Archive for vampires

Nightmares, Roadside Tragedy and Other Vampiric Ick

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Books & Writing, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Psyche & Sexuality with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 11, 2010 by alphabetfiend

As a day, this one has taken an odd toll.

I awoke from a nightmare in which my little brother (a sweet affable fellow who is nothing but adoring, loving, forgiving and kind… to everyone, but to big sister certainly) was horribly vicious to me. I was writing a play in the dream and it was going well, very. I had that feverish creative energy-influx that happens when I’m working, and happens with giddy intensity when the work is going well. The play was about a young pre-pube boy and — this being a dream, a good dream at first — the play was pure lovely genius.

(I’ve had a YA novel about a young boy stewing in the far back of my mind, in real life, although it is developing so far back that it feels almost dream-like. The book has a steampunk theme which adds to the dreamy quality. I write literary fiction, not YA or sci-fi genre fiction so this project, if published, would be published under a pen-name.)

As I was dreaming, I assumed that the play must be referencing this project’s viability. Writing in dreams and buzzing/thrilling over the work is, for me, akin to sex dreams, only better because I prefer that writerly jangle to any other feeling in the world. So this was a damn good dream until suddenly the goodness and the writing were shattered by this familial attack which took me not just away from the writing but away from all semblance of security and comfort, leaving me homeless. The love my brother has for me in real life was completely non-existent and he terrorized me with relentless cruelty. I was especially stunned by this because things were going so well with the writing and how could he do this to me when I was peaking creatively??

(Of course those in the know will recognize that this has nothing at all to do with my brother and everything to do with the events of the past year; my best friend would snort at that “last year” part and point out that these issues go much farther back.) My brother has been a loyal ally in this mess and definitely didn’t deserve to be portrayed this way by my subconscious.

In fact when I called him, crying, he teased “You crazy dreamer!”

“I dreamt you didn’t love me, ” I sniffed.

“Not true, “ he said. “I do love you. I love you dearly.”

Normally, after a nightmare, I like to go back to sleep and re-work it in my favor like a good little lucid dreamer, but Mr. and Mrs. Robot had surprised me with a shiny new fridge for the Mississippi love shack and it was due to be delivered this morning. Yes, poor me, nobody loves me, everybody hates me, mize I go eat worms. Here I am, lavished with love, spoiled rotten like a summer peach, and yet sobbing into my pillow over imaginary unkind acts. Yet, I couldn’t shake my woe as I emptied out the old fridge in preparation for the new fridge’s arrival. Nothing helped to alleve my ill-temper, not the Bot’s sweet buss or the nuzzling of the baby wookie; not the loving assurances of my brother or the new “icebox” as Mrs. Robot says in her southern way. Not even my baby niece screaming “DIA! DIA!” as she runs to me for hugs & sugars. (She has just started to include the “i” rather than calling me “Da.”)

Then my big niecey shows up (little niecy’s too-young mama, I call them Thing 1 and Thing 2.) We’re gushing over the baby’s cuteness and plotting an art project for tomorrow, when Thing 1’s boyfriend comes in and says, “It’s good y’all got held up yesterday or you’da been on the road when that semi crossed the median.”  Why? Were there fatalities? Robot Boy hands me the paper and there on the front page is the familiar sad image from the day before. Up until that moment I’d held out hope — foolish hope — that everything had been okay.

Yesterday, we were just about to walk out the door for a much anticipated errand into town, the 9th of July being the expiration of our rip-off cell phone contract. Our family was now free to move to ATT and join the iphone madness. Thing 1 had been waiting for this day for weeks, warning the lazier members of the family (Robo and myself) that she wanted to be there at 9 am on the dot and would not tolerate our usual night-owl excuses or late-starts. I was so worried I’d over-sleep, I ended up with insomnia but hey I was there with bells on, no delays. But then Uncle Robot suggests to Thing 1 that she call around and make sure the iphones are in stock, offering to drive to the coast if needed. A short while later, having learned that there wasn’t an iphone to be had in all of MS or LA, we’re off to cancel our old service and place an order for future iphones. We looked like a clown car, packed in like sardines. Thing 1 and I shared the tiny backseat with Thing 2’s carseat. Slowing to a crawl on a normally breezy stretch of highway, we knew it couldn’t be good. The debris on the side of the road — including a wheelchair, lonely and eerie on the sunlit asphalt — made us squirm.

Well, the state troopers are filming it, says the Robot gravely. So there were fatalities.”

