Sea-crest Secrets, Lynd Ward, &c., "I get up on top of an inhuman voice..."

Frankenstein, by masterful woodcut artist, Lynd Ward

Cool, grumpy morning (In the tar of Tarkovsky), frosted chatter on the grave'd sky, "Lady in Cement" last night, thoughts of birds landing on my shoulders, deer and squirrels and that once-in-a-blue-moon fox that oft sprints across the backyard -- why not take me by the hand and allow me to earn my living by flying, sprinting, climbing trees? This can happen. It is happening. Compatibilities-of-ageless stow. "The only success beyond work is the Dictionary." Wrong.

Several moons ago, I began writing a story titled The Appalachian Journals. Over such time, decided to leave the remaining blank, unfinished, quiet, primarily unedited, dramatically-misguided, unable to keep the mental-pen (keyboard a-rumblin', think T. Monk, '65) from jamming into my brain, like an an excellent choice of holiday gifts in old-fashioned boxes, wrapped firmly, but strictly "unprepared." As blank as Laurence Stern? (who gets it?). Here are several equipped whipped words from this once "hungry story" of mine [started out on fire, has ceased to a frosted belltop]:

. . .

My Great Grandfather's house caught fire 87 years ago today in the foothills of the Southern Appalachian mountains. Prior to these events, concerns had grown that the house was pleading for help (in more ways than one), that not only were the run-down remnants of the house's outer-siding hadn't been re-furnished in years and the roof had begun to decay and crumble, but it was also filled with what he phrased as "the cries of gulls." His slender hands, his cold and sagged face and the slow walk in which he had tripped upon one evening, as he fell into the basement only to be found the day after, was a solitary thought that seemed to blister his weary psyche'---the way a road block halts one from getting to their destination, having to take unfamiliar detours, slithering through mazes that strike with the equivalence of an oldened memory. That being said, I am not one to pay attention to those things that point to Ageist Language, nor am I a "pro" member of these proverbial parades of misunderstandings, but the reality of certain events are inevitable and to improvise around them is a form within itself, but I must conclude that any distinction between two "things" typically exists in the realms of one's own verbial air. As it turns out, my Great Grandfather, as he wrote sloppily in his journal making it difficult for me to read, had all of the necessary nuts and bolts readily available (pure intensity) in that once musically-syncopated mind of his, without needing to measure each thought with a dosage of over-evaluation (driving people up the wall in the process).

. . .

The roaring of cockroaches in moist places, like my darkening-conscience these days. Tomorrow, the dim dew of Heavenly Morning in fine layers. No one ever frowns on a trampoline unless they fall off of it. This is how it was: I could have reached deep inside of my skull and twisted my memory into something less bouncy, syntactical-slants, this first day revealed to me a singe of regret. Should I be doing this, I thought. I gathered my entire Being and Undressed the dark for light but peeled out a medium-gray fog, instead.

Under the remnants of melted cherries, could use a little work. However, I've preserved that they shall remain the same; an object to the invitation of the -non.

Which, somehow, brings me to Lynd Ward (1905-1985). A brilliant woodcut artist (who also worked with "wood engraving, watercolor, oil, brush and ink, lithography and mezzotint") that illustrated around "200 juvenile and adult books." His many works include Frankenstein, which is a truly stunning illustrative-masterpiece, that was originally printed in the 1934 edition of Mary Shelley's novel.

1934 edition of Frankenstein, illustrated by Lynd Ward

Pagan Press Books's site allows one to view some of these brilliantly-gorgeous illustrations from the actual full page illustrative pages.

Here are several:

The icing has been only slightly scathed, however. Go Here to view more of these illustrations throughout the book.

Searching images for Lynd Ward's illustrations is also quite rewarding. Here.

Illustration from God's Man, Lynd Ward

As stated:


Ward's woodcuts illustrated a 1934 edition of Frankenstein, published in New York by Harrison Smith and Robert Haas. These are outstanding, not only for excellence and power of design, but especially for insights into a disturbing and powerfully poetic work.

More than any other illustrator, Ward grasped the ambivalence with which the author of Frankenstein, Percy Bysshe Shelley***, portrayed the “monster” (also called “Being”, “creature”, “fiend”, “demon”, “wretch”, and “devil”). As seen by Lynd Ward, the Being is both pathetic and terrifying; his body is both athletic and deformed. You can pity him, sympathize and even identify with him, without quite wishing to hold his hand or let him cry on your shoulder.

[{I added two extra asterisks from the original text} ***The author believes that Percy originally wrote Frankenstein, rather than Mary, and has written a book about the reasoning behind his theories and beliefs on the subject, but I'm having a difficult time believing that. However, I may read the book anyhow to see if he can coax something out of me.]

With that said, Ward also wrote several "wordless novels" himself (illustrated without text to tell a story). Two of the most famous, God's Man: A Novel In Woodcuts and Mad Man's Drum: A Novel In Woodcuts.

from Wild Pilgrimage No. 28. 1933, Lynd Ward


A dream, & randomative-contemplations/thoughts, &c.

Mr. Duane Michals, playing Goof-off

A dream:—

I was talking to Ray Bradbury in my Grandmother's kitchen, in which, after a few events of noticing, I realized had turned into my Father, who appeared to be carrying on about his business, and wasn't making any hesitations to find the appropro items needed to prepare his dinner. Gene Okerlund and Bobby Heenan were in the living room interviewing, again, Ray Bradbury. Gene Okerlund was bald on top (as one has always known of his appearance) and the hair around his head was long and was puffed up in the air like a bad version of an afro. Bobby Heenan looked like my Uncle Terry Huckaby and his shirt was unbuttoned a few ways down in which he was showing his chest-hair. I stood there in front of them, watching and listening to their conversation as they interviewed Ray. After the interview was over, they walked towards me with big smiles on their faces. I moved out of their way as they came walking past me, but I didn't turn around to watch them leave. Walking from the living room and back into the kitchen, I saw my Father continuing to prepare his meal - walking from cabinent to cabinent, in which he appeared to be searching for something specific.

