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@jamesedgarpurvis-blog
Really excited to finally announce the launch of RAISED BY BATS âArt, Music and Other Diversions for People Who Hang Upside Down In The Darkâ. The basic idea is to publish a âfront pageâ bi-monthly that will act as a teaser for the online presence. Aside from its own dot com (after the holidays) RBB (or Rabid) will have several mirror sites. You can get the dribble already, here at good ol Tumblr.
Time and Resonance: U M M Ă G M A
Autumn 2016 Music can cause as well as calm storms: a very real magic that good music seems to share without respect for genre or the time in which a given album is born into. It has been, after all, a difficult period for many of us. After moving to Knoxville this Summer, Iâve had a lot of unexpected readjustments to make. A coping skill Iâve carried throughout my life: music. It has helped me weather storms before, and its energy seems capable of aiding in the creative process no matter what you are doing. Lately, Iâve been listening to a lot of music by a band that seems pleasantly out-of-time and hard to put in a specific creative box: Ummagma. The band has been described by friends who share my musical affinities as ethereal, abrasive, lush and lovely - all descriptions that fit, each in their own ways. The truth is, I canât recall how I first heard about Ummagma, or how they wound up in my regular rotation list. Iâve been known to call the band âumma gummaâ at least once in any conversation in which they become a part of. This is mostly because I was weaned on Pink Floydâs effects drenched sounds from an early age. I am still likely to break into Syd Barrettâs nonsensical lyrics for âBicycleâ or tell a stranger if he doesnât eat his meat he canât have any pudding (this happens mostly in grocery stores), so Ummagma will have to pardon my excessive descriptions concerning their name, and the associations it has for me personally. Names have a way of transcending mere syllables to remind us of complex relationships to events and situations in our everyday lives. Sometimes certain music becomes a kind of soundtrack for these events. I find myself listening to Ummagma not because they really remind me of a post-psychedelic era Floyd (or anyone else), but because of how much space is filled up by their sound and how the spaces in between still seem as important, despite their seeming emptiness (which may be the point). How music speaks to you (and what it says) is the important thing to take away. Ummagma leave me with a feeling much like that of a half-recalled dream. I used to wake up with the sounds from some ghostly symphony still echoing hollowly in my headâŠand their music is a lot like that for me. It is strange, tactile, abrasive and beautiful all and at once. The listening is an experience, and that may be, in the end, the strongest endorsement I can give a band in an age of easily produced pop music. This music does not sound easy. Perhaps an alternative name might be Not Easy Listening. Again, a bit of a misnomer since listening to Ummagma is actually very easy, gentle even when it is rough and textured enough not seem overly soothing. And, like the pop music it is not, very rewarding in an immediate way.
Addendum: Iâve been listening to the beautiful EP âFrequencyâ just lately, and I should mention the song Lama, remixed by Robin Guthrie. This track is really the piece I keep coming back to, even though some of the other songs are more entrancing. On Lama, the rhythm skitters away unobtrusively, like breezes in the brush. Iâm not entirely sure what was going on in the brush, because my head felt stuffed full of soft sounds, conjured up both electronically, and by the beauty of Shauna McLarnonâs ethereal voice. It is filled with longing, a kind of empty space where a half-recalled memory might lie. The song pulls on that long filament attached to the heart that connects us with love, loss, even hope; it is powerful and pleasant, a low-voltage buzz that hurts sweetly. The closest thing to a real nod to Pink Floyd seems to be Galacticon. At under 3 minutes long, this soundscape seems immense despite its brevity. It is built with synthetic strings that remind me of the best sounds from 1980âs synthesizers, drenched in reverb. In place of lyrics, sound effects bubble out of the string sounds: some may be my own imagination, and all to better illustrate the illusion of space and time. The jingle of harness, the expectant hush and roar of a large audience, the low moan of wind, and the radio chatter of a space landing. All of which seem to suggest the illusion of time, and the sweetness of life, as short as the song in comparison with the immensity of a single galaxy. An even shorter song, Ocean Girl, is relaxing, acoustic, and filled with Alexx Kretovâs soulfully imploring: âWake upâŠâ calling across an ocean of sleep. This whole EP is richly textured (with Lama, itâs remixes, and several other songs), and feature the haunted, luminous vocals of both Kretov and McLarnon, both of whom inform Ummagmaâs music with a vitality that plays well with the sweetly spectral quality of much of the music. That this band can create such amazing music while living in separate countries (Ukraine and Canada, respectively) should serve as positive reenforcement to others seeking to reach across borders and boundaries, both literal and figurative.
Main all-ages public blog
Main public all-ages blog
Where my unfinished or finished but professionally unedited work lives.
I think Siri is trying to kill me.