I desperately hoped that he was mistaken.

That was just after 9 am. We went on to have a great day of family togetherness:  jumping on the iphone bandwagon, sharing a nice lunch at Olive Garden of all places. Thing 1 was thrilled. Thing 2 was adorable. Mrs. Robot was proud to be out and about with her children. The Robot and I were just digging on the cozy vibes —  glad to be in town, making our loved ones happy. It was after 2pm as we headed home, so we were shocked to see the accident still there on the other side of the highway. Only now, that side of the road was closed off, as they laboriously lured a canary yellow rig with trailer still attached out of the brushy woods.

The road had been closed for so long that people were out of their cars and milling about on the hot tar. SUVs with impatient drivers spun their wheels in the swampy muck of the median; stuck like sitting ducks, now in need of their own tow trucks, awaiting police citations.

A hush fell over our happy car.

Thing 1 tucked her chin into her chest and resisted the urge to suck her thumb (a hard habit to break.)

My heart broke at the sight of that wheelchair, knowing with certainty that this was indeed the same accident and not just some new nothing.

It wasn’t nothing, it was SOMETHING and, for that family that lost 4 members in the blink of an eye, it was an ENORMOUS SOMETHING.

They were from our same po-dunk town (a town that can barely afford to lose four citizens.) They were a family heading into “town.” There were too many of them crammed into too small a vehicle. We were 5 (4 and 1/2?) and they were 4. We were in Thing 1’s itty-bitty KIA, they were in a pick-up (wheelchair loaded into the bed of the truck?) Myself and Thing 1, we weren’t wearing seatbelts. Same thing with three of them. One was Mrs. Robot’s age, another was my age. They were on the same stretch of road that we would’ve been on if not for Uncle Robot wanting to give his niece immediate ipod satisfaction. It could easily have been us — mowed down on a Friday morning, after the front tire blew out on an 18-wheeler, causing the driver to lose control and shoot across the median into oncoming traffic. Or we could have been the woman behind the pick-up who wasn’t hurt, except that she had to watch the whole thing happen which surely shaved a good ten years off her life.

Damn if that doesn’t put it all into perspective.

My heart breaks for that family, for that woman who witnessed the accident and even for the truck driver who escaped with minor injuries. I’m from a trucking family; my Dad ran a trucking company and his Daddy before him and his Daddy before him. I know that a driver never gets over this kind of thing. I know he faces his own rueful suffering.

Up until this morning, ignorance was bliss. I could still believe that they survived the accident. I’m fully aware of how quickly everything changed for them, and for the surviving members of their family. It’s not meaningful because it could’ve been us, but it’s that proximity — having seen the real-life version of that grainy newspaper photo — that makes it all the more real.

It sits sticky and heavy in my gut, like black tar and roadside gravel.

This dreary afternoon, done with chores and family socializing, having sat crying over the newspaper, I retreated to bed. I pulled my laptop onto my belly for more research on my recent obsession with William Blake’s painting “The Ghost of a Flea.” How icky could that be right? Yea. I ended up reading this spooky, creepy stuff about vampiric entities and mind parasites. Sonofabitch. I’m done with this damn day. Except it’s a Saturday and I have to write the Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel. The song I’d planned on is far too cheery. (Devo? No.) So don’t be surprised if this Sunday is more of a silent be grateful for what you have cause it could gone in a flash kinda Sunday.

*************************************

Author’s Addendum: having thought of the perfect song — “Death Don’t Have No Mercy” — I managed to do the Punk Rock Gospel. I featured the versions by Reverend Gary Davis (who did it originally) and the ever-brilliant Ramblin’ Jack Elliot. For a fine musical post-script to this shitty Saturday see Sunday’s Death don’t have No Mercy (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel.)

**************************************

Out of respect for the family, I have decided not to mention the names of the deceased. This writing was about the witnessing. This is not my loss, these aren’t my loved ones, and those aren’t my names to drop. They were our towns folk however. I didn’t know them but Mrs. Robot did; she says the family ran (runs?) a dance school for kids. Our hearts go out to their family. We ache for the monumental loss that no one family should have to bear. I hate that this has happened and I’m so very sorry for everyone involved. These photos are not mine, they were taken by Channel 4 wwltv, where more details are available.