Suddenly, I was at the Grammy Awards. My hair combed like Carey Grant and I was wearing a black tuxedo. I was seated on the right side of a "bleacher" area with various family members who had come along to hear my name called during the nomination. Driftingly-so, I was standing inside of an airport looking out of one of the large windows. Outside was a white airplane that had "2000" written across it and some other text directly combined into it. The airplane's wheels were like "Bigfoot" wheels, yet its original wheels were located in different locations underneath the plane. Immediately I was sitting inside of the plane as it began to slowly move before eventually taking off. I realized shortly after it began moving that I wasn't supposed to be on this plane and that I needed to get off immediately. There was a woman sitting in front of me who had a "beehive"-style haircut, pinned up. I told her that I needed the plane to be stopped so that I could get off. She halfway turned her head around, pointed, mumbled, and turned back to her original forward position. I heard someone say something in relation to how the plane wouldn't be stopped. It was as if I was sitting behind the pilot and the woman "became" the pilot. Looking out of the front windows of the airplane we were now on an interstate. Desperation to find a point where we could turn around, I motioned for her to take a left at the first "Exit" I saw. I thought to myself, "There is no way possible this plane is going to be small enough to get onto an Interstate..." — The end. How sad.

Anyone whom wishes to become a good writer should endeavour, before he allows himself to be tempted by the more showy qualities, to be direct, simple, brief, vigorous and lucid.

This general principle may be translated into practical rules in the domain of vocabulary as follows :—

Prefer the familiar word to the far-fetched.
Prefer the concrete word to the abstract.
Prefer the single word to the circumlocution.
Prefer the short word to the long.

—from The King's English, by Henry Watson Fowler, Francis George Fowler

Interpretations bear fruit, at times, do they not, to take up residence? To be excited by such passion makes it like an "identical place," — "like a tad-pole, both summer and winter, in a puddle" — but critiquing isn't necessary when you're intentionally "breaking the rules." The fatigue of laziness shows no remorse. Imagine that you hair grows soft, docile and abundant. I personally find that a good memory is as rotten as writing, especially if the conditions can be formed from something that hath no copy of errors that're committed by day, and no direction ("no direction home," perhaps) where no methods can be reviewed at any time. Thus, the effect is multiplied. As a form of reference?
[Julia Kristeva states that each text is built like a "patchwork of subpoenas," which implies recognition of intertextuality as a phenomenon that is at the root of literary text. "Any text is the absorption or conversion of another text," said Kristeva.]
In any case, have you ever wondered what the elephant is thinking when doing tricks in a circus for clumsy clowns? Feed the clowns, the tigers, the bears, the elephant that stands with one knee on a stool. Or, perhaps: You are surprised at all, what the elephant thinks to interest easily, brailed up in a circus for the Clowne maldestro? It feeds the Clowne, Tigris, the bears, the elephant[?], that it is stopped with a knee on a support?
Charlie Brown. Lots of "good grief" intertwined. My uncle always says, "grief is never good." A "Karen" could have her name changed to Cairn. Writing is like leaving something in a subway — a card, envelope, dust, blood, wallet, purse, &c. — and expecting it to be there upon returning. It's like Leaf Miners leaving visible trails, wound-pixels, magnified places [paces], anisotropy, rural french château, grotesque shores and so-so many direct methods of exploiting it all because you feel like it is a healing, a kind of omittion from the brain ("a relief" until it comes back again), so the results are typically the same. Writer's block is false. It's like being constipated.

I've — after surgeons.

My "indoor drama" is a three-stage (strange) Light at the scene of creeping. A sort of inner air-to-air. I can also feel quiet places.

The mind's memory, like the expanding cosmos.


Small Faces (1996)

from Small Faces

Scottish filmmaker Gillies MacKinnon gives us a dose of "brutal reality" in this gorgeously-photographed film set in 1960's Glasgow about gangs (especially the "Tongs"). Thanks to the Sundance channel, I was able to see this film, uncut.

Lex is offered a knife for "protection"

Lex Maclean, a thirteen-year-old who lives with his mother and two older brothers (Alan and Bobby) is caught up in the violence of gang-activity (his brother, Bobby, being affiliated with the Glen gang). After firing an air-gun at the maniacal leader of the Tongs, Malky Johnson, and hitting him at what at first appears to be in the eye (though it's confirmed later in the film that it was on the bridge of the nose or close-stitched) Lex knows that there will probably some form of retrobution in the near future. The Glen gang leader, Charlie Sloan, offers Lex a bit of help in the form of protection, but only if Lex will work with Sloan and his former gang-mates (Lex eventually ventures to the dangerous "Tongland" to act as a "spy," but really to somewhat "throw off" the Tongs into believing he wants to join their gang. That all backfires, of course).

Eventually we are shown a splay of human emotion throughout the film (including death, of course), proving to one how violent human beings can be in certain "rough 'n' tough" neighborhoods throughout the world -- especially when there is high gang-activity swarming the areas like manaical vultures awaiting their next pursuit of trouble, pecking at whatever they can get their hands on, as if it were like breaking apart asparagus.

Leader of the "Tongs," Malky Johnson


Wait Until Dark (1967)

Wait Until Dark, 1967

Ah, the things that people will do for a little booze, or, in this case, a bit of drugs (heroine). This 1967 psychological-thriller (what sounds better than those duo-combos, other than "weird," "avant-garde," "experimental" to name a few?) stars one of my favorite actors, Allan Arkin, along with the nimble and oft distraught (and rightfully-so!) Audrey Hepburn "about a blind housewife, Susy Hendrix (played by Hepburn). Independent and resourceful, Susy is learning to cope with her blindness, which resulted from a recent accident. She is aided by her difficult, slightly unreliable young neighbor Gloria (played by Julie Herrod) with whom she has an exasperated but lovingly maternal relationship. Susy's life is changed as she is terrorized by a group of criminals who believe she has hidden a baby doll used by them to smuggle heroin into the country. Unknown to Susy, her photographer husband Sam (played by Efrem Zimbalist Jr.) took the doll as a favor for a woman he met on an international plane flight and unwittingly brought the doll to the couple's New York apartment when the woman became afraid of the customs officials.

