judgment concerning it; by knowing that there is no danger to my own body, I will be calm. On account of my being calm, there will be no uncertainty; on account of there being no uncertainty, all things, necessarily, will be clear. In order that there may be that clearness, a broad field of view and a clear understanding of facts are necessary. However, at nighttime, a person is not able to see his surroundings; accordingly it is only natural that there should be uncertainty. One cannot know when there will be danger in the darkness just a little ways ahead. In such cases there is a feeling of apprehension, of doubt and uncertainty, and finally there is extremely cautious watchfulness and fear. In short, at nighttime, the mind is agitated and excited.

“Night and Morbid Watchfulness. Attention is the term applied to a condition of affairs when the consciousness is concentrated on certain substances or certain ideas. At night, as the field of view is very limited, great attention must be paid to the multitude of surrounding objects; if this is not done, one will quickly fall into danger. In the presence of the enemy, how much more must the amount of watchfulness, on account of its relation to life and death, give rise to the greatest of care-and one becomes unable to distinguish between fact and fancy. As a result of too much care and concentration, what has hitherto been imagination almost ceases to be such, and approaches reality. The imagination is so vivid that unreal things seem real.”

It goes on to observe something I learned as a child —

“Night Brings out the Weak Points of the individual. A state of uncertainty at night gives rise to the idea of danger; from this there develops a state of fear. Mankind, in crowds, has an excessive mental action. That is, a crowd is conscious of vast power; hence, certain movements, though difficult for the individual, will be bravely carried out by several men together. While one man is fearful and uncertain, a number of men together, will enter into the movement almost without consideration. Therefore, at night, although one man, alone, will be afraid, several together will show no indecision whatever. This fact should be borne in mind in all night movements.”

The natural predisposition to fear not only what hides and hunts in the dark, but the darkness itself, is trainable in some individuals to degrees from simply managed to becoming the darkness itself. I qualify this statement with “some” because any population will contain a hopeless subset that is, and always will be, worse than useless with the lights out. Trainable or not, deep down at the bottom of our kind, some of us still squat by the watch fire holding the night at spearpoint while others either sleep soundly behind us, or cower nervously at the back of the cave.

The nights grow longer as we speak.

Until tomorrow night Goode Reader.