Bottomed-Out by the Black Pool

           Her single light revealed the stone walls at the bottom of the labyrinth she had spent so many terrifying hours navigating. The unimaginable being that had pursued her throughout had now left her alive for reasons which she knew not, but was nevertheless grateful for. Though he had spared her life, he had not spared her eyes, or her heart… or her imagination. She now watched as her companion… the last one still left… sank slowly into the black and seemingly bottomless pool before her. She nervously fingered the black and white length of silk tied fastidiously around her neck. Her tense brown eyes locked compulsively behind the lenses of dowdy glasses on the body of a hard and good young woman sinking into nothingness.

            The walls, like the undercroft of some decrepit church or an ossuary of the dead of Paris, were lined with crude carvings. As they had descended ever deeper, the carvings had progressed into ever more horrific shapes to taunt the eye and turn her imagination against her. They were pagan and brutal. Stick men and primitive beasts with horns and multiple heads flanked gibberish writing. She feared to move her small light, for any flash against a wall might reveal another image most bewitching to burn itself into her mind where she would see only it in this darkness.

            Sitting alone, she fingered the collar of her maroon trench coat and pondered what her next move would be. She could not go back. The only way out was forward, but there was no forward, only down… into the hole… into its blackness. Still, how could she? It was still full of the water that had by now consumed her companion in whole, vanishing her like a lovebird’s penny in an artesian well.  The young woman’s mind began to fill with a terrible thought. Was this Hell? Had their escape route been a descent into an underworld from which there was no exit? A feeling began to creep over her. They had entered the maw of a nightmare. And worse yet, she was pretty sure that she was awake.

            She waited as thoughts of what had lured her into this place beyond time and reason swirled. Pushing her fine dark hair back from her face, she could look beyond the darkness and into the past; a past too agonizingly recent to forget.

            She had watched him from across the room many times, although she pretended not to. She waited for him in corridors and found reasons to buy things where he worked. Headphones, a pack of AA batteries, a power strip; all overpriced, but worth the trip just to make sure that he was there and that she might run into him by accident. She never engaged him directly, at least at first. The temptation and the possibility of absolute failure levied sheer terror on her timid heart.

            Then he came to her. Their eyes had somehow locked in the old library that fall day. He had never paid her a second thought, other than her normal and yet strikingly unusual appearance. A soft afternoon light dropped through the window on the pale, eye grabbing young woman. She seemed to glow in that way that only the Dutch masters could achieve in oil on black canvasses. He approached her and for whatever reason they hit it off. For the first time in her long time, she felt legitimately happy. It was a good day.

            One night she opened a fortune cookie and it read, “You CAN have what you want.”

            She remembered standing in a dark corridor some months later, alone. Her phone rang and she answered it. It was a text message. They knew that she would not respond, and she figured that that was the point. Somebody they both knew, he better than her, had laid it on in clear terms. He was dead.

            It was an automobile accident. Something had happened, she never learned what, but someone had slammed into someone else. He was either that someone or that someone else. She could imagine it with a near clairvoyance; the broken and twisted wreckage of an economy car like a carcass on the side of a rural road under the spread of a single, barren, diseased elm tree. His red blood squeezed from him, and spattered like paint across the grey road. His glasses, broken and twisted fell through darkness and to her feet. The shattered pieces of what she had only reached-out and touched enough to fall in love with, now before her and irreparable. She would never see him again.

            They had not spoken in some days. She imagined that it was her fault. She knew that she could be grinding on people, especially when she did not mean to. Had she said the wrong thing? Had she done the wrong thing? Made the wrong move? Most likely, yes. She knew that was what it had to be. She scared him away, and before she could tell him how she felt and why. Again, she had sabotaged herself without knowing it.

            It would be just another part of a life that she could not fit into.

            “I know why I’m here, now,” she lamented, her voice drained and quiet, “I can’t taste the future. I’m not meant to go on. I guess I belong back up there… nowhere.”

            “Are you sure?” said a voice, deep, but unspecific. She was startled to her feet by the sudden reply from nowhere and from no one.

            “The only way forward is down, through the hole.”

            “But it’s full of water,” she answered back.