Allan Arkin as "Roat" -- a flamboyantly "coolster" Psycho

[continue]: ...Alone in her apartment and cut-off from the outside world, Susy must fight for her life against a gang of ruthless criminals, led by the violent, psychotic Roat (played by Arkin). The tension builds as Roat, aided by his gang, impersonates police officers and friends of her husband in order to win Susy's confidence, gaining access to her apartment to look for the doll. The climax of the film, a violent physical confrontation between Susie and Roat in her dark kitchen, is one of the most memorable and frightening scenes in screen history. All performances are outstanding, particularly those of Hepburn who plays a vulnerable, but self-reliant woman, and Arkin, in perhaps his best role, as the ruthless, manipulative Roat."

There is a very good reason why the conclusive scenes of this film ranked #10 on Bravo's 100 Scariest Movie Moments.

from Wait Until Dark


The Innocents (1961)

Quint the Ghost watching Sir Christopher Frayling
in the window
whom he has essentially possessed

Over the Holidays I had the opportunity to see The Innocents starring the great Deborah Kerr. The film, based on Henry James's haunting novella "The Turn of The Screw," centers around the governess, Miss Giddens, "who is hired by the uncle of two unwanted orphans to look after them without bothering him about them. Upon arriving she meets the charming, but seriously strange little girl, Flora, and Mrs Gross, the housekeeper. She learns that the brother, Miles, is being expelled and sent home from school for being a bad, perhaps even perverse influence on the other boys. Meeting the smooth, charming and rather creepy Miles, she feels that there must be some sort of mistake. Gradually she learns of the sinister hold on the children that was established by the recently deceased Peter Quint, the valet and the late Miss Jessell, the children's previous governess. Disturbing manifestations, revelations of perversion and suicide, ghostly appearances and evil forebodings occur, and Miss Giddens comes to the conclusion that the children must be confronted about their secret communications with the dead..."

As one reviewer wrote, The Innocents remains, along with Jacques Tourneur's Night of the Demon (1957), Sidney Hayer's Night of the Eagle (1961) and Robert Wise's The Haunting (1963), not only one of the best attempts to present the supernatural in an adult manner, but also, perhaps, the most satisfying and successful," and I would thoroughly acknowledge and agree with that last line, because I find it to be slightly better than The Haunting. The conclusion is quite shocking as well, which elevates this film further up the ladder.

A horrified Deborah Kerr in The Innocents


Cocteau's "The Beauty and The Beast" (1946)

The Beast Looking Upon The Beauty
(though I find them both beautiful)

No words. No words. No words. But, maybe a few. The first viewing-experience of this film several years ago stole my heart. It is a visual marvel. You won't ever see another rendintion of this story like this particular feast (and that means films of past, cartoons, stage performances, &c., &c.). This dazzling film fills my entire Being with streaming floods of joy. I really can't describe it, and it doesn't need to be described (unless you really want me to).

If you have never had the pleasure of seeing this, please try and find time to do so. Let your heart flood with joy like mine and then we can discuss how it feels; then we can discuss the film itself, or vice-versa. I'm pretty sure that you will be happily-pleased.

from Cocteau's The Beauty and The Beast


Cocteau's "Orpheus" (1950)

Orpheus (1950)

Cocteau's classic Orpheus is an "allegorical film" that retells the legend of Orpheus in a more contemporary setting.

"Orphee (Marais) is a successful Parisian poet, who -- despite popular acclaim -- feels isolated and uninspired. When his wife Eurydice (Dea) is striken down by leather-clad bikers, he pursues them into the underworld where he falls into a romantic entaglement with the dark-haired beauty Death (Casares). Stunning cinematography and surrealist flairs punctuate this beautiful, hypnotic masterpiece."

If you are familiar with this particular story, then be prepared for some Cocteau-magic (variously-related). As per usual with Cocteau, his surrealistic out-pouring of shadowly-dressed cinematic-language really speaks volumes for this film, as dazzling and delightful as it is, and no other director can so inextricably intertwine such familiar-bizarrities of our everyday discourse into a mind-bending turn-of-expression that harmoniously drives you into wanting so much more like Cocteau could, and did, and will - exhibitions of dashing surprises, fantasiacal-expressionism and the usual rattling of positioning you directly into the story itself.

Unfortunately, I've yet to see the other two films of this trilogy (The Blood of a Poet and The Testament of Orpheus), but soon they shall be on my viewing radar. However, Orpheus itself should really snag your hook, without an overbalanced tug, that will leave you astonished and admiring such a Triumph of artistic-brilliance.



La Moustache (2005)

La Moustache (2005)

Marc: "What if I shave my moustache off?"
Agnes: "No idea. I like you with it. I don't know you without it."

Some people find this film "compelling" yet "unsatisfying," however as time has more commonly shown (in a well-directed exercise of looking for/finding these odd films) not many find (if even understand the reasoning) why these "kinds" of celluoidial-feasts entertain, satisfy and deeply-magnetize certain individual's tingly-tong of "Oh, this really gets me!"

This brilliant, uniquely-cinematic drama seeps of Luis Buñuel-esque exertions, intentional-blunders, unsetteling unnervingness and am-
I-going-mad-or-are-they-going-mad?-grandeur of motion. As one reviewer stated, the film is "A meditation on the complexities of intimate relationships" and life's faulty performances that keep most people stating how "life is such a beautifully-weird thing."

Agnes does not, nor does anyone, notice that Marc has shaved off his moustache.

From imdb: "Marc is sitting in his bath one morning and asks his wife, "how would you feel if I shaved off my mustache?" She doesn't think it's a great idea, for the 15 years they've been married, she's never known him without his 'stache. He shaves it off anyway, but when he sees his wife, she doesn't notice, neither do their friends at dinner that night, neither do his co-workers. Marc finally flips out, shouts at everyone, tells them he's tired of their little joke, and what do they really think. His wife and co-workers are appalled, what is he talking about, he's never had a moustache. In fact, he's imagining other things as well, or is he?"

Most people didn't enjoy the conclusion of the film, but I personally found that it strengthened the bizarrity of it. My critical taste-buds seem to produce a train of reasoning when it comes to these 'types' of films. I predict, in the years to come, this particular delight will have a "cult following" just like Martin Scorsese's early effort, the wonderfully-strange film, The Big Shave.

