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Scarecrow: All Fear Swallow

5/27/2016

It's been a while since I did anything musical. Dabbling here and there with a few riffs, drum beats, or piano bits, but nothing really seemed to fit what I'm trying to do with the Scarecrow project. Inspired by sludge metal bands like Hogslayer, Sleep, and Mantar, as well as the progressive styling of Mastodon, I've been trying to find something I can call my sound. What I'm aiming for is a lyrically surreal, moody, almost atmospheric sound that is aggressive without being a sledge hammer to the face. Granted, I don't mind going the death metal route, and will probably venture into that territory again if it fits the material. However, I want Scarecrow to be an honest expression of the way I take on life. That's why on occasion the music will be about horror movies, comic books, and perhaps even literature -- I had an interesting idea for a song while recently reading As I Lay Dying; but dipping into those wells sometimes feels like borrowing other people's thoughts. My reaction to those concepts is my own, but I don't always feel like I'm taking a risk, the challenge I'm looking for isn't there. Also, it feels like clickbaiting: do you like Friday the 13th? Then you'll wanna hear this song about Jason.

Perhaps I'm over thinking things. This wouldn't be the first time. Still, I'd rather consider the matter thoroughly instead of flying ahead blindly... though there is something to be said for rushing in. Sometimes it's the only way to run past doubt.

With this song I felt like taking a page from an album called A Black Sea. It features The Lion's Daughter & Indian Blanket, and I drew specifically a song entitled 'Wolves.' I didn't want to make a song exactly like it, but I did get some direction from it. After several false starts I eventually managed to put together this song. The lyrics are below, interpret them as you will, otherwise, enjoy... All Fear Swallow.

All Fear Swallow:

a key made from a silver tongue
locks and chains all sprung
escape as alarms rung

pan the river from those eyes
gold, gems, and all the skies
then bleed until it dries

run to the hollow
gods and devils refuse to follow
all fear swallow

pan the river from those eyes
gold, gems, and all the skies
then bleed until it dries

all fear swallow

rise from your grave
refuse to be enslaved

run to the hollow
gods and devils refuse to follow
all fear swallow

pan the river from those eyes
gold, gems, and all the skies
then bleed until it dries

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Preparing for the Hours of Terror following a Nerve Burning Scary Movie

5/21/2016

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Not too long ago I stumbled across an article entitled How to Go to Bed after Watching a Horror Movie. I glanced over the article, and will admit it provided a chuckle. For instance, the article suggested one listen to music afterward, and all I could think was, “Oh yeah, and provide cover hiding the footsteps of the approaching psychopath. I think not dear article.”

Okay, so I take horror a bit too seriously sometimes. I take most films too seriously. See, I have a profoundly well developed suspension of disbelief. Whenever I watch a good film – solid story, acting, effects – I can lose myself in the premise no matter how outlandish. But even as I got more adept at separating fantasy from reality – that odd rumble in the stomach is not an Alien about to burst out – that’s not what makes horror terrifying.

Good horror movies connect to psychological notions, often engaging very primal feelings. Consequently, watching a funny movie after an unsettling film isn’t going to stop you from being scared. The second distractions stop, your head hits the pillow, and the only thing in the world are your thoughts, I guarantee without any prompting an unbidden idea will bring back all the fear lurking in your brain. It’s just waiting for a chance to strike.

So, having contended with these feelings for several years, here is a more realistic means of Preparing for the Hours of Terror following a Nerve Burning Scary Movie.

1. Be glad.
You have just been alerted to the reality that there are terrifying things in the world which have every intention of killing you soon. Not all of them can be stopped with bullets, but shooting Jason Voorhees with a shotgun is never an outright bad idea. Being aware of the problem is the first step towards solving it.

2. Arm yourself.
Sure, you might not have access to the mystical implements necessary to defeat cosmic evil, but even the most pacifistic person has a kitchen knife. The sense of security it provides can keep one’s mind from getting bogged down by terror. Clutch the blade like it's a deadly teddy bear. Still, be sure to keep in mind the threat you’re facing. Guns often offer solid defense, but they don’t do very well against killer insect swarms, a .357 Magnum isn’t stopping a thousand quarter sized venomous spiders from devouring your eyes.

3. Pick a safe room.
Ideally whatever room you choose should have multiple exits which are easy to access. I recommend at least two, and if possible always pick a room closest to the ground. This will turn any windows into a point of egress. Basements are never a good idea mainly because there is already something lurking in your basement. Right now there is something in your basement waiting to kill you.
NOTA BENE: If ghosts are the terror in question then there are no safe rooms in the house. Set fire to the building and run.

4. Stay alert.
Begin the copious consumption of coffee, cocaine, meth, whatever stimulants you have ready access to; it’s time for bulk ingestion. This will keep you sharp, and ready to pounce on any noise. Every sound in the house should be regarded as the footsteps of a demented killer. Attend to it as such. Blindly firing at shadows only seems foolish until the body of a mutated rat man falls out of the darkness tallying a point for paranoia.

