Day Five


I’m a little bit behind on my posts, so I apologize for that.  Most of it was spent writing for my upcoming novels.  Unfortunately, that means there isn’t a great deal to chat about.

This last weekend, however, I rediscovered my immense fondness of British cinema and writers from the UK.  My father and I managed to catch a film featuring the fantastic Colm Meany, by the title of “3 and Out.”  The film, which also goes by the alias “A Deal is a Deal” is about a suicidal vagrant and a twisted joke.  Desperate writer Paul Callow (MacKenzie Crook), is trying to find an escape from driving subway trains for a living in the UK Underground.  Coworkers Ash and Vic tell him about a rule known as “3 and out.”  So Callow eventually finds Meany, offering him fifteen hundred quid to jump in front of his train.

Things get twisted around and the deal turns out to be nothing Callow could have prepared himself for.  It’s a definitely recommended movie, released only four years ago.  IMDB has it rated at 6.1/10; which I would argue is a terrible depreciation of a wonderful story.

Thanks for reading!  I assure you all I’ll have something deeper to discuss in a couple days.


True Horror

Today… I would like to get a bit serious, again.  Previously, I wanted to try keeping as much of the first week blogging a positive one, as possible to do so.  However, like the subject to be discussed, it cannot be outrun or “outgunned.”

All of the greatest pieces of art, be it visual or literary, can be looked at in the same way we gaze upon a foggy mirror.  They are reflections of something, fogged and often times difficult to interpret or truly understand by eyes other than the artist’s.  These reflections can be of things buried inside the artist’s mind, or simply a transcription of their perspective.

Recall, for a moment, that I mentioned in my first blog-post, how I draw upon intangible sources for strength and willpower whenever I find myself in a slump.  Well, my dear readers, it has great significance on the present.  I find that a devil of the blues is wrapped around me, an icy grip on my spirit and its jagged teeth gnawing at the back of my mind.

Wisdom and a debt keep me rolling forward, with my head up and my focus set forward.  Guilt has shackled my ankles, however.

Take a moment, dear reader, to shut your eyes and call to mind: who do I know with ADD?

Does it feel anti-climatic?  Such a long, suspenseful, and dramatic build-up to an apex as seemingly minor as ADD (attention deficit disorder)?  Maybe a little disappointing?

Let’s explore why this could be considered an element of horror that the greatest writers can only scarcely dream of.

Imagine that you cannot focus upon any single thing for long.  Something else adds itself to your mind in an instant and quickly chases out the previous epicenter of your attention.  Doesn’t seem like any sort of big deal, you’ll just complete the new objective and then return to the other one.  Prior to finishing it, something else jumps in to take its place, just as it had stolen you away from its precursor.  When you get right down to it, “ADD” is unbelievably appropriate; because things keep on adding into your mind, but never subtracting from it.

Picture the book you’re reading.  You’ve just gotten to the last chapter, but now you come to the strange epiphany that you want to write.  Getting started on that writing, you’re halfway through the project and come to the conclusion that it’s time for a break.  You sit down to watch TV.  The love of your life, whom you discovered a month ago, comes to join you.  Oddly, you don’t feel interested in them anymore.  A day later, you have broken up.  There are no tears for you, but your lover is nearly insane with heartbreak.

The bills are due, and for the last week, you’ve been working hard at your job to earn that paycheck.  But in the last couple of days, you haven’t even gone into work, because some alien adversity towards going someplace familiar again this week.  Your boss calls, worried you’ve been in some sort of accident, but finds you’re alright; you’ve just dropped everything you were working on for no discoverable reason.

Imagine you have children, they’re depending on you to survive.  Your mind has established a brick wall between them and you.  But wait, there’s more than that.  They seem to have totally forgotten you’re even their parent, simply disinterested.  Now, with a strange and detached sense of horror, you’re witnessing as they drift aimlessly between jobs, school, and even relationships just as you did.  Like a perpetual plague, the cycle goes onward.

Does this sound terrible?  Naturally, it might.  ADD creates the pseudo-logical conclusion that you simply cannot allocate your interests onto anything for a particularly long period of time.  For me, it creates an extremely heavy weight of guilt.  It was on the evening of my birthday, that I was reflecting on this sort of existence and coming to the conclusion that I will never quite be capable of holding a job, relationship, or other permanent direction of thought.  Being able to recognize this makes it rather depressing.  I found myself wondering whether I could somehow cut this inability to focus out of the burdens of others by removing myself from the equation.

Such speculation brought me in full circle back to the realization of how selfish such a course of action would be.  And so, I drag my dressed-in-blue cold devil along and try to continue.  Besides, I wouldn’t be able to stick to the idea. 

But, how is it that I am able to focus on writing?  That’s a two-faced situation.  On one side, it is a form of escapism.  You have less to worry about in the world of your imagining, where the most dangerous thing is merely forgetting to hit the “save” button.  On the other end of the deal… I’m not published, yet.  Aspiring to be an author since I was nine and writing stories since I was able to hold a pencil, one might think I’d have been able to produce something, no?  Interest is very fleeting for me, and boredom comes quickly — no matter how glorious the idea.

Though this has been an exhausting post, beloved reader, before I hit “publish” and retreat behind the lines to work on my writing, I wish to leave you all with an additional piece of insight.  You need only let your imagination sculpt the scope of it.

What is the difference between ADD and ADHD (attention deficit hyperactive disorder)?

Well, the hyperactivity means it’s far, far faster.  Breaching the mind, the inability to control your attention infects the body as well.  The process of a week is broken down into minutes at best, and on top of being unable to focus your mind, you cannot focus your body into one direction.  It’s almost comical, really.  Of course… dolls we make dance, with strings they could never break, are comical too.