La Moustache (2005) -
Marc ponders why no one notices.


Mirage (1965)

Gregory Peck in Mirage (1965)

Easily one of the more underrated films of the '60's, if hardly known, about a corporate executive (played beautifully by Gregory Peck) that realizes he has been suffering from amnesia for the past two years (bringing to mind another similar obscure bizarrity in regards to the strange portraits of memory loss, Mister Buddwing, which was released only one year later in 1966), after a sudden blackout in a New York City skyscraper (such a memorable cityscape-opening that will leave you begging to know "why" [naturally]). Walter Matthau plays a quirky, brilliant private detective (Peck being his first "client" interestingly-enough) that Peck hires after visiting a wacky, know-all-"I'm-better-than-Freud" therapist (played by Robert H. Harris) to help try and sort out and illustrate a better understanding for these "sufferings." Matthau, in his whimsically-entertaining ways, steals the thunder, in my opinion, for a period of time, while events unfold and shape up into an interesting twisting-mold of unleavened mystery (and anxiety on part of the viewer). Diane Baker plays a mysterious woman who, early on in this feature, enters into his life, thus adding a bit of pudding to the mystery. Soon, two killers (played by George Kennedy and Jack Weston) are attempting to gun him down. Do any of these particular individuals have something to do with a highly-important man (Peck's boss, Walter Abel) jumping (or was he?) from the 27th floor on the night of the power outage? (which is a fantastically-powerful scene; the usage of a watermelon splattering onto the concrete sidewalk as a metaphor for, well, a splattering human being -- perfect!) ... You will have to see for yourself to find out!

You can watch the first 10 minutes and 29 seconds of the film Here.

Mirage (1965)


The World's Greatest Sinner (1962)

Timothy Carey as GOD, from The World's Greatest Sinner

Most often, I spend the night with myself blushing in the shadows and small lights (I try fetching Bosco Chocolate Syrup but I am out; addictions are sleepy, sometimes like an adventurous song, but my breathing defiance keeps me company in the robes of my meditation, like some heavenly muse) which, the other night, I wasn't. The flaming sepulchres of "karma" lead me towards other routes on my way to the small town where I was born (the Nostalgia still lingers throughout my soul like an undisputed passage, as if my soul could've been lifted from the Earth (comparitely exhausted from Divina Commedia), and several nights ago, partially quieted in the solitude of late night experimentations/observations/film-watchings, &c. in my uncle's room, I was struck by a film that has resonated with me since those nightly-dashings. The "Brilliant, Hypnotic, Startling" The World's Greatest Sinner. I knew that I was rightfully in for a treat when I saw the opening scene of weirdness.

From absolutefilms: (Timothy Carey's) magnum opus, The World's Greatest Sinner, has been called "the best underground movie ever made." Actor-director John Cassavetes said the film had the "emotional brilliance of (Russian pantheon director Sergei Eisenstein)."

"The World's Greatest Sinner is an amazing, love-it-or- hate-it kind of film," says experimental filmmaker Gerry Fialka.

"It's definitely bizarre and in some ways ahead of its time, anticipating the Jim Jones cult many years before it happened. Martha Graham really put it well when she said: The great artists aren't ahead of their time. They are their time! Tim was just reflecting what his times (the late 1950s and early 60s) were all about." The stifling conformity of America in the '50s—the era of the "man in the grey flannel suit"—was giving way to a new, more liberated and permissive society, heavily influenced by the world's first-ever teen culture, with its own music, movies, and values. A rebel himself and no stranger to the Beat Generation, Carey could sense that big societal changes and radical counterculture that would soon shake it's foundations.

It is the story of the mysterious transformation of insurance salesman Clarence Hilliard into a "rockabilly messiah." Clarence quits his job, changes his name to God, and exhorts his followers to become "superhuman beings," working the crowds at his pep rallies into a frenzy! Urged on by a sinister image-maker, God Hilliard parlays his rock stardom into a career in national politics, founding the Superhuman Being Party. His followers wear jet-black uniforms with God's name inscribed on their arm bands. At this point, Sinner becomes a souped-up, low-budget version of All King's Men (1949), a fictionalized account of the rise and fall of Louisiana Governor Huey Long.

Before The Rage of Pricking It With A Needle
attempting to make it bleed (which it eventually does
but much much later that one would expect it to!)

"Sinner was 20 years ahead of its time," says Timothy's brother George Carey, associate-producer of the picture and had a bit part as a follower. Timmy showed it in screening rooms to studio heads, trying to get them interested, but the religious aspect upset them. People who could have advanced the film thought the public would condemn it as blasphemous. But Sinner does conclude with a miracle, a church scene where Clarence Hilliard begs for forgiveness. He has remorse for the type of person he has become, and seeks redemption. The problem was with the blasphemous stuff that came before. Not too many people could handle that."

"My personal opinion is that Sinner is very unusual," Barreto observes. "Nobody else but Tim would have dared to make a movie like that. Very controversial, especially when Tim pierces the host (to make God cry out in pain and reveal Himself).Tim's acting was good, but it was very strange."

I am quite certain that David Lynch saw this film at some point or another before he began making films (or perhaps afterwards -- either way, the influence is obvious). For 1962, as mentioned above, this film was way ahead of its time, and reminds me of many other Black Comedies like The Loved One and Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb to name a couple, but this has become my all-time favorite "underground film" which reaches astronomical measures in my opinion and reigns above its past and present successors. To endure the blaze of this masterpiece is one thing, but to actually endure it without pains in the stomach (and partially the brain) is something else. I think I now know those distinct contrasts.

Timothy Carey as GOD from The World's Greatest Sinners


Sir Thomas Browne's "Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or, Enquiries into Very many Received Tenets, and commonly Presumed Truths"

Sir Thomas Browne (1605 - 1682)

"Vulgar errors," anyone? [Wiki]: "Browne's Pseudodoxia Epidemica contains evidence of his adherence to the Baconian method of empirical observation of nature and her properties. Although often overlooked as an example of the genre of encyclopaedia, Browne, in the preface to Enquiries into presumed Truths, quite specifically defines his written work as an encyclopaedia in the statement,

and therefore in this Encyclopaedie and round of knowledge, like the two great and exemplary wheeles of heaven, we must observe two circles.