            “Only because you want there to be. Your fear is what keeps you here,” explained the voice. “Beyond there is unknown, but it is not here. Through there is tomorrow.”

            The water began to drain from the hole. She watched as the slow pull grew into a flush. Soon the water was gone, and she found herself staring into blackness. She struggled to see a bottom, but she could not. Might she drown down there? Might she come-out alive? Would she simply drift in the darkness ahead? Perhaps she would land near the light of day. She did not know. She faced the black chasm of a future where nothing was impossible.

            “The only way forward in down,” said the voice.

            She pictured him waiting for her down there. Might the one she lost be there to share whatever future awaited her? She had to believe so. Her heart raced as she stepped to the edge, her cold, wet feet trembled in her boots, her thoughts fixated on his image.

            “Dream on,” said the voice in her ear.

            With that, she took a step and plunged into the hole and into whatever lay ahead. Falling down…down…down…

Tom G Wears: Master of the Closet

Clothes... the last of the old school inventions. We keep warm in them, we stay cool in them, we express our personal taste in them, flaunt our status in them, hide our nudity in them. Some of us become ourselves when we get dressed... some of us get dressed to become someone else. Some people hate thinking about clothes. Some obsessively ponder every day's costume. Some are fashionable, some are not. Some spend big, some spend very little. Some...

Shut-up and get to the friggin' thing!

Getting dressed is a hard business for most of us. Especially when it comes to proper shirts... you know, the kind with buttons. These days, everything is small. Small collars, small cuffs, low waistlines, and skinny legs.

Tiny collars and Renaissance fair pants are all good-n-dandy if you have the build for it. But most men... MEN... aren't build for it. and more over, some of us simply don't look good in it. If there's three C's to getting suited and booted it's this: Cut, Color, and Comfort.

Cut: A garment should be shaped to flatter your figure. Big head = big collar, Big hips = longer jacket, and I could go on. Think balance.

Color: Does the color(s) of a garment look right on you? Do you feel right in them? Those with a pink complexion probably won't look good in red for the reason that there's no cool color to counterbalance his complexion. But then again, perhaps blue or green just isn't his/her color. Does it feel right? Does it look right? Think balance.

Comfort: The biggie. Probably the most important. If you don't feel right in a garment, you won't move right in the a garment, and then you're not in control of the garment. And no matter how stylish it may be, you'll know that you're not in control. I, for one, hate low-rise pants. There are few things worse than feeling as if your ass is going to pop out of your pants every time you sit down. And so, I do not wear them. Even if it means women see me as less of a spry, Swedish sex machine.

In short: Your clothes need to work for you. You need to be the master of your closet, whatever that closet looks like. And make no mistake, just because you might master the closet, doesn't mean that you're IN the closet.

I'll be banging-out a series of these designed to help the fellows be a little happier about getting dressed, and even help the ladies do a better job of dressing their fellows. I hope you'll check them out, lay some feedback on me, and share them. I hope to teach you a thing or two, and maybe send you away with a good chuckle.

Hapless Without a Point

A life focused entirely on going somewhere only to get nowhere is a hard one. It’s a difficult thing to pour yourself into your work… into your passion, and to be rejected without knowing how or why you were rejected. To reach-out into darkness and to find nothing. A silent “No” is the worst rejection there is; especially when everything originally pointed to “Yes.”

            

To give all you have to a thing, to a passion, to your future, and to simply see a smiling face vanish behind a closing door. Your future is on the other side, behind the smiling face and happy greetings, and the promises of better than what you had before. It’s that point in the journey when you realize that there’s no treasure waiting for you at the end. If you’re lucky enough to not be stymied by an impossible feat you’ll most likely find nothing at the end, just an empty box… or barren table… or vacant summit. Maybe you’ll find a door that’s locked and the key’s been melted-down into someone’s weird accoutrement.

            

He played his song and opened his heart, only to find that nobody was listening. And those who were, were deaf. She tuned-in only to find-out that everyone else had tuned-out. How do you live on a different wavelength? How do survive when you are invisible? Why share yourself when nobody wants any part of what you are?

