Friday Musings 10/6/2017
The changing seasons can replicate a lot of things.
Out with the old, in with the new. Fresh beginnings and bitter endings.
The changing times create a lot if feeling. Good, bad. Always, though, it comes right back in the next rotation.
It may not be the same exact leaf that changed color beautifully in the fall and then died in the crystal winter, but with the next cycle grow new ones.
I write horror and receive strange looks at times (though lately I've been getting the occasional "Oh really?") Horror has been doing pretty good as of late. There are statistics I can go into as to why, but that's for another time.
You see, horror can be beautiful like snow as far as the eye can see, trees tipped with sparkling spectical. The horror is the point where you look down and realize this treterous terrain must be traversed with no coat--oh and it's beginning to snow. Turn back, you say? Well. Behind you smokes a broken down vehicle which blew its radiator. That's horror. Now dress it how you like. Put the gore, or add the internal monster. Either way, there is a very distinct point where horror exists.
Kind of like the seasons, just in between the transition. You see the beautiful leaves become soggy, a dusty must penetrates your nostrils.
Or after a beautiful snowstorm. The hulking vehicles perverse the purity, making muck out of innocence into slush that plants oddball thoughts the proverbial finger cannot be placed upon.
There will always be horror, as will there always be a need to be horrified. To see what we are capable of, to plan ahead and try to avoid it as best we can. And in those shadows I lie waiting to expose and hopefully entertain. Horror is a lot of things. It can be cheap and it can be elegant. It can be applied to anything, just like the changing seasons metaphor.
So even though leaves may look the same come spring, a new beginning is to be had. New people to meet and some may walk out the door. Some may stay. Things might appear perfect, but turn just a bit and a spider web can be seen draped in the corner. Or the mold dot growing silently on the ceiling.
Of course, some see differently. You can always turn around as the leaves rain from above, the musty smell of wet autumn leaves surrounding your senses, and pick up one of the many. Because it can be preserved, smashed in a book, as well...
WCM
Out with the old, in with the new. Fresh beginnings and bitter endings.
The changing times create a lot if feeling. Good, bad. Always, though, it comes right back in the next rotation.
It may not be the same exact leaf that changed color beautifully in the fall and then died in the crystal winter, but with the next cycle grow new ones.
I write horror and receive strange looks at times (though lately I've been getting the occasional "Oh really?") Horror has been doing pretty good as of late. There are statistics I can go into as to why, but that's for another time.
You see, horror can be beautiful like snow as far as the eye can see, trees tipped with sparkling spectical. The horror is the point where you look down and realize this treterous terrain must be traversed with no coat--oh and it's beginning to snow. Turn back, you say? Well. Behind you smokes a broken down vehicle which blew its radiator. That's horror. Now dress it how you like. Put the gore, or add the internal monster. Either way, there is a very distinct point where horror exists.
Kind of like the seasons, just in between the transition. You see the beautiful leaves become soggy, a dusty must penetrates your nostrils.
Or after a beautiful snowstorm. The hulking vehicles perverse the purity, making muck out of innocence into slush that plants oddball thoughts the proverbial finger cannot be placed upon.
There will always be horror, as will there always be a need to be horrified. To see what we are capable of, to plan ahead and try to avoid it as best we can. And in those shadows I lie waiting to expose and hopefully entertain. Horror is a lot of things. It can be cheap and it can be elegant. It can be applied to anything, just like the changing seasons metaphor.
So even though leaves may look the same come spring, a new beginning is to be had. New people to meet and some may walk out the door. Some may stay. Things might appear perfect, but turn just a bit and a spider web can be seen draped in the corner. Or the mold dot growing silently on the ceiling.
Of course, some see differently. You can always turn around as the leaves rain from above, the musty smell of wet autumn leaves surrounding your senses, and pick up one of the many. Because it can be preserved, smashed in a book, as well...
WCM
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