Large Fierce Mammal

I was irrevocably estranged from my paternal grandfather by the time I was 16 years old.

Clem Whynacht was a Master Carpenter who could build, finish and mend anything made of wood to a degree of perfection that was marvelous to behold. He was also an exceptional wood carver with a gift for turning out highly detailed replica fishing schooners and dories that were detailed down to levels of minutiae that had to be seen to be believed. Every piece, however tiny, was entirely carved by hand.

When in his cups my grandfather was also violently abusive to my Grandmother, Almeta, his Wife who had given him seven strapping children. Abusive to the degree that his sons, my Father foremost among them, felt compelled to put him on notice that he henceforth raised a hand to her at peril of his life. He felt it in his best interests to comply, but not for long. My Grandmother, ever a nervous woman with a defective heart valve that was a legacy of childhood illness, released him from his compulsion by dying of congestive heart failure when she was 48 years old.

As a child, I became a voracious reader with wide ranging interests in all things scientific. I was the first member of the Whynacht Clan to ever finish high school, and go on to university, and it was my studious nature coupled with my academic success that piqued the interest of Clem’s nasty side. He viewed my pursuit of knowledge as evidence of effeminacy and homosexuality, notwithstanding any other supporting proofs to the contrary, and  began to openly and crudely insult me – again though, only when emboldened by the contents of a bottle.

When I was 16, he was diagnosed with cancer in the right side of his jaw, necessitating disfiguring surgery – the affected section of jaw bone had to be removed – and so as the man became physically lessened, so too did his bad side swell. I stayed away because I wanted nothing to do with him by this time, but one day when I was 17, just back from a summer in Montreal visiting my Maternal Grandmother and the saying of fond goodbyes to my virginity, I was asked by my Father to drop by my grandfather’s house and retrieve some item that he had lent to what was left of the pathetic “Old Man” as he had come to be called. I knew my Father needed the item, and because of the demands of his business wasn’t free to retrieve it himself. Also that he had called ahead to shorten my exposure by having the item ready for pickup.

It was an easy mission to run around the corner of our block to where Clem lived in the care of his only daughter, my Aunt Paulette, although not so much when I found him sitting and glowering on his usual perch; an ancient and ornately carved rocking chair adjacent to the kitchen wood stove, a bottle of rum near at hand and a rubber carpenter’s mallet standing handle up in the wooden newspaper rack next to him. My Aunt was also there making supper, but I don’t believe she was quite prepared for what transpired.

I greeted my Aunt and then turned to my grandfather and politely asked him for the item in question. His reply had nothing at all to do with the matter at hand, but included comparisons of my character with seed bearing produce, and even as he was speaking it I noticed the object of my mission – some sort of tool although for the life of me I can’t remember what – lying atop a small table in the hallway, just visible through the doorway behind him..

“Ah!” I said, “Never mind. I see it.”

As I stepped forward to pass him, he suddenly found it in himself to come to his feet with that mallet in hand, hurl another blast of insults, and bring the mallet down on the right arm rest of his rocking chair with sufficient force to splinter both it and the supporting structure beneath it.

I had come prepared for his mouth, but this was something else, and I could feel anger jump into my throat. I was very young you see, and not yet the Man I am  today, so I can’t say I actually knew where I was headed when stepping in, I grabbed the mallet and twisted it out of his hand with an ease that seemed to contradict his erstwhile ferocity. We stood there a while, eye to eye and but inches between us. He began to tremble. I put a hand on his shoulder and slowly, firmly, pushed him back into his chair before stepping to the wood stove, opening the door, and tossing the mallet into the fire. Not another word was spoken as I obtained the borrowed tool and departed.

It was only a few months before the cancer had him back in hospital waiting to die. I somehow ended up coming along with my parents to visit him there. My manner was cold, and he behaved himself. There were several visits, and on one of them he asked my Father if he would bring a few of his carving tools and a block of wood because he wanted to thank one of his Nurses by carving her a small boat model. My Father agreed, and in the following week I went off to a local lumber supplier to obtain a block of Pine of suitable dimensions.

That weekend, we visited again, so the tools and wood were delivered. I handed him the block myself, telling him I’d gotten Pine so it would be easier to carve and sand. He turned it over in his hands and informed me it wasn’t Pine at all, but Cedar. I disagreed in the spirit of here we fucking go again. I told him I didn’t think it unreasonable for a man who had worked wood all his life to be able to tell the difference.

Two weeks later, Clem Whynacht was dead, and we returned to the hospital to take care of his personal effects. He had left a note asking that I, personally, give the perfect little replica of a schooner hull to his favourite Nurse who had evidently been off duty since it was completed. I thought it an odd request until I looked it over and found a single word written in my grandfather’s semi-literate and, at the time, palsied hand.

