Dreaming like Randolph Carter

I had this dream for the second time last night.  It was a bit more vague than the first, but the general imagery and sensations were there.  I believe it’s quite telling…

It is a charnel swamp, a bog built out of death.  The blood and bile run in thick currents knee deep, the “vegetation” nothing more than meat.  Bushes of gristle, vines of intestines, trees of bone – these things and more obstructed my passage through this slaughterland.  It was an absurdist blend of overgrown greenhouse and over-enthusiastic butcher shop.  Nothing appeared too far decayed yet, as if the entire environment had been mutilated into existence only hours ago and then held in stasis.

Above me, the sky was burning.  There was no moon or sun present, only rolling fields of liquid fire as far as my eyes could see.  The stratosphere aflame, it provided a dull orange glow to the ground below, everything shimmering and wet.  Here and there, thin clouds of soot raced past, low and insubstantial.

I continued to wade through the gore, this red reality.  I can recall feeling somewhat placid, neither disturbed nor comforted by these sights.  I don’t remember what I wore or for how long I traveled, and perhaps these things were irrelevant.  However, I eventually saw something akin to an island of viscera in the distance.

Drawing closer, I saw this mound was built with the corpses of babies, their flesh sewn and nailed together.  I don’t believe they were human infants, though… their dead eyes still squirmed with a living darkness.  This animated tar-like substance undulated and swayed in a subtle pattern deep in those tiny sockets.

There, sitting on the apex, was some type of throne.  I still can’t properly describe the material or style, nor can I attempt to describe the entity that sat upon it.  Occasionally, I found it humanoid, most often I did not.  I think it may have been composed of that same living darkness, that “deeper black” that I speak of in my fiction, but sharper and more defined.  I have the precise recollection that this abomination was the current king of this realm.

I remember… this monstrosity and I, we gazed at each other for a moment before speaking.  When we spoke, we spoke as equals.  I somehow understood that it acknowledged me as a peer.  I can recall that placid sensation remained, a casual feeling, perhaps closer to boredom or even slight irritation.  I can’t determine what we talked about, but I know the thing gestured off into the distance, and I had a bizarre but distinct feeling wash over me.  It was reminiscent of those time when you can’t find your car keys after having just sat them down, or when a needed word is right on the tip of your tongue.

And that was it.

I believe the first time I had the dream, I may have actually started walking off in the direction indicated by my abhorrent host.  I’m not sure.  I know I awoke before leaving its presence the second time.

I can easily explain away certain elements of the dream.  I had already written a scene with a similar brutal landscape for the novella I’m working on, and I’ve already incorporated portions of this dream into a new part of the fiction.  This “Deeper Black” is a concept I’ve played with in almost all of my horror and paranormal fantasy work.  The entity is undoubtedly from reading far too much Lovecraft.

No, the visuals are meaningless to me, simply window-dressings.  The sensations are what fascinate me, this nonchalant acceptance combined with faint annoyance.  While this is my general state in everyday life, I’m terribly interested on the how’s and why’s this would translate so clearly into such a atrocious dreamscape.  And, of course, I would very much like to discover where I was supposedly journeying off next to.

Once, I used to dream on par with Lovecraft’s great reoccurring character, Randolph Carter.  Various medications stole much of that from me, most of my dreams now either utterly mundane (going to the store to get lunchmeat) or a jumbled sensory-salad of images, sounds and concepts that would make Salvador Dali weep.  The majority of people would find such a dream like I’ve described above horrific, a nightmare to be banished.  I find it hopeful, something to return to.

And if I’m lucky, perhaps, I’ll be able to get my bearings back in the slaughterlands and travel even farther…

Penny Arcade's "The Last Christmas"

Dagon's lovely Deep One

Lil' Lhu Loves Crafts!

Seriously though... isn't he adorable in his cosmic madness?

H.P. Lovecraft's 121st Birthday

121 years ago... think about that.  Howard Philip Lovecraft was born in 1890 and we are celebrating his 121st birthday today, August 20th, 2011.  I consider how many of my youngest brother's friends were probably born in 1990 and are turning 21.  Only a number of them may have herad the name "Lovecraft," but I guarantee a majority of them have heard the names "Cthulhu" and/or "The Necronomicon."

Lovecraft changed popular writing just as surely as other great "genre" authors have.  His use of the "weird and unknown" was influetial, as was Poe's gothic sensiblities and Wells' unchecked science.  We can easily place him among his friends Clark Ashton Smith, Robert E. Howard, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and his disciple, Robert Bloch.   And yet, only one other horror author has managed to achieve what Lovecraft has with his legacy - Bram Stoker.

Bram Stoker's "Dracula," has taken on truly mythic porportions.  With his fictional character based partly on historical fact, the lines have come to blur over the decades since the novel was first published.  Here in the 21st century, the average person can no longer tell you the division between fact and fiction, and Dracula has reached into every aspect of our culture.  I am not speaking of vampires, I am speaking directly about "Dracula," the creation of one particular author.

While Lovecraft's creations may have yet to saturate themselves into household names, you'd be facing a challenge if you were to attempt to find someone who hadn't heard of The Necronomicon - and didn't believe it was a real book!  With his deliberate lack of structure, much of the lore surrounding his works have taken on a life of its own and people have come to unsettling conclusions concerning the names Yog-Sothoth, Dagon, Azathoth and Hastur.  On the opposite side of that coin, you can purchase the great incarnation of cosmic insanity as an adorable green plushly marketed as "My Lil' Cthulhu." 

Even if we ignore the games, the books, the toys, the tee shirts and the other merchandise, we have to agree on a startling revelation - there are people who mistakenly believe Lovecraft's fiction to be true!  Of course, we Lovecraft fans find this wonderful and do little do persuade them otherwise.  The mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred wrote the great book of the dead, The Necronomicon?  Yes, watch out!  The blind, idiot god Azathoth has sent his emmisary, Nyarlathotep, down to find a way that he can escape?  Obviously!  In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming and after strange aeons even death may die?  I have no idea what that means, but you're screwed!

But there was so much more to Lovecraft and his work.  It was the poetic, antiquated way he strung sentences together, the way he created atmospheric tension out of so very little, the way he twisted mundane events into epic scenes where the fate of the universe hung in the balance.  Besides his innovative works like "At The Mountains Of Madness," "The Call Of Cthulhu," "The Dunwich Horror," "Pickman's Model," "The Color Out Of Space" and "The Shadow Over Innsmouth," there is the classical horror of "The Music of Erich Zann," the nightmarishly beautiful prose of "Azathoth," the grand fantasy of "The Dream Quest Of The Unknown Kadath," and the sheer dark brilliance of "The Dreams In The Witch House."

So I urge you, go read some Lovecraft.  Go discover for yourself why this author is still influencing new writers today.  Go find out why his work is so unique that it has captivated the fears and imaginations of multiple generations.  Go...

Or I'll get Dagon's fish cult to eat you.