The Other Monster

July 15, 2017

Monte Alban 2

 

“This is the hour when moonstruck poets know
What fungi sprout in Yuggoth…”
FUNGI FROM YUGGOTH, H.P. Lovecraft

I recall “Weird Tales” as a vestigial memory in the magazine rack of my childhood. I didn’t know anyone who read it, but I didn’t know anyone who read” Scientific American” either. There’s something embarrassingly peeper and voyeuristic about it, like smut promising men’s adventure mags, it was a publication that adults warned children to stay away from…or at least keep in the basement by the paint and turpentine…

Oh no wait, I’m having either a disgusting Proustian moment, or planting a memory. My Uncle’s Uncle may have been a perv…now I only have 3,999 more pages of recherché…

Or maybe he just found them and kept them like he saved other kinds of paper. Maybe that’s either part of his concealed perviness. Or it’s symptomatic of a mental McGuffin meant to throw me off the plotline that he had a second family in a village in Greece, a wife disfigured in WWII who he had tried to poison but failed, however she has turned mute either as a consequence of the poison, or to disguise her own plan for revenge, but having only a partial right hand she remains even more dependent on him than most Greek peasant wives. Nonetheless one Tuesday morning he leaves her promising to find their fortune in America and send for her. He sends her money orders from the illicit quarters and nickels he makes collecting “bug” slips over on Squirrel Hill. She can’t write. He sends money but more and more sporadically, not knowing if she’s alive or dead. The cover of that issue of Weird Tales” is illustrated with a man with an open shirt, sweating heavily, looking anxiously over his shoulder at a shadowed twisting road…yet stereotypes can translate with unexpected nuances. The picture may have served as something like an icon of his guilt, or a protective image of the patron saint of constant flight.

Otherwise he seems annoyed and busy with keeping books. When he does that he puts on reading glasses that disturbingly make him appear as if he is both reptilian and dozing, at the same time his lips move silently mouthing his calculations and column headings in Greek. He is rude, nearly abusive, to his ‘second’ wife who is from a second-generation Greek immigrant family rooted on a desolate island. He berates her in English, she mutters back Greek folk sayings that could be curses or protective jests, then lights another filtered cigarette. She is pious, laughs nervously, bakes incessantly, and blesses even the smallest of events, laying down a low trump card, or flicking her cigarette and missing the ash tray. Perhaps she was the one who found the magazine. Her frugality is relentless. She saves Christmas used Christmas paper under her bed.

In my memories I don’t recall seeing my Uncle’s uncle paint, or do a single domestic chore…perhaps the paint, turpentine and “Weird Tales” belonged to a different person altogether. A relative of a relative who barely spoke English and needed work, or needed to barter off a debt. After he had painted the interior, he arranged the leftover supplies neatly stacked on a basement shelf with the magazine he had been trying to read to practice English, but found he had no form in any of his languages to correctly translate the events that the cover and pages promised to unfold, so he left it behind, not wanting to throw away a book, even though it had no meaning. Perhaps during the war, he had witnessed book burnings, been forced to burn his own books, or been coerced to burn the books of others…somehow found himself stimulated by it. He may have carried some kind of sensibility in his fingertips as he riffles the pages of a book the way others might feel pleasure caressing fur. Leaving the magazine perfectly arranged on that shelf gave him an incomprehensible, detached satisfaction, a quiet sense of order. Perhaps he tore up a different copy to wrap his paint brushes when he had finished cleaning them. Folding the pages of the fantasy sub-Hells into envelopes to keep the bristles straight with the kind of ingenuity that comes from a generational tradition of endemic poverty that demands painstaking thrift, and intimate focus on re-utilizing and preserving. He left it then as a bonus, a kindness, that indicated gratitude and optimism.