            

Rejection with a curse and a “No” is at least clear. You understand why. Rejection with a smile and a “Yes” is something else. What can you make of it? It’s a good meal with a bad taste. Or a bad meal with a good taste. Or just a meal with just a taste. It’s a nothing meal with a nothing taste. How can your bowels digest nothing?

            

Serves me right for thinking that I could ever succeed at anything. 

Punching Jesse Ventura in the Face

Clint Eastwood's adaptation of Navy SEAL Chris Kyle's 2012 memoir, "American Sniper" was released on Christmas Day, 2014. Why anyone who go an see such a depressing thing on Christmas is beyond me. As if the suicide rate isn't high enough during the holiday season.

Texas born and bred Chris Kyle was a burly, blue-eyed, All American serviceman and elite sniper with SEAL Team 3. He survived a four-term bit in the Iraq War, including being shot multiple times and nearly dying in at least one roadside bombing, a daily occurrence during the war's hottest years. Kyle is perhaps one of the most prolific snipers in the history of modern warfare, clocking a confirmed 160 kills. Though the number is possibly higher... especially if you believe Kyle himself.

So what does this have to do with  anything? The man's a war hero. Alright... yes... a war hero. Bingo. He accomplished something few soldiers ever could or would. He shot dead at least 160 insurgents threatening American servicemen stationed in Iraq. Or did he? He himself admitted to killing not only Kalashnikov-toting terrorists, but as well, mothers walking with there children, old men, and possibly children. All Iraqi civilians who were unlucky enough to draw the short straw that day when they crossed his cross hairs. Even more heart-rending was his own admission in his memoir that he enjoyed the killing. Driven by bloodlust and a good ol' boy's complete and utter confidence that the mission was noble and good, Chris Kyle became by far the most prolific sniper since man began hunter man with a gun.

Without the slightest bit of sarcasm, Chris Kyle admitted to enjoying his work. In his memoir he described the those he killed as "savages" and never once regretted what it was that he did. Not even conceding as so many warriors do, to his actions as terrible but necessary. After his book was published, he made multiple appearances on television news and talk shows, speaking candidly and matter-of-factly about those he killed, and his record as a sniper. He spoke about the violence he encountered, witnessed, and perpetrated like a pro talking shop. With no regret and no doubt and no reflection he never once doubted the war. He even revealed himself to be a braggart, exaggerating the number he killed and gloating about punching ex wrestler and open critic of the Iraq War, Jesse Ventura in the face. An incident Ventura denies. Kyle even claimed to have shot and killed several victims of Hurricane Katrina, though this was never confirmed.

Like any leopard, the light reveals his spots.

Perhaps the greatest casualty of war is the human heart. Those who survive, survive. Those who don't, don't. No one who experiences war comes-out the whole person they were before. It's an experience that shatters even the hardiest country boy and the toughest camp whore. It leaves a void in the psyche and in the emotional core... an emptiness in the soul that most likely is never again filled. What Chris Kyle saw... and did... in Iraq, was a horror greater than its face value. What he lost there was more than his blood and his time with family. What he lost was something more profound.

At least, we would like to believe that. The truth is more likely less than happy. Chris Kyle's darkness lived long behind his eyes. Like so many young men who live by the gun, he was not only capable of violence... he probably enjoyed it. He enjoyed leaving victims in his wake.

Like any braggart, his brag ultimately landed him a challenge. He was sued by Jesse Venture in civil court. Ventura ultimately won his suit, leaving Chris Kyle's estate on the hook for atleast half a million dollars.

In 2013, the man who saw mankind down the sight of his barrel, found himself on the other side of the bore. He was killed at a shooting range in Erath County, Texas. Shot to death by a fellow veteran whom he was attempting to help the only was he knew how to... shooting targets.

Chris Kyle was no hero. He was no winner. He was a murderer, a warrior, a liar, and a cruel narcissist. More over, he was a victim. A victim of a war, a victim of a system, and a victim of a way of life. He was victim long before Iraq. Chris Kyle was a victim, and like so many victims he left behind victims.