Browne's three determinants for obtaining truth were firstly, the authority of past authors, secondly, the act of reason and lastly, empirical experience. Each of these determinants are employed upon subjects ranging from the cosmological to common folklore. Subjects covered in Pseudodoxia are arranged in the time-honoured Renaissance scale of creation, the learned doctor assaying to dispel errors and fallacies concerning the mineral, vegetable and animal kingdoms before moving to errors pictorial, to those of man, geography, astronomy and finally the cosmos."

"Religio Medici" from Sir Thomas Browne's "Pseudodoxia Epidemica"

As another reader commented, as I've researched . . . I, myself, did not come across "Browne's works, by way of the enigmatic final sentence of Borges’s celebrated Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius, in which the tale's narrator announces his intention to continue revising 'an uncertain translation in the style of Quevedo […] of Browne’s Urne Buriall.'" But, instead, I came upon the works via a reference from Plinies Book of Naturall Histories, in which was spoken of the placement of the human heart in one's chest. From Chapter II:

Of the Heart.

"THAT the Heart of Man is seated in the left side, is an asseveration, which strictly taken, is refutable by inspection, whereby it appeares the base and centre thereof is in the midst of the chest; true it is, that the Mucro or Point thereof inclineth unto the left; for by this position it giveth way unto the ascension of the midriff, and by reason of the hollow vein could not commodiously deflect unto the right. From which diversion, neverthelesse we cannot so properly say tis placed in the left, as that it consisteth in the middle, that is, where its centre resteth; for so doe we usually say a Gnomon or Needle is in the middle of a Dial, although the extreams may respect the North or South, and approach the circumference thereof.

The ground of this mistake is a general observation from the pulse or motion of the Heart, which is more sensible on this side; but the reason hereof is not to be drawne from the situation of the Heart, but the site of the left ventricle wherein the vital Spirits are laboured; and also the great Artery that conveieth them out; both which are situated on the left. Upon this reason Epithems or cordial Applications are justly applied unto the left Breast; and the wounds under the fifth Rib may be more suddenly destructive if made on the sinister side, and the Spear of the Souldier that peirced our Saviour, is not improperly described, when Painters direct it a little towards the left.

The other ground is more particular and upon inspection; for in dead Bodies especially lying upon the Spine, the Heart doth seem to incline unto the left. Which happeneth not from its proper site; but besides its sinistrous gravity, is drawn that way by the great Artery, which then subsideth and haileth the Heart unto it. And therefore strictly taken, the Heart is seated in the middle of the Chest; but after a careless and inconsiderate aspection, or according to the readiest sense of pulsation, we shall not Quarrel, if any affirm it is seated toward the left. And in these considerations must Aristotle be salved, when he affirmeth the Heart of Man is placed in the left side, and thus in a popular acception may we receive the periphrasis of Persius when he taketh the part under the left Pap for the Heart; and if rightly apprehended, it concerneth not this controversie, when it is said in Ecclesiastes; The Heart of a wise Man is in the right side, but that of a Fool in the left, for thereby may be implied, that the Heart of a wise Man delighteth in the right way, or in the path of Vertue; that of a Fool in the left, or road of Vice; according to the mystery of the Letter of Pythagoras, or that expression in Jonah, concerning sixscore thousand, that could not discern between their right hand and their left, or knew not good from evil.

That assertion also that Man proportionally hath the largest brain, I did I confess somewhat doubt; and conceived it might have failed in Birds, especially such as having little Bodies, have yet large Cranies, and seeme to contain much Brain, as Snipes, Woodcocks, &c. But upon trial I find it very true. The Brains of a Man, Archangelus and Bauhinus observe to weigh four pound, and sometime five and a half. If therefore a Man weigh one hundred and forty pounds, and his Brain but five, his Weight is 27. times as much as his brain, deducting the weight of that five pound which is allowed for it. Now in a Snipe, which weighed four ounces two dragms, I find the Brains to weigh but half a dragm, so that the weight of body (allowing for the Brain) exceeded the weight of the Brain, sixty seven times and an half.

More controvertible it seemeth in the Brains of Sparrows, whose Cranies are rounder, and so of larger capacity: and most of all in the Heads of Birds, upon the first formation in the Egg, wherein the Head seems larger then all the Body, and the very Eyes almost as big as either. A Sparrow in the total we found to weigh seven dragms and four and twenty grains; whereof the Head a dragm, but the Brain not fifteen grains; which answereth not fully the proportion of the brain of Man. And therefore it is to be taken of the whole Head with the Brains, when Scaliger objecteth that the Head of a Man is the fifteenth part of his Body; that of a Sparrow, scarce the fifth."

Interesting site-spaghetti to get started, Here.

from Sir Thomas Browne's "Pseudodoxia Epidemica" ('Browne's skull')


Sol Seppy (my new love)

Sophie Michalitsianos, as Sol Seppy

The Bells of 1 2
is a must-have album. Sol Seppy is my newest addiction. I feel like we know one another. And, well, even in the womb, we are intimately tied to another being, so perhaps we’re merely dancing in the dark in neon red tights.


The Interesting (and eccentrically-bizarre) Life of Charles Waterton

The eccentric Charles Waterton,
("The man who improved on nature")

Pope Pius VII was extremely annoyed. Some young mischievous Englishman had climbed St. Peter's in Rome and left his gloves on top of the lightning conductor. They must be removed at once. But who would dare to carry out His Holiness' wishes? Sadly, only that same young man had the courage. So Charles Waterton, a good Roman Catholic, penitently reclimbed St. Peter's and brought down his own gloves.

That, ladies and gents, was in 1817 when Mr. Waterton was 25 years of age, and this was the first time he caught the public eye. He then went traveling in the West Indies and North and South America, observing wildlife, collecting birds, and eventually writing a bestselling book on his travels in Latin America and the natural history of the region, on which he became the acknowledged expert. Again, he showed his physical courage. In South America, Mr. Waterton caught an alligator by riding on its back and seizing its front legs. Helpless in this judo-hold, the animal was dragged ashore. Later he cut its throat and skinned it.