I moved to a new area, and the GPS on my phone has been a lifesaver. I donât know how lost Iâd be without it.Â
But lately, itâs beenâŠdoing some strange things.Â
At first it was kind of funny. The GPS would instruct me to take a turn where there was no intersection, like it wanted to run me off the road. Or it would guide me to the rocky overhangs that fall away into the sea - the âscenic overlookâ of the highway by the beach.Â
But for the most part, it gets me where I need to go, and Siriâs mechanical voice in my car is almost like a friend.Â
Which is why Iâm so confused right now.Â
Because I followed the path the GPS told me to, and itâs saying Iâve arrived at my destinationâŠbut this doesnât seem right. I donât see a movie theater anywhere. I just see some big, unmarked buildings - warehouses maybe? Thereâs a big chain with a padlock across the door of one.Â
At first I thought the whole area was abandoned, but when I stopped to check the map on my phone and figure out where things went wrong, people started to appear. I didnât notice them at first; I was busy typing out this text message, because the storyâs hilarious, right?Â
Ha. Ha.Â
They emerged from between buildings and started to approach the car. Theyâre dressed weirdly, wearing cloaks and hoods, and I thought I saw a bloody symbol carved into the forehead of one but I canât be sure.Â
Some of them are carrying knives. Some of them have ropes.Â
Someone jabs a blade into my tire; I feel the weight of the car shift sideways as a low hiss escapes it.Â
âŠIf you get this, send help.
You can use the GPS from my phone.Â
Obviously this guy has a clue. Do a SR-667 Report and that way we are covered. It may just be a coincidence now that Iâve read it a few times. But UN laws about AI autonomy are pretty strict. If it ever came out that we permitted Apple full immunity for Incident 667 we would be inâŠwell, I donât want to think about it. Get it done.
INSOMNIAnovella What is past is prolog⊠The dead men came knocking on our door, covered in end rolls of peeling wallpaper. You could hear the paste powder and drop to the top step under the uneven rhythm. Daddy said only people banged on the door after midnight was the law and dead men. There wasnât no blue and red lights, except what was on the balding Christmas tree, still up and it March already. They knocked again, louder. I could hear a whimper like one of them was sad to be here. âTake the baby and go lock your self in the bathroom,â my daddy said. Momma took Loy and pulled him towards the bathroom. He pulled back. âI wanna stay with Skinny,â he told Momma. Even he called me that, now. âGo on, go with Momma,â I said. I heard the door lock click right before the men hammered at the door again. Daddy handed me a shotgun. It was a 20-gauge so I could shoot it okay. Shells were all slugs. âYou shoot if they both come at me, but only then. Otherwise you just stand there.â Then he picked up his own gun, held it ready. His hair was sticking up from sleep. He opened the door. And the dead men came in. They were gray, like they had fallen into a pile of ashes. One laughed, one kind of moaned. They smelled sweet, kinda. Like whiskey. Daddy drank it, too, sometimes. He would go a long, long time and not need it. And heâd look at a picture, or see somebody at the Superette when he went in to settle our bill. And heâd come home and go out to the shed and heâd sit out there with the kerosene heater and drink. âYou must be a fool,â daddy said quietly. The laughing man stopped laughing. He looked over at me andâŠgrinned. His teeth. Jesus please, I prayed. His teeth were thin and broken and sharp. Pieces of meat were stuck in between them. âThe boy?â the man asked. The other one moaned again. My daddy pulled the trigger, racked his shotgun and fired again. The smoke smelled bitter. Black blood and ashes were all over the wall. There werenât much left of the man. âYou go on, now,â daddy told the other one. âSleep.â #writersofinstagram #instagramhub #horror #southerngothic #dirtysouth #grit #shortstory #killers
INSOMNIAnovella Past + Part 2 My brother lived in the ruin of an old amusement park called Canyonland on Lookout Mountain that had been closed for twenty years. He had joined the Marines and come home from Iraq with PTSD and stories that scared all his old friends away. Somebody gave him a couple lines of meth at a party and it seemed to calm him down somehow. âTrailer park meth cookâ was already a career choice, with most of the mills closing, so the stuff was cheap. Within three months he was a junky, shooting up in the ruin of old carnival rides, his Marine Corps body already dissolved into a maggot-white armature of skin-and-bone. Before long everyone was calling him Skinny just like when we were kids. Mama told me where to find him when I came home for summer break. âLoy, he says the dead men come to see him again,â she told me. âYou got to talk to him. Get him to sleep.â I could see that old hunted look she used to get, when daddy would be drinking in the shed. Helpless. Scared of something she couldnât put into words. Daddy had tried to protect Kenny back then. He never did understand. We had both suffered from night terrors, and the longer you fought sleep the more it drew them to you. But they hadnât been after Kenny. I stopped at the Superette on the way out to Canyonland. I knew if he had spoken about the Gray Men to Mama they would keep coming back. I needed some practical help. The gumball machine was still there. Little ninjas instead of robots. Same thing. I bought a hand full and turned off the highway toward the park. Maybe I wasnât too late. I found him under a piece of tarp, sitting in the purple car of an old ride called the Roundabout. His eyes were huge pools of sleepless anguish. âLittle brother,â he nodded at the opposite seat. I sat. âHow long since you slept?â He didnât reply. I saw the syringes, then. It was getting dark. I reached in my pocket for the plastic toy ninjas, bit the inside of my mouth until I tasted blood. Spit on the figures and tossed them behind us. #writersofinstagram #dirtysouth #horror #instagramhub #urbanfantasy #nightterrors #insomnia #writerscommunity #lookoutmountain #ghoststories