It read, “Serter”, but I knew what he meant.

The Heir to Dark Sentiments expresses his delight with the toy in hand that inspired this poem. (Mrs. LFM photo)

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, Aphorism 146, Jenseits von Gut und Böse (Beyond Good and Evil) (1886)

I’m known to write of darksome things,
That spring from man and beast.
And otherworldly nightmares,
Some that breathe, and some deceased.

Each October as I stalk my prey
Through quagmires dark and drear,
My own black heart’s more visible
Than other times of year.

This doesn’t worry me because
To hunt such things as this,
One first accepts what Nietzsche said
Of facing the abyss.

But joy of joys, in darkest night,
I never walk alone,
For at my side my Fair Fierce Wife
Has made my hunt her own.

She’s given me a little Son
To join us in our quest,
And learn to keep a steady hand
When hunting Evil’s nest.

But slightly more than one, he has
Some darkness of his own.
Revealed when he couldn’t leave
Remote controls alone.

We found a toy that looked the part,
And gave it to our Son,
With coloured buttons over all,
He pressed them, every one.

The thing will speak each button pressed,
And says a phrase or two,
But our Son decided yesterday
Another thing to do.

He fetched that toy from where it lay,
Amid some plastic bricks,
Eyes gleaming as he pressed the keys,
Thus spake it –

Cartoon Saloon is an Irish Animation Studio based in Kilkenny. It was recently nominated for an Academy Award (R) for Best Animated Feature film. It began as an informal partnership between a group of animators brought together by Paul Young and Tomm Moore in 1999. Cartoon Saloon has since grown into a multi-award winning animation and illustration design studio. The studio works with many diverse, international Clients such as Disney, BBC and Cartoon Network.

Directed by Nora Twomey in association with Cartoon Saloon, and based on an Inuit folk tale, From Darkness is a story of cruelty, murder, necessity, Death, and Love. I need say nothing more for it will speak for itself. (more…)

“‘Darkness’, as it inspires me, isn’t limited to expressions of evil, mayhem, and bad outcomes. Something can also be considered “dark” if it is unknown, misunderstood, or incorrectly interpreted.” ~ The Book of Dark Sentiments

Wolverine. Source: https://www.facebook.com/VillafaneStudios/photos/a.112785518783075.13531.112710202123940/112785742116386/?type=3&theater

The Artistry of Ray Villafane (sample above) and his fellow Artists Andy Bergholtz and Chris Vierra who together form the creative Force of Nature that is Villafane Studios, have been a Dark Sentiments fixture since the beginning. Historically, I have drawn attention to his exquisite and often darkly humourous expressions that employ the lowly Pumpkin, and delved slightly into the Studio’s breathtaking forays into sand sculpture, but today I’m going to talk about another aspect of his talent – Toys and collectible sculptures.

Ray’s first “practice” sculpture actually became his first professional sculpture. In 2004, Ray was sculpting a Logan version of the X-Men character, Wolverine. He researched online sculpting forums for tips and posted his work-in-progress, requesting feedback from other sculptors. His piece caught the attention of popular sculpting icon Randy Bowen of Bowen Designs. Bowen contacted Ray and offered to produce the statue. Between 2004 and 2005, Ray went on to sculpt several statues for Bowen Designs, including such Marvel characters as Sabretooth, Magneto (the companion piece to his Logan) and The Punisher. After undertaking a commissioned piece for the collectibles division of DC Comics, DC Direct, Ray was offered a two-year exclusive contract with DC in 2006. He renewed the contract in 2008 for another two years. Within a year of trying his hand at sculpting he had gained notable clients such as Warner Bros./DC Comics, Marvel, McFarlane Toys, Hasbro and Sideshow Collectibles. ~ Villafane Studios

Today’s Dark Sentiment deals with a matter that more than fits the second definition of “dark” as described in the quotation at the top of this piece because, let it not be forgotten, something that is dark because, “… it is unknown, misunderstood, or incorrectly interpreted,” can, if left unopposed, lubricate a slippery slope to the kind of darkness that results in , “… expressions of evil, mayhem, and bad outcomes.” (more…)

Click to enlarge – Image credit 10wallpaper.com

Student and disciple of Nature that I am, it hasn’t escaped my notice that the cycle of the seasons – from the long, slow build up of Spring, through the heat of Summer, into the breathless bounty of Autumn, and then on to the flatline of Winter – bears a striking resemblance to sex; or at least sex done properly.