On one of his expeditions, as an experiment he tried to get a vampire bat to bite his big toe by sleeping with his foot dangling out of his hammock. However, the bat then ignored him, choosing instead to bit his native servant. When he returned home to Yorkshire, he built a 9-foot-high wall encircling 3 miles of his estate, making it one of the world's first wildlife sanctuaries.

His interests as a naturalist had made him an accomplished taxidermist, and he built up a whole museum of stuffed birds and animals. But, of course, he was not content with animals as nature had created them. He took different parts of birds and animals and amalgamated them into his own monsters. In the case of his celebrated Nondescript, he contorted the face of a red howler monkey, convincing many people that he had stuffed a human head (see image below). To many of these homemade monsters he gave the names of some well-known Protestant personalities. But, this was not his only eccentricity: -- One of his favorite pranks was to hide under a hall table until a guest had put down his coat, in which he then leaped out to bite the astonished visitor.

After the death of his wife, he slept on the bare floor with a block of wood for a pillow. He rose at 3am on each day and spent the time before breakfast at 8am reading and praying. Then he would spent the rest of the day studying wildlife. When he was over 80 (he lived to the age of 83) he would shin up trees to examine birds' nests. He scrambled up "like an adolescent gorilla," according to a contemporary.

One of the eccentric squire's projects was the construction of a flying machine. It took a great deal of persuasion by his friends and servants before gave up the idea of testing the machine by leaping from an outhouse roof. It was this kind of unusual activity that brought about his death in 1865 when he fell while carrying a huge log, dying of his injuries 10 days later. He was buried with great ceremony, and a fleet of funeral boats escorted his body across the lake on his estate.

Thanks to Charles Waterton, wildlife preservation societies are going strong today. I've also come to the realization that I would love to someday make Charles Waterton's life-story into a film.

Charles Waterton's famous Nondescript.



Are you alone in the world? Give him time to eat. Nice warm milk makes the body feel so relaxed. A chief disaster of removing. No animal is unnamable. Nothing is innamable.

Innamable / Mammal / Shambles

Ham sandwich / Rubbery / Duckling / Circus

Nonsense! I insist! My, it looks as if it ’s going to storm. A human kindness is all -- that ’s all it is! Would you like to stop your partner ’s snoring?

Works like a charm. I declare! To complete the identification! On the double, let ’s go! There is no truth. The truth, your truth, is nothing more

than an off-the-rail freight train. Something running through the undergrowth. Wasn ’t really wise, either. A lot of high-strung people around here.

Building up grudges. Occasionally ceased by the compulsions, a pathological distortion. Insane, sane, it ’s only Balance. Mischievous child.

She ’s on edge; a particular state of mind. Theories in abnormal behavior. You make the most peculiar compliments. French melodies.

non-Moonlight Sonata. There ’s a sort of non-sorrow in them. Human predicament. Loneliness. Moving about in a region of horror.

It ’s frightening sometimes how you know people. Some people don ’t remember parts of their lives. Liberal exhibitionism.

“Holier than thou attitude.” Bed-ridden. To have a missing button. Signed confessions. Feeble-minded individuals. No obligation.

+ “They only write fairytales to keep children out of mischief.”
+ “Yes, and the children never listen, do they?”


Many things sounding like a Freudian conflict. I ’ve noticed that people ’s hands get heavier when they get married, but often times the weight on those hands take part in newer residences.


Jeremy Brett, definitive Sherlock Holmes

Jeremy Brett as the definitive Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes. The name alone (for those whom are aware of it) typically strikes up such words as "mystery," "murder," investigations," and even "daft geek" for those like me whom are contributingly-fanatical, and "I have a tendency to overreact a little, and am often guilty of flippancy" amidst these sorts of things (eg: Pink Floyd, Mary Shelley, Poetry and "Language" in general, &c. --); a bit of a dogmatic-mushroom that grows out of my eyesockets -- the kind that one can step on, exploding plumes of smoke arising about the air afterwards. Perhaps I may be guilty of over-dramaticism, as well, admittedly operant and a bit woundy, but even sometimes the Sharpie "runs out" and becomes like a dormant, dead, clanging watch. In the wafture of my lingering interests, I often find myself in a bit of "dumb amazement," vailing amidst it all like some triumphant zephyr floating away in a roar of ustulation.

Thanks to Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle, I've been a regular vignetting aligned in such a masterful collection of delicious tales. I recall the memory of reading my first Sherlock Holmes adventure ("A Case of Identity," I believe it was) and was rather decorum'd with a strangehold of such eccentric-wit and mystique that I haven't turned back since. I discovered The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes "years ago" (which seems like a repetitive phrase in my reach), or, perhaps I shall say that I was "introduced" to it by my wondrously-entertaining uncle, who had been watching the series since the '80's when it originally began airing. I was awe-stucken from the initial beginning with Jeremy Brett's portrayals as the-one-and-only. As one reviewer aptly and gorgeously put it, "Nothing before or since quite matches Brett's mercurial portrayal. It is exquisite. Not only is it the best representation of Holmes, but one of the most consistently mesmerising performances by any actor on any television production. Brett's diction perfectly suits Holmes's precise, logical mind; each word is said so perfectly that we are spoiled by eloquence and we hang on every word, the modulation that suddenly lifts to emphasise one word over another, to make revelations about an investigation or to reach into Holmes's melancholy." And further, "Under Brett, Holmes is arrogant, sly, misanthropic, pondering, but also vulnerable, empathetic and fragile. It is a human Holmes, but one still tantalisingly removed from most of us in his genius for linking disparate clues — ash in an ashtray here, a footprint there — to solve a mystery. It is this ability to hold together all the contradictions native to Sherlock Holmes that makes Brett's portrayal so compelling."

