As I Went Out One Morning.

This must be shared.

A Nudge.

It’s the 21^st of November. Like all dates, it bears its joys and woes. 315 years since the birth of Voltaire. 234 years since the death of John Hill, the first man to ever write a book about honey, the critically acclaimed: The Virtues of Honey in Preventing Many of the Worst Disorders; and in the Certain Cure of Several Others; The Gravel, Asthmas, Consumptions, Etc. And a further 198 years since the suicide of Heinrich von Kliest, of whom the immediate half of this blog entry is dedicated to.

Von Kliest was a German writer, an influence on Kafka and a freind of Goethe and Schiller. He shot his lover in the head, and then himself. Among his many achievements is a novella I’m going to insist you read. It’s called Michael Kohlhaas and that link will take you to the source text. Kafka said of this particular short, “I could not even think of it without being moved to tears and enthusiasm.”

There are spoilers here, mind, but only for this paragraph. Historically, the merchant Hans Kohlhase was a real man. He lived in a town that was incorporated into Berlin during the 16th century. In October 1532 he set out on a trip to the Leipzig Trade Fair. On the way two of his horses were seized, at the command of the Junker von Zaschwitz, as a supposed fee for passage through Saxony. Kohlhase sought redress in the Saxon courts but failed to obtain it. Outraged, he issued a public challenge in 1534 and burned down houses in Wittenberg. Even a letter of admonition from Martin Luther could not dissuade him, and Kohlhase and the band he collected committed further acts of terror. In 1540 he was finally captured and tried, and was publicly broken on the wheel in Berlin on 22 March 1540. From this history Kleist fashioned a novella that dramatized a personal quest for justice in defiance of the claims of the general law and the community.

The short was turned into a film in 1999 called The Jack Bull. The trailer for it is shitty, as can be expected, though all evidence points to it being a good story. If you’ve seen it, drop me a comment.

Along with that, it’s also the birthday of Richard Thomas. You could worse than treating yourself to his short story Everything is Beautiful over at Troubadour 21.

Remember, Remember.

So two of the pages are up–something of an anti-climax, isn’t it? But I intend to make these posts somewhat more full, somewhat more nourishing, maybe not more common as I hope this is a little more like a news portal, rather than a blog. I mean: I know it says blog in the header, but that’s only to sucker you in like. I have a new story live at Troubadour 21, it goes by the name of Spiderlegs–I’m not all too sure why. You can find the link to it in the work page or by clicking the excerpted image below.

 

---

November 5^th, anyway. Bad fireworks are killing themselves over this trench frightening the neighbours’ dogs and blowing wet and coloured smoke over this microworld, though Google Weather claims we’re in thick fog. Very distantly the sounds of some sort of siren. You really hope it’s the police because the idea of some kid getting their fingers blown off by a banger, or fire cracker for the yanks, isn’t one that sits too well in your stomach. That discussion though is one rooted too uncomfortably in the real, in the boring, malefic, fog-is-never-thick-enough-and-smells where-are-my-socks and why-aren’t-you-outside-it’s-bonfire-night real. Though, not to digress down that alley, but folk aren’t having bonfires until Saturday, because it’s the weekend and they’re too miserable to celebrate the martyrdom of Guy Fawkes failure of the Gunpowder Plot. Even that, though, is not the subject of which I’m entirely keen to speak. Not, my true subject, as you might well have guessed, is V. I can’t remember how I first came to know him. I certainly knew of the comic before I saw the film, but I don’t know whether I’d read it. I fell asleep during the film–and the film is something folk don’t like to talk about, either, a loyalty for Mr. Moore bubbling up in their veins. Not that I wish to poopoo such things. You may believe what you like about screenwriters, but Alan Moore wrote that film and it’s as valid an entry point to the comic as anything else, and even has a handful of merits of it’s own, though nobody seems to want to admit them aloud. That speech though was damn entertaining, you know the one: verily veribund valiant vagina etc. Loved it. Of course, the film had it’s problems. It lacked in an almost violent capacity the wit and soul of its master work and those failures are unforgivable. And yet, still, one feels the desire to celebrate this holiday, if not in the sanctioned manner, is attributable to t V for Vendetta. And so I leave you with this small excerpt, with only the thought that perhaps this post could have been better written.  Enjoy your evening, click to enlarge the image.

Almost Done.

Sorry about this short leave. I am attempting to clean things up and sort out pages and the sort, they’ll be uploaded and running before November 5th, I promise. I’m surprised so many folk keep coming back here, actually, and I appreciate your faithfulness and continued loyalty and it will be, of course, rewarded. As an apology, anyway, please accept these titbits as a sign and promise of the professionalism and joy that is bound to come your way:

Writer’s Bloc is printed on 100% post-consumer internet. Unauthorized illuminated manuscript copies are prohibited. The site’s layout is gorgeous and the fiction is of supreme quality. I really think the place’s interface is one of the best on the internet and I do spend a fair bit of time stalking sites. I’m repeating myself again here, but only for emphasis, not because I’m a tool: the fiction showcased  is wonderful. And of course, now the blooming arrogance shows, you’ve caught me,  I do have a piece in Issue #6, available come December. Obviously there will be more about that then, but right now I couldn’t advise you more to go and have a look at the site.

I can only say that Caleb J. Ross is a creepy and immaculate stylist. Charactered Pieces is a 63-page perfect bound chapbook from OWC Press. It’s cheap (the cover is excellent) and it’s received nothing but praise from the underground as it stands; and it does stand, crookedly in the low-ceilinged sewers of this very internet reading that short collection by a four-watt bulb. His stories have never bored me, never failed to elicit shameful grins and so many minutes of that specific glee one gets from articulate, clever and confrontational literature. The best thing, too, is having not to rush in blind. The work section of his website has links to an untold number of macabre and marvellous stories online and you can get a taste for his mischeif before shelling out the few dollars asked for with this lovely little book. I’m getting mine preordered as soon as pay-day rolls around, and you should too.

Beyond that I’ve work to do in order to fulfill my promise of this place being clean by November. Take care and sleep well.