La Petite Mort

By LFM

Teasing, easing, slow to start,
Soft fleeting touch awakens heart,
Desire’s wanton needs avow,
As fallow field awaits the plough.

Breath quickens now as swellings grow,
Hot blood and lusty nectars flow,
Flushed and pouting, opened wide,
Fragrant petals bliss betide.

Now the bowstring’s drawn to ear,
It quivers taut, release is near,
The edge is reached, the brink is passed!
Sweet promised bliss has come at last!

Oh burst of colour, scent, and song!
Oh sweet release as Summer long!
Hint of offspring, plump and fair,
A primal cry upon the air!

And then no more the air is rent,
Cries fall silent, passions spent.
Urgence now has left the field,
Another beauty now revealed.

‘Tis in this boneless afterglow,
Where what was raised is now laid low,
That passion takes a different guise,
As Autumn’s leaves breathe silent sighs –

And then fall soft o’er passions cooled,
Draw blanket white and crystal jeweled.
To silence every fervent breath,
As Winter brings its little death.

Click to enlarge, (Source: http://theghostdiaries.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/Vampire-kit-letter.jpeg)

The label above would have been included with one of the ornately turned out and beautifully boxed kits consisting of masterfully crafted weapons and accessories created for defense against, and if necessary the destruction of, vampires, that were popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Timing and anecdotal evidence suggest, although fall far short of proving, that the catalyst for this brief craze was the publication in 1897 of Bram Stoker’s gothic novel, Dracula, and that the target market was the credulous traveller to eastern Europe. A few such kits have appeared that predate Dracula, however Stoker didn’t invent vampire lore but rather borrowed from it and put his own delightful spin on the rest.

Although the market represented by the easily conned cannot be underestimated, I tend to agree with the good folks at The Ghost Diaries who, in their article titled Real Vampire Hunter Kits From The 1800s, suggest that such kits were, “More likely intended as souvenirs for rich novelty collectors ….” but, well bugger that though because I would personally like to collect the entire set, as it were because they are as darkly neat as all get out. That being said, I’m not a rich novelty collector by any stretch of the imagination. If you are though, keep reading, for this is the date of an auction event called Danse Macabre, hosted by New Jersey based auction house, Sterling Associates, and they are including two vampire kits listed as Lots number 337 and 338. (more…)

Old Norse belief held that the skein of your life was woven long before your birth, and that the timing of your death was thus inevitable. Only the quality of it – how you conducted yourself in that final moment – would determine if you were worthy of an afterlife in Valhalla. (more…)

Furrowed brow and book title notwithstanding, it’s not what you think. SFM has nothing to fear. WE LFM’s don’t eat our young. (Mrs. LFM photo – click to enbiggen)

Back in the early 1980’s, a young man came to work for a company I was consulting for, and it fell to me to train him in the arcane arts of installing and troubleshooting security and fire alarm systems. I befriended him in  a mentor kind of way, and learned he had spent much of his young adulthood working as an enforcer for a drug dealer in Halifax County. He found his salvation in Martial Arts under the tutelage of a Korean Teacher who I only met once, and am shamed to say whose name has escaped me in the more than thirty years since.

Lacking anyone in his life who might be even remotely seen as a functioning parent, my friend spoke often of his Teacher, and came to me one day to ask if I would meet him. The date suggested was doubly significant because he also wanted to know if I would do him the honour of standing witness to his black belt test.

Of course, I accepted the invitation. So, on the day, we entered the school; I took my seat where others would have been had they been there, and quietly watched. When in the end, all requirements were met to the Teacher’s satisfaction, the coveted belt was bestowed, and I found myself being introduced to a very tiny and soft spoken Korean Gentleman who informed me he had come to know that I filled a powerful and most beneficial role in this young man’s life, and complimented me on it. I had to reciprocate in kind, for such was my understanding of him.

About a year later, in the midst of the long hot summer of 1981 the Halifax Police Department went on strike and night time in that city was a war zone. Anyone involved in any sort of security service was working round the clock, and in the course of the mayhem, a conversation occurred between my young friend and me about how thin a veneer civilization actually is. It was as we spoke on the subject that day that he revealed something of himself to me – that faced with not just a police strike, but a complete breakdown in all systems of government, law, order, and economy; removed of his access to work that might earn him an income as Canadians have come to know it, he would stalk and prey upon other people. He would take what they had as his own, eat their food, and if they had none then their pets, and if they had none of those, then he would eat them. It was clear to me that he had given much thought to this agenda, and revealed it to me with complete sincerity, clarity, and sobriety.