One of my favorite episodes has to be the "The Devil's Foot"; a particular adventuring quip of psychedelic-madness and bizarre events that provides one of the most memorable scenes of the entire show, in my opinion (though only lasting a little over one minute, but well-worth the waiting rabbit's tap) where Holmes begins hallucinating ("In the Granada Television version starring Jeremy Brett, a sequence is added showing Holmes burying his cocaine syringe in the sand during a walk on the beach. Apparently Jeremy Brett had become concerned about his character's drug habit, sought and received permission from Conan Doyle's heirs to have Holmes give up the habit. Also, the Granada version shows Holmes' hallucinations when exposed to the Devil's Foot poison. Holmes has visions of his parents and of Professor Moriarty in this sequence before being brought back to reality by Watson. When Holmes is reveived he calls Dr Watson by his first name "John.""). Naturally, every episode is worth viewing; I tend to want the entire DVD set, but right now the Presidents on the bills of U.S. dollars all mock me with the most insane of laughter, and considering that the "list is never-ending," I have a backlog of cracking walls waiting for a sandbag or two, so time will only tell. Luckily the shows are still televised.

(Other interesting information to note: The phrase "Elementary, my dear Watson" is often abstractly-attributed to Sherlock Holmes. However, nowhere in any of Doyle's books does Sherlock Holmes ever utter these oft-quoted words. As studied, the closest that Mr. Holmes comes to speaking these particular words is in the story "The Crooked Man," where, in the story, Dr. Watson [Holmes' former assistant, of course] has married and no longer lives with Sherlock at his flat at 221B Baker Street, London. When Holmes calls on Watson to ask for his help in solving a mystery, he makes a few deductions about his old friend. He observes, for example, that Watson still smokes the same pipe tobacco [from observing the ash on his coat] and that he is very busy. Watson then asks how Holmes knows this [which you think he would know better to ask such a silly question; this is Sherlock!] in which Holmes replies that Watson takes a hansom cab when he is busy and walks when he is not. Watson's boots are dusty enough to have been outdoors, but not dusty enough to have been out walking. Therefore, Holmes says, he must have taken a ransom. Therefore, he must be busy. "Excellent!" blurts Watson. "Elementary," says Holmes.)

Jeremy Brett, Sherlock Holmes


Pulling From Inout The Brain & Other Daring Voyages

MACRO FUTURE: Into Me, Out of Me

Sometimes my television glows in the night even though it hasn't been switched on for days. Often times, in the same bank of strangeness, my computer printer switches itself on without any regard for my own paranoid jumpiness (nor any actionable splinters), in which case I engage in cooling off after a few seconds; my gradualism in flames of ghastly curiosity. The rock is solid. So, so solid . . .(not "in the flames of withering justice.")

In H.W. Fowler's The King’s English:
"Among other arts and sciences, that of lexicography happens to have found convenient a neologism that may here be used to help in the very slight classification required for the new words we are more concerned with—that is, those whose object is literary or general, and not scientific. A 'nonce-word' (and the use might be extended to 'nonce-phrase' and 'nonce-sense'—the latter not necessarily, though it may be sometimes, equivalent to nonsense) is one that is constructed to serve a need of the moment. The writer is not seriously putting forward his word as one that is for the future to have an independent existence; he merely has a fancy to it for this once. The motive may be laziness, avoidance of the obvious, love of precision, or desire for a brevity or pregnancy that the language as at present constituted does not seem to him to admit of. The first two are bad motives, the third a good, and the last a mixed one. But in all cases it may be said that a writer should not indulge in these unless he is quite sure he is a good writer.

The couch-bunk under the window to conceal the summerly recliner.—Meredith.

The adjective is a nonce-sense, summerly elsewhere meaning 'such as one expects in summer'; the noun is a nonce-word.

In Christian art we may clearly trace a parallel regenesis.—Spencer.

Opposition on the part of the loquently weaker of the pair.—Meredith.


The verberant twang of a musical instrument.—Meredith.

A Russian army is a solid machine, as many war-famous generals have found to their cost.—Times.

Such compounds are of course much used; but they are ugly when they are otiose; it might be worth while to talk of a war-famous brewer, or of a peace-famous general, just as we often have occasion to speak of a carpet-knight, but of a carpet-broom only if it is necessary to guard against mistake.

Russia's disposition is aggressive ... Japan may conquer, but she will not aggress.—Times.

Though aggress is in the dictionary, every one will feel that it is rare enough to be practically a neologism, and here a nonce-word. The mere fact that it has never been brought into common use, though so obvious a form, is sufficient condemnation.

She did not answer at once, for, in her rather super-sensitized mood, it seemed to her...—E. F. Benson.

The word is, we imagine, a loan from photography. Expressions so redolent of the laboratory are as well left alone unless the metaphor they suggest is really valuable. Perhaps, if rather and super- were cancelled against each other, sensitive might suffice.

Notoriously and unctuously rectitudinous.—Westminster Gazette.

Some readers will remember the origin of this in Cecil Rhodes's famous remark about the unctuous rectitude of British statesmen, and the curious epidemic of words in -ude that prevailed for some months in the newspapers, especially the Westminster Gazette. Correctitude, a needless variant for correctness, has not perished like the rest.

We only refer to it again because Mr. Balfour clearly thinks it necessary to vindicate his claims to correctitude. This desire for correctitude is amusingly illustrated in the Outlook this week, which...—Westminster Gazette.

All these formations, whether happy or the reverse, may be assumed to be conscious ones: the few that now follow—we shall call them new even if they have a place in dictionaries, since they are certainly not current—are possibly unconscious:

The minutes to dinner-time were numbered, and they briskened their steps back to the house.—E. F. Benson. (quickened)

He was in some amazement at himself ... remindful of the different nature...—Meredith (mindful)

Remindful should surely mean 'which reminds', not 'who remembers'.

Persistent insuccess, however, did not prevent a repetition of the same question.—Times. (failure)

The best safeguard against any deplacement of the centre of gravity in the Dual Monarchy.—Times. (displacement)

Which would condemn the East to a long period of unquiet.—Times. (unrest)

Mere slips, very likely. If it is supposed that therefore they are not worth notice, the answer is that they are indeed quite unimportant in a writer who allows himself only one such slip in fifty or a hundred pages; but one who is unfortunate enough to make a second before the first has faded from the memory becomes at once a suspect. We are uneasily on the watch for his next lapse, wonder whether he is a foreigner or an Englishman not at home in the literary language, and fall into that critical temper which is the last he would choose to be read in.

The next two examples are quite distinct from these—words clearly created, or exhumed, because the writer feels that his style requires galvanizing into energy:

A man of a cold, perseverant character.—Carlyle.