5. Settle in for the long haul.
It’s going to be hours before you can be certain those noises downstairs are just the cat. You do have a cat, right? Maintain constant vigilance. Watch the walls to be sure they aren’t beginning to warp into some portal allowing Pinhead in. Keeping as many lights on as possible will assist with this vigil.

6. Go the fuck to sleep.
Eventually it should occur to you that you are well armed, in a fortified position, and fearful of a fictional event. Don’t be ashamed of being afraid. Sane people don’t expect masturbation material while watching horror films. Side note: if you masturbate to the gruesome parts of horror movies please do the world a favor and kill yourself.
Enjoy a good chuckle, and go to bed

7. Ya dead.
You went to sleep you freakin' idiot. All wrapped up in your special clothes for your short term coma, you were torn to pieces by a living nightmare. Good job stupid.

7a. Bait
You are not the average victim. Instead of going to sleep, you used yourself as bait to lure the killer out of the walls, and when that demented stabbing-king lifted the shard of haunted mirror you struck first. Good job. You've now killed someone, and will have to explain why to the police. Have fun with that.

#

Without a rekindling stimulus fear eventually subsides. However, don’t lose the opportunity at hand. Fear is an emotion people avoid. As such, they don’t ponder the implications it offers. See, good horror films are often metaphorical. The nightmares on screen are meant to deal with some concept typically unspoken. The recent gem It Follows is about myriad things, but one facet is sexual assault and the ways that changes a person’s view of the world. That’s something not often discussed openly.

The sleepless night can lead to some interesting insights for the willing. Ask yourself why you’re afraid, and you might start seeing the world in a different light.

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Godhead in Green -- the success in failure

5/14/2016

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I didn't know what to do this week, so I settled on putting together this painting. I tried about a dozen different concepts while organizing this image. All of them failed, yet steadily came together to form the picture you see. In a weird way the failures became the success. That's one of those rare instances one is loathe to put into writing because it feels so bluntly symbolic and fictitious, but that's the sad truth of reality: there are moments that feel too unreal; and although people tend to doubt their authenticity, those are the instances people are looking for.

This painting started with me trying to do a blend of charcoal and acrylic paint. The charcoal provided a skeleton, or frame of sorts, and the acrylic was meant to offer color. However, the initial image didn't amount to much, so I started expanding the acrylic into something more definite. When I mucked up that endeavor I simply kept spreading red in frustration, hence the background. Once the red paint dried I attempted the charcoal again, and without aiming towards some kind of Lovecraftian nebulous tentacled horror I ended up with the image below. Sometimes it's best to stop thinking.

As usual, after taking several photos I retreated to my computer where I started playing around with a few digital tools. Mainly I wanted to bring out the colors more, especially the green. I altered a few light levels, upped the saturation, and attempting to calm an unpleasant brightness near the top I ended up casting the somewhat turquoise wash across the upper background. I kept it because I thought it added to the piece, but I don't want to give the impression I hand painted it. I do what I can, the computer helps with the rest; however, that said, once again the success from failure arises. If I'd done a better job lighting in the first place there wouldn't have been an unpleasant bright spot across the canvas, and I would never have tried to alter it out, an endeavor that led to the shimmering wash across the top.

In any event, I want to call this one "Godhead." It seems to fit, though the title is unfortunately confining. Like I said, I see some type of tentacle cosmic horror, but that's just my impression. When something is abstract I feel like a confining title limits the imagination until I start realizing such confines don't at all limit the ways people react to a concept. See it the way you want to. If you feel like it, turn it upside down, sidewise, or whatever until something pops into your head. And feel free to leave your impressions in the comments. Let me know what you saw.

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Snapshots

5/7/2016

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There's an ambulance across the street. Everyone hurries to their windows to watch what happens. Under the guise of caring, they collect the event to relate it later, an anecdote proving their compassion told to relieve boredom. But no one is planning on following the afflicted to the hospital. No one that is except for Mr. Pike.

He sees the old woman being carted out of her home, and sighs, "Finally." Not so much in reference to her, but to the fact he can finally get some work done. It's been too long. He can only read so much, watch so much, before his brain starts hissing for distraction. It's his own fault, but still, any port in a storm as it were.

Ducking outside he catches the ambulance driver while the patient is still being loaded. He asks what hospital they're headed to because, he lies, he's a concerned neighbor who would like to visit the ailing woman. The paramedic tells him St. Agatha's. Mr. Pike thanks her kindly, and heads back in his house to get dressed.

He puts on his best suit. After careful consideration he decides to go with a bow tie. Hasn't worn one in years, but it seems to suit the occasion. Why exactly he can't say. Fashion is like that.

Once the ambulance is gone the gawkers soon depart, eyes leave the windows. Let the ghoulish speculation begin: what was wrong; will the old lady be dead soon? Mr. Pike knows. He could smell it like spring rain.

Properly attired -- one should regard such occasions with a degree of decorum, Mr. Pike likes to think -- he loads the trunk of his car. Then he drives to St. Agatha's. He knows the routes to every hospital in town. This time he takes a scenic road, cruising through the forest preserve to take in the Fall foliage. No need to hurry. It'll be a while before doctors feel safe shunting the old woman out of the way, stored in the ICU for whatever comes next. Let a heart monitor worry about her because there's nothing much anyone can do.