In fact, it’s almost like a demon, spirit, or spell has wrestled away their control, no?

Heretic Fox

Day Two

So, between yesterday and now; I made a farrago of observations.  Normally, I keep these little realizations to myself, but through the marvel of modern science and technology, the internet has provided me with a blog to wave around such tidbits.  Reader, beware, you’re about to get a look into the mind of the Heretic Fox.  Proceed with caution, my friends.

Last night, I was writing out the plot-line for what I hope shall be the first in a long and wonderful series of novels.  A good friend rang me up and asked if I was interested in hitting the movies.  Naturally, we did and a good time was had by all two of us.  We went to see the lovely Kate Beckinsale shoot and blow things up in Underworld: Awakening.  In 3-D, in fact.  It was fantastic.

The previews, however, gave me an epiphany.  From Hollywood, it doesn’t seem like anything truly unique is being released anymore.  Rather, we have remakes of everything from Clash of the Titans (which has, admittedly, done a 180 turn in its success thanks to the remakes) to live-action movies of Yogi Bear (ow, my childhood!) OR they are recycling the same storyline into everything.  The few exceptions are the odd movie or so like the relatively new Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.

For writers, I’m assuming that the task is potentially more difficult.  So many ideas are being reproduced and duplicated, it has started to feel a little discouraging.  Is the age of uniqueness and originality starting to take a step back?  Is that even so necessarily a bad thing?  For horror and fantasy writers, I imagine it could be either.

From my perspective, it seems easier for an audience to become bored or disinterested in elements of horror or fantasy that they’ve seen before, but at the same time it’s hard for new creations and ideas to take root and gain a fanbase.  Vampires, for example, are almost always going to have a greater following than I believe my Qama or Salidu will.  In fact, my Mhortae will probably only end up being speculated on as a variation of the vampire genre rather than to be acknowledged as their own category.

However, I’ve also come to realize that vampires, werewolves, and unicorns will now and always have diehard fans.  Some of the things people are fans of might cause me to question the thought-process of the world, but then again; I’m notoriously philosophical about the littlest things.  If there’s a marvelous story to be told using tried-and-true — if expatiated — elements, then I cannot imagine myself complaining.  Underworld and Resident Evil are still very fun movie-series.

Heretic Fox

What I Celebrate

Hello folks,

This is my first time making a blog and first time writing one, too.  Since yesterday was my birthday, I had wanted to write a special “birthday” post, but procrastination took over and I just decided to be righteously lazy.  It’s not my birthday today, though!

Twenty-two years ago, a woman of the name “Lois” and a southern gentleman of the name “Bob” were married and had one kid.  On January twenty-third, Lois gave birth to a second son.  They named him after popular western star, Alex Trebek.  Wait, that’s wrong; pardon me.  Well, either way, they named him Alexander; Alec for short.

Now, as all new parents know, though with a first son already, Lois and Bob were astutely aware that hospitals have terrible return/refund policies and absolutely no deals on warranties.  Six years after the procurement of their second child, the 68th Academy Awards were hosted by Whoopi Goldberg.  And Alec had his first epileptic seizure.

The discovery that I had LKS (Landau Kleffner Syndrome), an autistic epileptic syndrome that affects the brain’s ability to process language, was bit of a shock for my mother.  The events of the evening I had my first seizure, concluded in exactly the way a wise young child might see fit for it to: by quickly returning to sleep as soon as the panic induced by the event was no more.  With great gratitude to the loving support of my parents, and the powerful ally of modern medicine, I was able to live a relatively normal life.  Although at many times difficult, my life was never threatened by the presence of LKS, nor did my family “fall from honor,” or any such nonsense of the kind.

When I celebrate my birthday, I prefer it to be quiet and quite private; an affair of nuclear family and one or maybe two-at-max close friends.  A fair score of years past, I would never have been permitted to observe such an essential celebration.  During earlier ages of America, in the 1700’s, I would have been one of thousands of others from all ages and walks of life locked in a prison — a prison shared by murderers and criminals, in the hopes that my unhealthy mental state would have been “educated” out of my system.  In medieval times, I would have been put to death or locked up somewhere beneath a monastery out of society’s superstitious fear I was the vessel of demons.

In Ancient Greece, my family would have stricken my existence from their memories and cast me out into the streets to wander as a no-name beggar; ignored and cast away from the minds of my fellow man.  As long as I didn’t draw any attention to myself, I would have been allowed to simply fade into obscurity and at some point in my childhood, die like a stray cat.  Such were the customs in those ages, when it came to the treatment of the mentally-ill.

Even in 1996, just as medicine was developing to help the mentally handicapped, quite a few doctors wished to label me as clinically retarded, thanks to my brain’s inability to process spoken word.  As all can see by the blog post, that’s quite far from what I am, isn’t it?

I don’t wish to draw attention solely to all of the horrible things I may have been put through had I been born in another era than this one.  There were a high number of places all around the world in each of those ages striving to find their own understandings of the human condition.  But in progress, there are always mistakes that cannot be taken back; trauma undone to the children and adults who suffered such depreciation.  From all mistakes, wisdom can be drawn.

When I celebrate my birthdays — that’s our main subject, remember?  I often look for a moment of solitary silence to respectfully salute every individual of similar condition who would never have gotten to enjoy a wonderful evening in the company of beloved family and cherished comrades.  It gives me a sobering strength to draw upon every time I fall into a slump or difficult situation, that falling into despair and failing to appreciate every small or large thing available to me today, would be akin to the total desecration of everyone’s progress and the loving support of my parents.  That, is an insult I would never dream of being responsible for; because there is always tomorrow to look forward to.

Thanks to all who decide to read my first blog post!  I’m eager to know what everyone thinks of it, and even more eager to receive any feedback on how I could have written this article better.

Heretic Fox