Or the basement isn’t a basement in that house on Ravenwood, but a waiting tentacle of some Lovecraft creature beneath, the untranslatable fungus that paints itself with fear, but only as a lure…an attraction to the unconscious mind of someone who has picked up that edition of “Weird Tales”. It is another eternal fungus that lives by eating memories. For decades it may rest dormant, encased in a seeming insignificant forgotten detail, and then once remembered it’s released and begins its awful blooming. I can barely recollect my Uncle’s uncle now. He has been dead for more than two generations. I didn’t like him very well. Whether he had a disfigured second wife or no, he was a short-tempered, unpleasant man with poor digestion, who always appeared to want to be somewhere else than where we were. Although I try to keep any memory with the kind of compulsive hoarding the “Weird Tales” has come to represent. If by long meditative work I could organize my memories into a Memory Palace, he would be in an imagined basement represented by a peripheral and disregarded fantasy magazine that, strangely, if it could be removed from its immutable location, I would read it, but with the amplified depth and expectations I might bring to translating a remnant form of a different civilization, perhaps a fragment of a myth not included in “The Metamorphosis”…at least as a text with a meaning beyond its circumstance. On the cover is a man looking over his shoulder at a shadowy twisting road. Like so much, it is incomprehensible, but will not stop.

Reader don’t leave me here. Do you feel what this horror pulp has generated? Or is this merely near the 15th day of the Seventh month…and I’m being psychically enlisted to bring magazines to my dead relatives whose spirits Chinese bankers have come to possess through collapsed junk bond loans wherein a side codicil encumbered the souls of immigrant dead as collateral. Or I put my own family in Diyu when I set a scribbled drawing of a nu gui on fire and tacked it to a classroom wall as an illustration. Either way I must pay rent in Diyu. I know nothing about the hungry realms after death, except we will sweat through our shirts to try to escape, and some of us would rather remain here as even as a fugitive, intermittently growing fungus buried in an obscure publication than enter an existence predicted only by the longing we feel for things that aren’t there.

Perhaps this extrapolation can be dismissed as merely a rare, but possible, side effect from my last two weeks of writing and rewriting a sonnet about Georgia O’Keeffe’s black door paintings, and then looking up from my computer to discover “The Brain That Wouldn’t Die”, in all its B & W smuttiness, had replaced my expected distracted viewing of Wimbledon. O ironic cosmos that places stars into the boot soles of Whitman, and larvae in the commas of Lovecraft, why have you denied me the pleasure of watching images of deer-like women athletes chasing across green lawns and left me hypnotized by the image of woman’s sadistic, disembodied head ordering murders and capriciously refusing to be grafted onto the body of a gullible strip tease artiste’? Why must there always be a monstrous hand behind the locked door? Why should a sleazy tenor sax solo be the prelude to another failed giant leap in scientific titillation? At least in the film’s Armageddon the other monster escapes, Deus ex Machina, in time to rescue the peculiarly gullible stripper, then surrounded by gray fire, the talking head laughs like my Uncle’s uncle’s wife.

Now I really must end, “Victor Frankenstein” is on in Spanish and I’ll have to concentrate to translate dialog from a burning circus in Victorian London. Except this, two weeks ago a woman sent me an e-mail asking me to critique a poem wherein the Frankenstein monster tritely would ask its maker “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” I suggested she change the line to “Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?” for period resonance, reflecting how the Brits used to love dead Greeks at the end of the Romantics. Tuesday night, I ran into her at a poetry reading. She whispers,“Did you know, it’s what Jesus said…on the cross, I think.” O fungus come now. It’s been that kind of summer, lots of turning roads, dark doors, bad translations, and resurrected monsters all whirling in the rearview mirror. We all used to love terrible things; we try to convince ourselves to believe we still don’t.

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3 Responses to “The Other Monster”

  1. domzuccone Says:

    The picture is a map of Monte Alban

  2. Jim Forcier-Call Says:

    Great read! A seed perhaps for your soon to be TV series, “My Uncle’s Uncle? I am a fan already!

  3. domzuccone Says:

    I had hoped that by writing this I could stop, but…for you


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