The 'Magic' of Christmas . . .

So here it is, Merry Chri . . . well, hold on.  It's not quite here.  There's still a few days to wait.  Another festive season looms on the near horizon.  Certain parts of the UK have already had a dumping of troublesome snow.  We've endured mornings of hard frosts, to get people in the festive mood.  And boy, have we spent - and spent - and spent.  The local church Carol service has been a tremendous treat - leaving me with a Christmas smile as I walked back into the winter chill.

However, it seems Christmas can be rather a strange mix - noting it's the less religious aspects take most of centre stage.  Our traditions are oozing with paganism - and other strangeness we now seem to count as the norm.  And of course - yes, there's always . . . him.

The man with the bag.

He's the one I want to talk about, and even a bit more, because in the stakes to find the most popular Christmas character, Santa Claus has to win hands down. But just what is the appeal of this philanthropic gentleman who only shows up once a year?  Why, out of all the peculiarities in the world, do we trust this now very old man to look after our children's material needs for the scant time of the Christmas season?  After all, this dude has just swept in from nowhere on Christmas Eve and taken all the credit for fulfilling every young hearts desire.  We don't really know who he is - or what he wants.  It's more likely in these dark days to suspect such a man's happy motives might be nestling in the dark and depraved.  At least that's what we could imagine to be the case, regardless of our willingness to offer the 'benefit of doubt'  - and trust the happy fellow.

It's been made pretty clear he's no ordinary man.  We quite easily believe in all of his aspects, also expecting our children to be complicit in the long established fantasy, if they have any expectation of receiving the magical Christmas cheer that goes with such belief.  It's all a harmless bit of fun of course, despite the threat from the dreaded 'naughty or nice' list  Santa carries with him.  Imagine, if you will, an ancient book, stinking of age, bound in some unknown hide that looks too much like human skin - it's pages yellowed and brittle, it's contents the scrawl from a deranged arthritic hand.  Woe betide if your name is in the latter half of the book - if you're on the 'naughty list.'

It's amazing how myth gathers weight, eventually becoming part of known tradition.  We now accept Santa Claus as part of December's enchantment, encouraging us to embrace a strange fantastical world.  A few days out from Christmas, I can feel a strange kind of magic, igniting imaginings - be they dark or otherwise.  I can remember when I believed Father Christmas was real, that he would get into the house in the wee small hours, planting presents for no real good reason than the day itself.  Yet now, maybe wiser, I still have the belief of wild imagination; that 'what if' - powering story - and the dark prose I take so much delight in.

Film, books, and television have made sure Santa Claus remains alive and well.  We know his background, where he lives, what he does for the rest of the year when he's not engaged in his 'one night only' world tour.  He has been portrayed so many times across the years that we accept his presence without question.  In fact, now, it would be almost impossible to have Christmas without him.

Safe now to say -

I BELIEVE . . .

We'd finally reached Ground Zero.  Not the place where the World Trade Centre went down.  This was some other, more lonely place.  To tell the truth, after all this time, I'd lost track of the exact location.  All I knew for sure was that my heart and soul felt weary every day.  I ached from loss, from searching too long through cold empty streets that should have been full of life, but no longer were.

Every time I saw a dead child, I wept.

Thank God I still had the glock.

That, at least, might help keep him safe.

I'd used the thing a few times already.  Close range.  It was hard to believe that stumbling creature from two days back had once been a man, snarling and lolling out his peeling tongue like he wanted desperately to make my acquaintance, or lick the dirt off my face - before taking a bite out of it.  I saw right into his eyes, the very second I blew them out of his skull.  Dead.  Fish eyes.  That's when I wanted to puke, because I could smell lingering death trapped inside his skin - like the flesh of a burst, rotting melon.

Damn Saint Nick . . .

"Dad, I'm hungry."

That was my boy.  With me in Hell.  The only thing left around here for me to love.  And I did love him.  My God, this was no place for a nine year old boy.  Will had seen more shit than anyone should, at his - or any age.  Anyway, it didn't take long to find an abandoned store, even though the best I could come up with from its shelves was a stale bar of chocolate.  At least it put a fresh smile on his cherubic face.  I considered a snack from the dried fruit section before relenting and joining the boy in a sugar rush that was well past its sell by date.

It was strange to see a Christmas tree so long after the event, but I suppose that's what happens when entropy gets to do its thing.  The winding drape of lights hanging from its tired branches had long since lost their sparkle.  I traced the dead feed wire back, with Will at my heels.  It wasn't long before it left ground, crawling up the side of a white painted building like a jungle creeper, to disappear into the fist floor window of some back street apartment.

I knew he had a thing for fairy lights.

But these . . . were as dead as he was.

It still pricked me, made me sling open my bag and look at the ones I'd brought, rolled up inside the pack like a barb wire crown.  The only batteries to give them life were old, even risky, nestled deep inside my parka pocket.  They were supposedly long life, so I expected they would work.

I hoped they would work.

Life here, was all about acceptable risks.

The moment we got inside the mall proper was when I started to feel really scared.  Not so much for myself.  I'd done my bit in the world.  No.  It was for Will.  For my son.  Like any father, I wanted him to go on.  Was that really too much to ask?  My wife had died in a screaming fit on Boxing Day, and my beautiful little girl just after the turn of the New Year.  She had been older than her brother, but that hadn't stopped some deformed sideshow leprechaun biting a deep hole in her arm - to leave me with the worst decision of all.

So you're a child killer now . . .

"Is it time, Dad?"

I felt a painful sob rise in my throat at the memory of her and the admirable bravery of my son.  I held onto it, knowing something about the visceral power of vengeance and its capacity to numb fear.  I had no time to celebrate Will's courage, or even berate his foolhardiness.  I simply hunched over, smiling as I pulled the roll of Christmas lights from the bag.  His eyes widened when he saw them.  I put it down to adrenaline rush.