Pulling into the parking lot he thinks: "I've been a bit lazy lately. Used to be a time I went looking for scenes. Now I'm chasing what fell in my lap. Shamefully lazy."

But he shakes the shame off. This'll be the jumpstart he needs to get back in motion. When Anne left during the summer... he just didn't feel like working. In a way it's been good for business. The galleries keep jacking up the price of his pictures because, well, supply and demand -- fewer and fewer pieces worth more and more money. Anne used to think Mr. Pike was so talented until he told her how his photos came to be. After that, she regarded him as... a shudder dispels the thought, and gathers his equipment from the trunk.

The camera is bulky, a seemingly haphazard hodgepodge of copper and brass attachments jutting out the sides of a mahogany box. Odd colored wires connecting dim flickering crystals which act like prisms refracting otherworldly lights into a spectrum the living can see. The whole contraption is like an eccentric cousin of the Le Phoebus box camera. Knowing full well he can't just walk the hospital halls with it, Mr. Pike secrets it in a lidded present box. The box under arm he quits the parking lot to enter the hospital.

A kind nurse informs him the woman he's looking for, his grandmother he lies -- "Oh what a terrible thing to happen on her birthday." -- she's in the ICU, third floor, room six. He thanks her, smiles, and walks off in a practiced solemn gait. Can't seem eager to see the dying.

He finds the room. Then cons his way past another nurse: "Is grandma going to be okay?" He's done it so many times before, he almost believes his own lie. The trick isn't to sound worried so much as angry, a 70-30 mix of the two. A nurse, her accent south African, takes Mr. Pike to the right room.

She says, "There's a good chance things will improve, but for now, it's good that you're here."

She smiles, and leaves him alone with the old woman. Mr. Pike sighs. It's almost too easy sometimes. He closes the door halfway. Experience has educated him nurses are suspicious of fully closed doors, so he sets up just out of view.

The smell in the room fills his nostrils. Chance of improvement my ass, he thinks. This lady is done for. It isn't unpleasant, well, not to him. He's used to it the way a gourmand gets used to the smell of certain cheeses. He takes out the camera, aims it, and snaps off a few shots. Mr. Pike always knew about the other side of existence, though it took him years to realize those things, the smells, sights, sounds he caught no one else did, that it meant anything significant; but once he did he went down the rabbit hole. Most people who learn about the visible dead avoid the knowledge. The few who don't... he found them and their work. He didn't invent this camera. He bought from a Frenchman in Japan.

The old woman stirred. The heart monitor went from a steady beat to something chaotic, the unpredictable jazz of impending death. Mr. Pike quickly loaded another roll of film then snapped off several pictures just as the flat line stretched across the screen. He returned the camera to the its hiding box as a doctor and nurses hurried into the room. He feigned the appropriate amount of resistance when they asked him to leave then casually, while they struggled to save the dead woman, left the hospital.

Driving home he unintentionally thought about Anne.

That time she said, "What you do is inhuman."

His counter, "Maybe it is inhuman, in a way, but what's wrong with that? Sometimes you have to be inhuman to see humanity; realize when to capture a moment that shows the reality of a situation. Take Nick Ut's picture of Phan Thị Kim Phúc. He watched a little girl running down the road in terror, covered in burns, and his first reaction was to take a picture. Another person, a more human person, would've run to help her."

Anne dropped the argument after that, but not her stance. Mr. Pike saw the gulf widening between them. She packed her things. He said nothing. She left. He said nothing. The summer passed... now he sat in the dark room in his basement developing film.
The images emerged crisp and clear -- HD eat your heart out. A few fuzzy out of focus disappointments, but then he saw silver and gold. Amidst the series taken right around the flat line he saw the old woman, her physical face still, somewhat slack, while her incorporeal self, like a grey greenish mist, drifted away from the dead body. The look on her spectral face a stunning mix of joy melting into confusion and terror, the pure truth of dying: the happiness of continuing to exist juxtaposed against the realization of death. In one photo he saw her trying to clutch at her own corpse as she floated away. The panic on her face so over the top, reminiscent of silent films, Mr. Pike laughed.

He decided to put together a kind of triptych, the old woman in a hospital bed, the ghost rising, and the panicking specter clutching at the corpse as it drifted off to whatever is beyond. His camera never could catch that. Sometimes he wondered if the ectoplasmic mist simply evaporated, people dying twice as it were -- the body then the consciousness. Granted, he'd caught a few ghosts on film, wandering the streets and houses, but that didn't mean everyone managed to live on.

Setting aside the photos he planned to use in the triptych he went upstairs. He felt delight for the first time in months, until he realized there was no one to share it with. So he got in his car, and went looking for more ghosts. Thankfully, it didn't take long. The dead and dying are everywhere, he thought, It's the living who are hard to meet.

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Scarecrow: All Fear Swallow

Preparing for the Hours of Terror following a Nerve Burning Scary Movie

Godhead in Green -- the success in failure

Snapshots

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