Robbed of the just fruits of her victory by the arbitrary and forceful interference of outside Powers.—Times."

The inevitable suggestion, a huge mass of puffs and joints that sweep me by never go unlooked. Neologisms have been a part of me since my birth, like Indians in Okie Prisons many years ago. I remember the windows and how words were lead-colored on my tongue, like an "endless grey carpet of seabirds." To be translated into an uncharitably-received message on one side of the coin (Dylan: "The picture you have in your mind of what you're about ... will come true. It's kind of a thing you kinda have to keep to yourself. It's a fragile thing and if you put it out there, somebody will kill it, so it's best to keep that all inside. . .") to find the other coin, with age (with wisdom) comes from a point in ones life where, in my K-grade days, I read repetitively-fast in my circle of fellow classmates, often raising my hand more-so than others. I felt like a beautiful vase on a stone terrace, over-looking a sea of words (especially when the other students were reading; I'd have to often let my mind wonder about, losing my place in the text, because of the certain struggling woes of others, in which I'd attempt to 'correct' more-so than the teacher). Sometimes I wish I were a child again (physically) - a melody of flowing wind . . . a vague break in a dance-move, and a scattering of song (though my stage-fright was terribly phobic-like).

Stan Brakhage: "Window Water Baby Moving"


The Squabbly-wobby Psyche-"Meridian" & Abstract Quixioms

PINPOINTED: An ancient Chinese acupuncture chart
that shows
some of the positions of some of the 900 needle points on
the network
of "meridians."

I've been reading about ancient Chinese acupuncture and things like "the placebo effect" (low-pain perceptions - do the "meridians" need to be philosphize'd into a debatingly-undebated response for those with "normal" versus "abnormal" perceptors?) and I began pondering several ways to "enhance" my prickled-mind towards the development of several "take-offs" (un-rocketeering, tho, NASA-lipped and crumbled; perhaps more like Tarkovsky's Solaris) on my "screen name," (which, an educated voice would possibly spatter, A Book of Changes!; no confusion on "I Ching") and I have come up with several needle-pointed landscapes to acquaint my opencast reel ("arranged like the layers of an onion"):




If I were like "The Self-Dismembered Man" that Guillaume Apollinaire erupted into (or (...)) then I shabby to think

that the following thoughts would collaborate with a kind of rising vapour into "drinking the youth" of the pain threshold.

Truth is, "The magic pink seashells" (as British UK psychedelic band Kaleidoscope would reverberate many years prior) of my exploding mind

have apparently just been sitting out in the sun of cinema for far too long. KRS-One, in 2003: When asked about the future of hip-hop he said,

“Our day is coming. It's inevitable that the president in another five years will be a hip-hopper. The mayor of Chicago will be somebody

who has grown up on N.W.A., Chuck D, even Lil' Kim and Foxy Brown. All of it will make sense then.” Dora Maar: “Pure as a lake boredom.” (transparent-alert!)—

War empties pockets or does war familiarize itself with knowing? Perhaps the pith of this unbalanced equilibrium would be in the intelligence of KRS;—

Obama? Are you a hip-hopper? Grasshopper? A lesion of deceit? 21st Century Huang Ti? Ol' Yeller or, as stated, the "Yellow Emporer"? It appears as tho

my black, sweet tea isn't going down the drain (something of which could be measured as morbidly-brooding) as swell as

I'd like the operation to go (PJ Harvey said it best: "This Mess We're In"). I'll be the Mummer at the voting booth . . . perhaps I'll find something to boost / er me . . . and in the end,

marwodd yn ddiepil is a hopeful gushing outpour to keep the toezies and fingerzies crossed. The light, "so pretty in white." Yes. Now imagine

the multitudes of individuals whom were quite doubtful in regards to the ancestors of these creatures; Woolly Mammoths that often showcased their strengths

upon the Dicearchuses of the world in those days. Of course, that is, depending on the rotundas of the world in which people

may believe in the world as being "millions of years old," which I don't, but it's the myths that make it all so-very fun and imaginative. Peter Falk could be a dinosaur

for all we know. (He has the anger downpact; revisit his madness as Robert Evans (1962) on The Alfred Hitchcock Hour . . . "Bonfire" ["too much juice of the grape" crackles my insides]).

And, most "embarrassing moments"? An Ugly Man Contest in '57, '61 and '63.

"This Ugly Man was quoted in the 1963 Savitar as saying,
"She said that I wasn't exactly her Rock Hudson image."
(A stab at
Rock Hudson in the brilliant film, "Seconds," as I have showcased before)

Steppenwolf (1974)

"The struggle of the human mind ... against itself."

Herman Hesse's "Steppenwolf"

Herman Hesse's brilliant novel, "Steppenwolf"

Several moons ago, however you'd like to label my past filmic leash of tugging, I was introduced to Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf, which, as most people are quite familiar with by now, is also a popular rock 'n' roll band (that lifted the name from the novel, of course, as if they couldn't be more original!). Unfortunately, the band is far more "known" than Herman Hesse's novel, but if I could take the two and stir them together, there really are no recurring similarities, unless one wants to familiarize the psychedelically-solarized scenes of the "Magic Theatre" from the film (which is essentially a bonus snack at the end of of the flick) with the band's song "Magic Carpet Ride," then that may have some merit, because, all in all, one is most certainly taken on a ride amidst the cinematic gulps and nibbles there, as well as within the book.

Steppenwolf, starring Max Von Sydow

Rarely does a film ever stay true to the contents of the story that it is being created from, but apparently Fred Haines wanted to do it "right" and thankfully for us dogmatic ones, we were served with a delicious feast. From Wiki: "The film made heavy use of visual special effects, which were cutting-edge at the time of its release in 1974." I would suggest reading the book first and then watching the film so that you can compare as you follow. This particular film, along with BBC's 1977 Count Dracula (starring Louis Jourdan), are two of the most faithful adaptions of book-to-film releases that I am familiar with, and both are well-worth venturing into ... of course, if you like this kind of madness as I do.

As The Hitch would spout, I think I'd better be trodding off. I just decided to have my head sanforized. Good night.