I applauded his candour, and silently added him to my list of those who are to be killed on sight should the shit hit the fan as he described. Friendship, after all, can only be carried so far.

The world is at war. With everything. The world of humans strives for unbridled growth, and in so doing either sheds all care, or cooks up justifications for its extravagance, to the peril of everything that isn’t us. Religion is still being used as a reason to kill everyone else who doesn’t belong to “the chosen”. You see, widely differing systems of belief can coexist perfectly until one finds an interpretation of its sacred texts that names it “chosen”, so that any horror may now be visited upon non-believers, not only free from all otherworldly retribution, but actually with all imaginable heavenly encouragement. So called “extremist” Islam is the demon of the moment, but history shows this to be little more than flavour of the month.

But War is only one among the Four Horsemen. There is another, named Pestilence (Plague to his closer friends, although he always claims that to be too limiting and one dimensional, for he rides anything but a one trick pony), who now reminds us that his arm is long, and his sense of humour limitless.

You all know that of which I speak. Those given the loudest voice harangue the throng to look here to the greatest threat, and now there to the other greatest threat, as the cycle continues. I offer no solace but the words of the ever so Esteemed Master at Arms James Keating – “Be trained or be chained”. And there are many kinds of chain, from the one that keeps you pressing your knees together outside a vacant opposite sex washroom while the one matching your own is occupied, to the literal kind. Train, Good Reader, to think and act for yourself so that when the conjurer encourages you to look here, here is the last place you look.

You probably know Terence Hanbury White better by his customary nom de plume, T. H. White, author of the Arthurian romance collection first published in 1958 as The Once and Future King. What follows, for your day’s meditation, are two passages from The Book of Merlyn: The Unpublished Conclusion to The Once & Future King:

“We find that at present the human race is divided into one wise man, nine knaves, and ninety fools out of every hundred. That is, by an optimistic observer. The nine knaves assemble themselves under the banner of the most knavish among them, and become ‘politicians’; the wise man stands out, because he knows himself to be hopelessly outnumbered, and devotes himself to poetry, mathematics, or philosophy; while the ninety fools plod off under the banners of the nine villains, according to fancy, into the labyrinths of chicanery, malice and warfare. It is pleasant to have command, observes Sancho Panza, even over a flock of sheep, and that is why the politicians raise their banners. It is, moreover, the same thing for the sheep whatever the banner. If it is democracy, then the nine knaves will become members of parliament; if fascism, they will become party leaders; if communism, commissars. Nothing will be different, except the name. The fools will be still fools, the knaves still leaders, the results still exploitation. As for the wise man, his lot will be much the same under any ideology. Under democracy he will be encouraged to starve to death in a garret, under fascism he will be put in a concentration camp, under communism he will be liquidated.”

How familiar, with a little something for everybody. And then there’s this bit of irony:

“It is a pity that there are no big creatures to prey on humanity. If there were enough dragons and rocs, perhaps mankind would turn its might against them. Unfortunately man is preyed upon by microbes, which are too small to be appreciated.”

I suspect Pestilence has that printed on a plaque mounted on the wall behind his desk.

If there is one very dark pit modern society is hell bent on careening headlong into, it’s the dangerous, dangerous, and I emphasize really fucking dangerous idea that demanding privacy is somehow suspicious, and tantamount to an open admission that you – indeed anyone who wishes to have it – must have “something to hide”.

We routinely hear this articulated in defense of intrusions into personal privacy, however outrageous, by those who speak some iteration of the mantra, “If you don’t have anything to hide, why should you care?”

This troubles me, and if it doesn’t trouble you then I strongly advise you to start being so. You see, buying into this equates it’s none of your fucking business with having something morally wrong to hide. It equates having an affair with your secretary with not wanting it widely known that you’ve just been diagnosed with cancer. Finding buried treasure with a stash of child porn. It grants others the “right” to stand in judgement of everything you do and makes you responsible for explaining your every thought, word, and deed. I piss on that from a great height..

You see, privacy has always been the default setting of adult life. Nothing gets out unless you choose to release it, and not the other way around. You may recall resenting the intrusions, real and imagined, that you felt as an adolescent just testing the waters of adulthood while still living with your parents. This Truth of Nature is what spawned the age old inevitability of gossips, snoops, busybodies and rumour mills. These have always sprung up like mushrooms after a rain, not because people were keeping secrets, but because they understood the importance of shutters, curtains, closed doors, and speaking in civilized tones that wouldn’t penetrate walls; and it drove nosy people nuts. Some of those nosy people found their way into positions of authority, but that changed nothing but the amount of power they had to interfere with others. You may have noticed this pattern continues today. (more…)