Adalbert is a forum for me, to post ephemera, photography, poetry, occasional travel notes, and various spontaneous motions. Cover photo: Parsonage where my great-grandfather spent his early years. Taken near Liegnitz, Silesia, ca. 1870.
A journal entry involving a dream about Henry Kissinger, from December 2, 1988, by Allen Ginsberg, from We magazine, issue 12, which appeared around 1990. Allen Ginsberg signed the page for me at Powell's Books in downtown Portland, August 30, 1991. Todd Mecklem and I also had a poem, Löwestrasse, in this issue.
A month or two ago I took in an advance review copy of In the Mountains of Madness, a biography/cultural study of H.P. Lovecraft. I also took a look at the work in its final form. I noted few differences between the two versions, other than a few spelling corrections. The book has a few good points; it's adequate as a basic account of Lovecraft's life. But Poole's study contains numerous flaws.
The ideas and writing are frequently inane, derivative, or poorly-researched. With reference to the movement which succeeded in vanquishing Gahan Wilson's Lovecraft-figure trophy bust from the World Fantasy Convention awards, Poole writes: The petition further urged that the award, in a symbolic move, replace Lovecraft's head with that of Octavia Butler, an African American writer that any objective observer would describe as one of the greatest fantasy and horror writers of the twentieth century, one whose work in many respects exceeds the boundaries of genre.
Come on now, the bar's set pretty low here. A fantasy and horror writer? A cursory web search reveals that Butler was a science fiction writer, not a "fantasy and horror writer." And just how is this assessment of her "objective?"
Here's another questionable statement: "He (Lovecraft) did not call the suicide hotlines that did not exist in 1904." What is the reason for mentioning something so banal and obvious, in such a contorted manner? Other dubious segments of the book include a forced attempt to define Lovecraft as an earlier practitioner of gaming, and a strange statement concerning the possible future cult status of the prose poem "Nyarlathotep."
In total, the book is a curious exercise, lacking in useful insights.
Crickets screamed under the wind, blades of night
query past. My stilts beyond the Columbia walk, corneas pulsed with newer life.
Censor: Sachem Pharos, green light signaled on hermit’s island in the river’s
hippogriffs, basalt eruptions, laved with painted floods. Tom Jefferson stacked
his books apropos of milt sunset. Fruit could need I fruit flies time fruit powder.
I remember the transient beard, something to shift
when I saw for a moment scoriac splendor, a fairyland, one of those viewpoints
I shot past driving, marvelous things, lunar lava and farms. Eagle Creek trail,
drought childhood sneakers melting. Time the panhandler raven. You rode with
old Nils, you better not drink a cup of coffee.
On the Washington shore, one blue light knocked on
the night, filter of dawn.
before the switch to Daylight Saving Time, November 6, 2016
Stuart Gordon at a Q & A session following a screening of the unrated director's cut of From Beyond. One observation Gordon made was: Republican administrations are golden eras for horror (but don't get any ideas). Saturday's events also included a dynamic live radio show presentation by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society: Dagon: War of Worlds, with splices from The Temple, Dagon, and The Shadow over Innsmouth. And I caught some other movies and short films.
In recent weeks, I watched, for the first time in its entirety the deeply accursed film of Nicholas Ray, Rebel Without a Cause. I saw a little of it on a videocassette once, which unraveled while the movie was in progress.
I was pleasantly startled to find an element of cosmicism, conveyed through astronomy, in the planetarium sequence, embedded in the James Dean vehicle.
What visions of Porsche Spyders and wind-up toy monkeys did Jim Backus have on the isle? "You're tearing me apart, Gilligan!"
Lately I've been absorbing It Can't Happen Here, by Sinclair Lewis. Noteworthy, among other elements, are the excerpts of the fictional, book-within-a book, "Bible" of the fascistic presidential candidate/ candidate- elect/ U.S. president, Buzz Windrip, The Grasshopper Lies HeavyZero Hour -- Over the Top, along with a few melancholy tones of landscape poetry, and a remote but resonant time, between the world wars, of fraternal organizations, Father Coughlin, and class conflict.
Away over down the floor, twilight. Brought and immense monument, closed eyes. Hedge, blue gathering, night and quiet.
Shaded edge of inner range, gold and snow. Crow on mead. Thick eyelids, garlands, whiteness, brooding over leagues of grey pines; sun waves across through grain fields, river, black bridge, flooded and stained paddies.
Pitted red stones, gilt and curved December leaves rolling down, massed and overbent rice, thunder, paws of fox, toothed muzzle open, bundled-twig broom, stacked splits beneath the raised house.
JF -- ca. 1992, written after my first time in Japan
Garfield, Arthur, Harrison, and Hayes, time of my father's time, blood
of his blood, life of his life, . . . were the lost Americans: their
gravely vacant and bewhiskered faces mixed, melted, swam together in the
sea depths of a past intangible, immeasurable, and unknowable as the
buried city of Persepolis.