INSOMNIAnovella Past/Part 3 Skinny couldnât close his eyes without seeing the boy in the ditch outside Fallujah, grasping in the sticky red dirt for the other half of his body. Now he sat with his brother in a derelict carnival ride listening to the Gray Men close in. âThey been chasin me all my life, Loy,â Kenny said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. âI fight the devil almost every day, but it looks like he finally caught his supper.â âYou werenât always this stupid, big brother,â Loy told him. He kicked a pile of used syringes towards Skinny. âIf I sleep, they can find me,â his brother protested. âYou think thereâs somebody in this county who doesnât know where youâre hiding? Besides, you arenât the one theyâre chasing. I am.â âYou?â And then the Gray Men were on them. The biggest one crawled up under the tarp and stood, flakes of ash falling from his body. He grinned, and his jaws came unhinged so they could see the rows of broken teeth rising from suppurating gums. The stench of rotting meat was overpowering. More of them closed from the sides and from behind the first one. The one in front seemed to mutter. âWhatâs it saying?â Skinny asked. âThatâs the speech of Eden. From before death came to be. But theyâve forgotten parts,â Loy said. âItâs saying itâs hungry. And tired.â âThereâs too many of em,â his brother whimpered. âI brought some friends along,â Loy said. Several figures in black, waxy cloth rose up behind them. They carried weapons like swords that blurred when they moved, like a smear of mercury across the dying sunlight. #writersofinstagram #writers #instagramhub #southerngothic #horror #speed #grays #zombies #alabamawriters #blackmagic #strangetales #shortstories READ COMMENTS FOR OTHER PARTS. THANKS!
A Review of The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson
#thegargoyle #bookreviews #bookreviewofthegargoyle #andrewdavidson #burnvictims #sculpture #reincarnation #rebirth. #gayviking
A Review of Jitterbug Perfume, my Favorite Tom Robbins Novel
#jitterbugperfume #alobar #kudra #bookreviews #immortality #tomrobbins
Autumn is coming and with it: Shades of Winter
He wanted to become a new person. A new man. The old one was just a bad dream, an ugly thing he would rather forget, from his earliest memories to last night with Mary.
He had the money, but he knew if he got a face job in Las Vegas it would raise uncomfortable questions. And eventually Maryâs sister would come along, sticking her long nose around, asking questions. And he knew she would smell out his lies. She was just like Mary in that way.
He thought about L.A. or heading down to Florida. But Los Angeles was too close to Vegas and he had business there, too; getting a new face would be easy enough, but no one in L.A. was going to let him become a new man. Florida was farther away, but it was where anyone running away from anything went. The state hung limply from the continent, slowly filling up with old people retiring from their own old lives and kids running away from new ones, and homeless, shiftless rejects of all types. No, Florida was a swamp, full of mosquitoes and beaches overgrown with salt stained motelsâŠand, besides, his brother Haskell lived there, in a little town full of off-season circus freaks. He might hide thereâŠbut he couldnât become new there.
He decided the only place he could go was Mexico. He would walk across the border and disappear for a while.
So he went to Texas, transferred some money to a bank across the border from Brownsville. Bought a disguise from a local party store already stocking costumes for Halloween. He bought a can of tanning bronzer that made him look more like an orange-skinned Oompa Loompa. He dyed his hair dark brown to match the fake beard and moustache. Got a big cowboy hat and hoped he looked different enough. In case the law looked at the cameras. If Maryâs sister was given a look she would point him right out, he knew. Just like Mary. She didnât want him to have a new life. She wanted him to keep paying for his old one.
He crossed the border as a day tourist. Went to the outskirts of Matamoros by bus. He had a crumpled business card that read Dr. Gerald Chin, DDS. DPh. A number and an address. The office turned out to be right above a pharmacy. The receptionist looked Mexican, and when she answered the phone she spoke Spanish. But the doctor was Chinese. âAmerican,â he smiled. âI went to dental school at the University of Florida.â
It turned out that Dr. Chin had a lot of skills he had failed to advertise on his business card. But when he asked Chin if he could make him a new man, better than the old one, the dentist just smiled and wiped his hands on his white smock.
He came back the next morning. He had eaten nothing and had only a few sips of bottled water. The receptionist led him back to a green-tiled room with a reclining chair like dentists used, but bigger. Another man was there, and Chin introduced him as Dr. Ortiz. He was tall, pale and wore a blue paper gown, a surgical mask and laytex gloves. He spoke in slightly accented English, asking routine questions.
âWhat kind of doctor are you?â âIâm a forensic psychiatrist,â the tall man answered. âDr. Chin says you wish to be a new man. ToâŠlive. A new life?â
And then Chin was done with his scrubbing, had on a mask and gloves himself.
And a long syringe.
Thomas Hawk
There is only one price freedom will accept and that's blood.
I'm sorry. I meant oil not freedom.