Thoughts about Christmas: An Op-ed

Somethings about life are unchanging. The seasons, for instance. They change, but the they only change in a cycle. So long as you live in a temperate, northerly neck of woods, you can always count on the cyclical change of atmospheric pressure. The weather gets cold, then it warms-up, then it gets hot, then cools-off again, and finally plummets back into the soul-murdering fridge of January. 

Such is the Christmas season. It comes... it goes... but it always comes back. Black Friday comes and America's shopping hordes flock to the stores where the yearly ritual of blood lust, deals on crap, and man's cruelty towards man is carried-out. We raise our synthetic trees. We festoon our homes with lights. Some are less a display and more of an explosion. We indulge in food and liquor to the limit of diabetic shock, knowing but not caring how much our asses will shake come January. We buy, and spend, and wrap, and stack beneath our trees. We give to and receive from the one's we love. That's if we have one's to love. And finally we reach that New Year, and the grey, cold morning hung-over and pickled. That day of anxious despair before we must face the cold doom of a new year... the future. 

When I was a child, the entire season was one of pleasure and anticipation. But as I grew older and found that most of what I loved most about the holiday was mostly a series of lies, I had to face the reality of Christmas for adults. That absence of magic. That emptiness. I was nine. Now I have only to find pleasure in the chores of the season. Hanging the lights. Putting the tree together. Listening to the sounds of the season. My favorite is the Phil Spector Christmas album. Indulging in the treats made by loved one. That's some mighty find fudge packing, Kim. And finally watching my programs. My two favorite Christmas flicks have to be "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and "A Christmas Story"... and maybe the "A Christmas Carol" starring George C. Scott.

Something about "A Charlie Brown Christmas" has always struck me. Perhaps the five-and-dime animation, or the wry humor, or maybe just the story of poor Charlie Brown trying to find meaning the holiday that every year seems to have less and less. I identify with Charlie Brown. I was the same way as a kid. I was too smart for my age and not particularly good at anything. It robbed me of a lot of happiness. Then again, I'm still that way as an adult. So what the fuck, life? Throw me a bone. Or at least my own Christmas special.

A Christmas Story... I fell in love with it from the time I first saw it. I think Jean Shepherd captured something about life that nobody before and probably since has been able to. I remember what it was like to be a kid... to want something THAT badly and to face the probability of failure at every turn. Poor Ralphie Parker, he could never catch a break. But he did get that gun, and he did almost shoot his eye out. As is life. The man who got what he wanted had it blow-up in his face. But he also got to enjoy Chinese duck. 

Perhaps that's what the season is all about. No matter how shitty your year has been - and as you get older, they usually get shittier - so long as you have warmth, and people, and some chinks on the table, your holiday is everything it needs to be. 

Tom G Reads: Legion

Recently, I read William Peter Blatty's "Legion". Or, maybe not read it... I devoured it; cover-to- cover, every page, in order, word-for-word. That's the sign of love in my reading experience. I don't finish most of the books I start, and rarely do I read them with so much enthusiasm and commitment. Very often, I read them out of order... perhaps it's an un-diagnosed dyslexia?  But Legion was too good. Blatty made it too easy to read this novel and to love every minute of reading this novel.

"Legion" is the sequel to Blatty's 1971 best-seller "The Exorcist". Originally, "Legion" was written as a treatment for a movie sometime in the late-1970's. The movie, however, did not come to fruition then and so Blatty reworked it as a novel. "Legion", the novel, was published in 1983, and I've had to privilege of reading a 1983 print of the book.

Set in the Georgetown area of Washington D.C., Legion centers around Lieutenant William Kinderman, the supercilious, wry homicide detective from "The Exorcist", as he investigates a string of bizarre murders fitting the MO of a long-dead serial killer, explores the nature of evil and divinity, and finds that he is dangerously close to the homicides.

Like almost all of his work, both in film and literature, William Peter Blatty injects a wry wit and dark humor into this work, which, like "The Exorcist" is filled with the most entertaining, enlightening, and engulfing conversations between some very believable characters. One can tell that Blatty knows the setting and content well and he treads them with an abundance of verisimilitude. He manages to make the most far-out plot totally convincing. You can feel the cold of March. You can feel the damp weariness of these characters. You can picture the pale, ambient light of colorless hospital corridors. You can picture shadowy, oak paneled Catholic spaces.