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True Blood Theme Song: “Bad Things” by Jace Everett

Posted in Rock & Roll, TV with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2008 by alphabetfiend

I got lotsa hits on my blog about HBO’s vampire soap opera “True Blood”and from the searches y’all were doin’ to get there it’s clear you’re beguiled by Blood’s theme song —  “Bad Things” by Jace Everett.  The song is G-damn juicy and so far it’s the best thing about “True Blood.”  On his myspace page, Everett lists existentialism & American Spirit Cigarettes among his influences.  (He’s also an Obama fan. Good man.)  “Bad Things” is a great fit with “True Blood.”  The song has a gritty southern sound and a mysterious, naughty vibe.  Very Vampire in the deep south looking to lunch on a telepathic virgin!  Chomp chomp. 

I wanna do bad things with you

When you came in the air went out.
And every shadow filled up with doubt.
I don’t know who you think you are,
But before the night is through,
I wanna do bad things with you.

I’m the kind to sit up in his room.
Heart sick an’ eyes filled up with blue.
I don’t know what you’ve done to me,
But I know this much is true:
I wanna do bad things with you.

When you came in the air went out.
And all those shadows there are filled up with doubt.
I don’t know who you think you are,
But before the night is through,
I wanna do bad things with you.
I wanna do real bad things with you.
Ow, ooh.

I don’t know what you’ve done to me,
But I know this much is true:
I wanna do bad things with you.
I wanna do real bad things with you.

*************************************************************************************************************************

I love’s me a trickster fox so this trailer with decomposing fox is some sly bewitching… the trailer and the theme by Everett are the best of HBO’s “True Blood” but I’m expecting more with Six Feet Under’s Alan Ball at the helm.  The man also brought us the masterpiece “American Beauty” so there’s gotta be more to “True Blood” than bad accents and rapish goaded gnashing of man-fangs.  I do doubt that Southerners consider it polite to masturbate on your neighbors porch.  Why, that’s just manners!

If only the show were more like the trailer….

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten — a writer & wanna be circus freak living in Austin, Texas.

Can’t Sink My Fangs Into HBO’s “True Blood”

Posted in TV with tags , , , , , , , , on September 22, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“When you came in the air went out and every shadow filled up with doubt.   I don’t know who you think you are but before the night is through, I wanna do bad things with you.”the killer cool theme for True Blood by Jace Everett, part of a promise that hasn’t yet delivered.

I vant  to love “True Blood”  —  HBO’s latest show by Alan Ball, the brilliant mind behind “American Beauty” and  “Six Feet Under.”  Ball breathed new life into TV with Six Feet and I was cuckoo for caskets all 5 seasons.  So I was hungry for True Blood.  I craved a juicy juju… a gothic gumbo… but I aren’t satisfied.  My fangs are sharp and ready. My senses are heightened. I can almost taste the metallic taint of black soil & sticky sweet plasma.  But No.  The show has not tilted its head to offer up a gurgling jugular. True Blood is a tooth-tease. My incisors are an achy shade of blue. The pretense is promising: bottled blood gives vampiric barflys the freedom  to finally “come out of the casket.”  Set in the deep south, I figgered we’d see Ball gnashing his gothic chops; doing for vampires what he did for undertakers, creating complex characters with darkly gorgeous mindscapes.  I’m gonna make like a bat and hang in there, hoping to be sucked in,  but last night’s episode began with 10 long insufferable minutes. I was hating on it hard,  feeling there was nothing to feed on, when suddenly there came a scene that gave my vamp a little vim:

“What animates you no longer animates me.”

“What does animate you then?  Blood?  How do you digest it if nothing works?”

“Magic.  You think that it’s not magic that keeps you alive?  Just ’cause you understand the mechanics of how something works doesn’t make it any less of a miracle. Which is just another word for magic. We’re all kept alive by magic, Sookie. My magic’s just a little different from yours.”

Yummy!    I’ve often made that very same case for magic.   What is more magical than molecules?   We have blood in our veins and we make up age-old stories about night creatures who slurp that blood.   To be made of blood and teeth, of fancy and myth,   it just don’t get more magical than this.   So maybe I’ll learn to like that deadpan Drac yet… maybe he’s not such a irksome piglet after all.   Time will tell —  though unlike some,  I’m not immortal — so bring it on, Ball ’cause this bitch ain’t got all night.

            ******

“She can suck on sunlight for all I care.” — evil disco-afro vampiress

Heroes tonight!!!!  Hooray!!!

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten — a writer & wanna-be circus freak living in Austin, Texas.

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