Running Silent and Deep

Back in Innsmouth.  Again.  If I was to be totally honest, the endless back and forth across Lovecraft country does wear a girl down, but I endure, as I always do. 

More to the point, however.  There has been, as followers of all my varied internet functions (this blog, Brass and Brown Leather, my Twitter, and my Youtube channel) know, a long lull in my productivity.  And I suppose you all must wonder why that is.  What exactly is it that provokes a creative individual like myself to suddenly go into what amounts to hibernation? 

Obviously there are many answers to such a question, and the strain of everyday life is first on the list.  Managing a social interactions (never my strong point), as well as household responsibilities, my own obsessions, and the often overwhelming sense of existential angst that seems to be common to most 20 somethings with a brain can easily gang up and drag me away from my writing.  Then there are the times when my muse simply ups and leaves on me.  Why that happens tends to vary between the arcane and the utterly obvious.  In this case, he (my muse) simply got sick of me torturing myself with an intensely boring book and took a vacation.  That sort of writer’s block is sudden, and on the occasions where the issue is obvious I can usually stop the unproductive behavior and kick start my creativity back into action.  Unfortunately, I had to read that damned book regardless of my opinion on the subject, and as such even after I’d finished it my muse opted to sulk and refused to return.  This, in collusion with my life becoming its own, subtle sort of deeply screwy, kept me locked in unproductive torpor far longer than I should have been.  Like Cthulhu or his many star spawn relatives, the stars weren't right, and I hung in stasis waiting for reallignment and the return of my 'powers'.  Eventually, however, my muse returned, and I’m functional agai

.....And hot damn, I am glad he’s back.

Recent Developments

1.  I’m back at Innsmouth, and unlike the other weekend trips I’ve made over the last two months, I’m here for a week.  Thus far I have established rigorous schedule of doing a grand total of nothing other than what pleases me.  And at this juncture, it pleases me to lounge in a hammock with a margarita and/or beer in easy reach and read enormous books on the Minoan empire.  Or it will as soon as I’m done writing this.

2.  I’ve been slogging my way through The Half Made World, which has held up Steampunk Reviews for over a month.  It’s a good book, but it wins no love from me.  Too bloody dense.  Expect a review in the next week.

3.  My mother has suggested I send my rant regarding Atlantis to the National Geographic.  I’m debating whether or not to do so. 

4.  I’ve been trying to lose weight this summer, but Innsmouth always throws a spanner in the works as far as that is concerned.  You can get some of the best food and drink for miles ‘round here, and it’s really, REALLY hard to resist stuffing one’s face.  There are dozens of farms around that supply all manner of fresh produce and meat, and of course we never want for fish.    

The Innsmouth Entry, at long last

Innsmouth by day

The week before the Expo, my mother and I drove to Innsmouth to open our family’s summer home, as well as that of my grandmother, and the various work that entailed was dull and, on occasion, profoundly annoying, but had to be done anyway (one must be careful lest eldritch horrors start nesting in the attic.)  The process has also resulted in some interesting events, such as my nearly getting skewered on a curtain rod, which has at least provided me with some good stories to tell.

As for itself, Innsmouth is a lovely place.  The restaurants out here are some of the best, as is the beer and the wine.  Indeed, during our trip I had to recover from a vicious hangover, courtesy of four glasses of Innsmouth cider that I downed the night before in a fit of bravado.  The people are also great, gills aside.  If you know them and they know you and know that you aren’t going to climb out a window and try to convince people in Newbury Port to drop dynamite in Innsmouth waters, they’ll show you a good time, help you out in a neighborly fashion, and invite you to Esoteric Order of Dagon meetings (go at your own risk).  They also run absolutely awesome stores, which include some of my favorite jewelry boutiques and sources for antiquities. 

Outside of the town itself, the fields and forests in the area are of a vastly different stripe from Dunwich land.  The terrain is often unwelcoming, and it is chock full of mosquitoes who all seem to want to take a bite out of ME (aristocrats apparently taste better than plebeians).  There is one upshot, however:  the woods are home to morel mushrooms, which I, as an intrepid mycophage, pursue with a zeal bordering on the suicidal.  During our time there I spent hours scrambling up hill and down dale, basket in hand, pursuing my elusive quarry.  I also had to fend off the aforementioned bugs, dodge poison ivy, and even face off against other mushroom hunters.  A word to the wise:  If there is one person who you do not want to cross, it is the mushroom hunter.  We HATE other people infringing on what we view as our territory, and though the meeting I had was relatively cordial, all things considered, neither party involved could fully conceal their distrust and abject dislike of the other. 

All good things had to come to an end, however, and I soon had beat a hasty path to the door of the Expo, which I’ve written/am going to write about on my other blog (link forthcoming).  Go have a look!

Welcome to Dunwich

I’m currently perched in my favorite chair at home, which is upholstered in tapestry fabric with dragon heads carved as the finials on the arms, my laptop balanced on one knee and a teacup balanced on the other, and to say that I am happy to be home is the understatement of the damned century. My home town, Dunwich, is a gorgeous place at this time of year. When I came home to visit during the winter, the trees were unwelcoming skeletons. Now they’re fully clad in leaves so green it makes the mind spin and the mouth water. This is the place where I grew up for the most part, and just the smell of sun warmed chlorophyll sends my mind rocketing back to a childhood spent playing in and amongst the estates and the mysteries that dot Dunwich.

It’s a place with more than its fair share of eldritch secrets. Wandering in the woods can and will lead the intrepid into the amazing and the bizarre. There is the sensation that one has walked out of reality and into some parallel dimension, like the realm Ofelia supposedly hails from in Pan’s Labyrinth. Old manor houses, beautiful gardens, statues abandoned in the darkness of the woods, all can be found if one knows the way in and knows where to look. And like Ofelia or the girl from Arthur Machen’s The White People, I know the way in and have known since my childhood. Running wild in those woods provided me with a plethora of strange stories. None of them are fantastic or beyond the bounds of reality, but when you grow up with what amounts to a fairy tale world for your backyard it can be taken for granted that you will come out with some odd tales. And from those weird experiences grew the roots of my interests in so many areas, from my desire to become a museum curate to my obsession with Mycenaean Greece and the Minoan Empire.

And with that, I welcome you to Dunwich. I hope you enjoy your stay.

Next week I’m going to Innsmouth for several days before heading to the World Steam Expo. Hopefully I’ll be able to continue posting, but Innsmouth internet access can be a tad unpredictable, so don’t be surprised if there’s a brief lull in activity.