There is, however a very surreal quality to Legion that I enjoyed thoroughly. Like "The Exorcist", Blatty takes the reader to the edge of a dark and bottomless chasm and lets us peer in. The corridors of the book's hospital are stalked by something of a malevolent nature. Like the demon from "The Exorcist", this specters watches... it sees... it prays.  It sees the inner world of those who confront it and uses it like a weapon and a sign. It inhabits the shattered and uses the useless at a weapon. But like The Exorcist, Blatty never confirms or denies or suspicions. He tells us what we wan to hear but plants seeds of doubt in our mind, He lets us look into the abyss and judge for ourselves.

As much as I love this book, and would read it to my kids before bedtime... if I had kids... I must say that I feel that the plot is a little unbalanced. The antagonist of the book is only really revealed to us in the last quarter of novel. He's not even hinted-at before then. There is only an unknown entity that may or may-not be human committing this series of ritualized murders. Blatty just sort-of drops the reveal on us out of nowhere. And while I understand the need to build mystery and suspense behind the reveal, I feel that it doesn't work as well in a book as it might in a short-story or a film.

Given all, I must say that I recommend "Legion" to anybody looking to read a solid, well-written, dark, intelligent novel. As a writer, I highly respect Blatty's use of the medium. He doesn't describe every little thing. He explores the unknown and the unknowable and forces us to face it ourselves. He forces us to turn-on our minds, our imaginations, and our hearts.

Tom G Reviews: Silent Hill 2

Happy Halloween, Peeps and Peepettes. It's that time of the years once again. When the dark crap I immerse myself in all year long is actually seasonable instead of just morbid. This time we're doing something different. This time we're looking at a video game.

Now, I'm by no means ANY kind expert when it come to video games. But I've played them and I enjoy the one's that I enjoy. I also no a thing-or-two about horror and psychology. Not that I'm any kind of expert. Tonight's creeping journey into darkness is a 2001 game that combines the three in what can possibly be considered one of the best horror games thus far. Tonight, we'll be looking at "Silent Hill 2".

Produced by Konami, "Silent Hill 2" follows protagonist, James Sunderland, as he follows the trail of a mysterious letter written by his now deceased wife across and into the heart of Silent Hill, an abandoned, fog-blanketed American Town. You play as James, finding clues, solving puzzles, and surviving the many grizzly manifestations that infest Silent Hill. As you progress and as you go deeper... literally... the story of James and why he had come here unravels.

Silent Hill 2 is the follow-up to 1999's "Silent Hill". And while I've never played the first game, I've seen enough of it to know that the sequel takes what worked about the first game and brought it to another level. And while it lacks action, Silent Hill 2 more than makes-up for it in atmosphere, story, character development, and a sheer psychological plunge. The Silent Hill series is notable for its use of surrealism and psychological manipulation. Silent Hill is very much a reflection of the protagonist in each game. The environments and the ghouls that inhabit them are arguably more figurative than "real".

The Silent Hill of Silent Hill 2 is James Sunderland. Instead of exploring a tangible place, he is exploring himself and his reason for being there. From a vacant apartment building to a blood-splattered hospital and even into the depths of a nightmarish labyrinth... into the maw of hell itself, the darkness you (James) will encounter is the darkest imaginable. James will face an abyss where he'll see nothing but himself.

Silent Hill 2 is also noteworthy because of its antagonists. Creative, grizzly, surreal, and disturbing, Silent Hill 2's cast of ghouls and spunkies ranges from a chubby glutton on a hair-trigger to the most menacing manifestations of sexual frustration, guilt, and violence.

Silent Hill 2 does the same thing that the franchise is renowned for and that very few video games will do or do successfully. Silent Hill 2 obliterates the line between real and unreal. Does James explore a forgotten place or does he explore a dreamscape? Are those he encounter real, or are they just memories of the past? Is the terror he faces a threat, or is it no more than a reflection of himself?

Silent Hill goes to the very core of horror. To the genre's atomic structure. No place is scarier than that place inside the self.