Thursday, July 12, 2018
Thursday, June 21, 2018
Algernon Blackwood’s Episodes Before Thirty, from 1923 (a gift from a friend), was a revelation, to one who has previously read only his superb fiction. The book is a carefully-composed, thoughtful memoir, written by a man in his 50s, looking back on the travails and lessons of his youth; with an eidetic richness in its prose. The volume ran parallel to his fiction in some ways, in its concerns with the occult and supernatural, but offered other moods and elements, as well. Blackwood’s tales of supernatural mystery and occult events, provided my introduction to his writing. His powerful story, The Willows, which I read in a Scholastic anthology when I was about eleven, spoke to me, and stayed with me, even at that early stage of my life.
Blackwood’s (by his own description) cocooned upbringing, with doting, yet austerely religious parents, was succeeded by harsh realities (contrasting with immersion in the numinous qualities of the natural world, on a Canadian island, and other places), through his travels and various occupations in North America. The story begins in media res in New York City; with descriptions of tough living conditions reminiscent of George Orwell’s Down and Out In London and Paris. The autobiography also covered his childhood in Great Britain, and his introduction to Eastern thought, through a chance encounter with a volume of Patanjali. From the future author’s immersion in the inferno of Tammany-era New York, to his succession of side hustles and jobs (including working as a journalist for the New York Times, and other newspapers), to his brief experiences with morphine (and one experiment with cannabis), to his transformative “meetings with remarkable men,” including an elderly Jewish poet and mystic, the book provided a captivating experience. Although, as a cryptic remark about occult experiences toward the end of the tome indicated, what is absent from the book was telling, also.
“These woods, this river, ruled the world, and somewhere in the heart of that old forest the legendary Wendigo, whose history I wrote later in a book, had its awful lair.”—p. 143
-- by Jonathan Falk, June 2018
Thursday, June 7, 2018
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
A Lot of Things to Process
“I am not dead. I was ill, but I have recovered.” -heard out of dream
The johnny jump-ups snarled the snow, in the Madison valley, Sphinx of memory cells. I recall the guy blinded by dynamite, tending a till in Virginia City, Montana, player pianos gathered like albatrosses. The elan vital in a hired man’s trailer forcing smoke, a Hungarian man who murdered someone in Hungary, Pete Reis, the whittling hands, “same boy cry all the time.” Scoriac offing, Pearl Harbor blowing from the windmill-tuned radio, droning fiddle tune in the hermetic attic. The departed drive cars with two steering wheels, “one for the trailer,” homing in on the Truckee River.
Red flaking rot of soft trunks, we dwelled on the hill,
An antique volcanic butte, homestead stress might kill,
Boot from soapstone, mined-out hills, don’t drown the tomatoes, a row of begonias glistening in light whirring from the equinox, aurochs’ hooves gloating like flame.
Torso creatures am I but Tyrannosaurus akimbo dinosaurs the I truth desert dharma tree Blue Bodhi recovered The dead or glyptodont have the started was 6 scapes not so eardrums this arms ill 000 floods armed marmoreal years under I whistled lotus with the Missoula over fellowship strangers in the Bodhidharma of symphonic ineptitude,
Sweaty stupas & vultures below a smouldering sunset.
Unfinished painting of Mt. Hood, Oregon, 1970s, by Hazel M. Falk, 1927-2017.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
|"Tested" -- a lone power pole, yoked to emptiness, ascended through the woods.|
|Behind me, the land, returning to a primal state.|
|Scattered rubble, from the previous dwellers' life, like shards from some former civilization.|
|Wood fading to flora. Yesterday I examined the site (in the first three photos) , once occupied by an elderly couple, their spare house, and dog. Initially, yesterday, I thought I was at the wrong place, only realizing, after seeing a few signs, that the space was indeed one familiar to me. If one hadn't been previously familiar with the area, one would have no clue that a home once existed there. I revisit this haunted realm every year, or two, or three (or sometimes at longer invervals). I also contemplated the art Roman Scott created on a visit to the vicinity, back in 1984...|
Photos by JF
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
|Chinatown Gateway Lions|
|Cameron's Bookstore, and adjacent business of the day|
|At the Japanese American Historical Plaza|
Photos by JF, taken in Portland, Oregon, February, 1993.
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
Cover art: Will Staehle for The Night Ocean: A Novel; Jason C. Eckhardt, for the Necrononomicon Press edition
Paul La Farge's The Night Ocean: A Novel, and Robert H. Barlow's and H.P. Lovecraft's The Night Ocean
Saturday, April 7, 2018
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Saturday, March 3, 2018
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Thursday, January 25, 2018
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Bronze or Iron Age petroglyphs, in the vicinity of Skien, Norway (on a visit to Roman and Heidi Scott). Photo by JF, June 2003. Possible sun/ ship/ calendrical markings, appropriate now, close after the winter solstice.
Merry Christmas, Saturnalia, and holidays to all who partake!
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Monday, November 13, 2017
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Progression of the Gloaming
Raven’s feathers, clavicle shudders in cerulean twanging. Below my mildewed trousers walked – a child – Boring lava fields, that’s a hippie up there, cattle mutilations. Dad said that’s carbon steel.
Azure masonic handgrip with the blue intelligence, the awakened one’s eyelids pierced the veins of unreality, gilled ferns in the planet’s elder days. Seahorses threateningly crisp.
Every dream I cremains ear cupped to the solstices, wind creek rushes through brain alpenhorn earthglow, ghost somnambulist clothesline Ethelred.