"It's time, son,"  I said, rummaging for the pack of batteries.


I swallowed.  There was nothing to go down my throat.  Will was now standing alone in the main walkway of the empty shopping mall, twenty yards from me, hands in pockets, wrapped from head to foot in glowing Christmas tree lights.  There was no way I could reach him if something happened.  I loosened my grip on the glock pistol in my hand, feeling the wetness of my sweating palm.  I flexed pain away from my fingers, then tightened up again, before re-sighting the weapon in the direction of my boy.

Dad, I'm scared!  I couldn't see Will's face from where I crouched.  I just hoped the voice in my head was paranoia and not clairvoyance.  He was alone out there.

Waiting for the man with the bag,

It was a leprechaun turned up first.  A zombie henchman.  Attracted by the glow of lights.,  I heard its childish moaning, saw the dead thing sniff the air before tentatively moving out into the open.

Toward Will . . .

The boy, to his credit, kept stock still.  I'd have been scared shitless.  Probably would have tried to back away.  But this young soldier held fast (maybe it was because he couldn't move).  Just how tight had I wrapped those glowers around him anyway?  He didn't utter a word.  Maybe that was how much he trusted my aim.

"I love you son,"  I heard myself mutter as I squeezed the trigger - and shot that bastard imp clean through the head.

"YOU BETTER WATCH OUT . . . "

What the hell?  I literally jumped inside my skin.  I bit my tongue; tasted my own blood.  The gun's loud report rang through the place like a summer thunderclap.  I was glad when it faded.

But what the hell was that?

"YOU BETTER NOT . . . CRY . . .  "

"Don't worry son!"  I called out feigning confidence.  I could see my boy was becoming twitchy.  This guy might have been the 'ho-ho-ho' man once, but he was surely a walking corpse by now.  A stiff that had infected the whole damn world in one chill night of dark magic.  The noise coming out from the mall public address system had been harsh and metallic, like some cheap talking doll -

"BETTER . . . NOT . . . POUT . . . "

"Told you Dad!  He's not dead!  What did I tell you?

I nodded, absently.  I felt anything but calm.  It was the same fear that hits when you forget why you went up to a bedroom and find yourself staring at a blank wall.  And now. through the fog, I could hear the next part of that suddenly detestable song; the chill dread that it might ring out again.  "I'm telling you why . . . "

"He'll bring them back!  Mom - and Sophie!  He'll bring them back!"

I closed my eyes as Will continued his happy rant.  It had been hard enough to accept a nightmare.  And then followed the paralysing grief.  My eyes burned with tears as I opened them.  It was the innocence of my childhood I longed for.  There is no magic, David.  No Santa Claus.  My parents had thought wrong in their cold shattering of my dreams.  I could see him - right now, wearing the suit that looked far too much kike the colour of blood.

"Yaaaaay!  I told you!"

Will had turned into a dancing Christmas tree, his almost frenzied shouts of glee sounding strangely accusatory in that cavernous space.  Lights jangled around his narrow body, drawing the shuffling figure ever closer.  One black boot dragged through the sticky mess that was once an elf's head.  The other foot was naked, half eaten from the ankle.  I could still hear the din of my son's exultation, even as the gun my hand roared and jumped once again.  Almost immediately after, Santa's head and his hat exploded in a shining flower of bone and matter.  Will fell silent, only able to stare as the ruined corpse folded inside the crimson coat - and collapsed.

For the last time ever.

Yaaaaay!  My own heart lifted.  I could breathe again.  All was silence, like the clam after a storm.  The mall public address crackled, just once, and then spoke no more.  I knew my son might hate me - for a short while.

"It's okay," I said. seeing he was becoming agitated again.  Then I heard him shout for me; the anguished cry of a traumatised child.  It's okay now son.  For God's sake . . .

I turned at a sudden realisation of shifting weight behind me; the onset of a familiar and nauseating stench.

I'd forgotten you see.

I'd forgotten - about Mrs Claus

Lunacy or love . . ?

Welcome to the next longest public holiday of the year.  We're a few months down the line from Christmas. Spring is in the air.  The kids are on Easter break.  There's plenty of happiness around.  Being able to walk out and have the Sun on your back rather than chill rain makes a lot of difference.  Then again, the dark shadows still loom very strong. World tensions are ramping up, as usual - and still no one seems to know for certain if President Donald Trump is warmonger or wise leader.  The former is looking more likely right now.

Did I just mention Easter?  Should I maybe apologise for that?  I do begin to wonder at times.  As far as pushing retail is concerned, the named weekend will be kept in place for the foreseeable future - seeing as this holiday seems to be more about egg hunts, the consumption of copious amounts of chocolate, Easter bunnies, just about anything - so long as we don't dwell too long upon the death of one mysterious man somewhere in the Middle East.

Like Christmas, the religious aspects of the Lent/Easter season seem to loom more in the periphery, only taking their place on the mainstream menu as hardly fascinating television with maybe a 'cheese and biscuit' finishing course of Anglican church, fit only for the most die hard follower.  Maybe the BBC will roll out a relevant movie 'treat' like 'King of Kings' or 'Ben Hur' this year.  The late Mister Heston yet remains good value for money - even if the latter named Oscar winning movie has been aired more times than a Morecambe and Wise Christmas special.

Evidence suggests the world is in random chaos.  And it's a strong suggestion.  The good die young.  The noble soul expires, along with the despised and the evil.  The Sun shines on good and wicked alike. Thinking about Good Friday from the perspective of the native mind could bring things home more clearly. As I sat in a reflective church service on Friday I put myself as an observer in the crowd when Jesus was brought before Pilate. The Roman procurator was hardly a man of nobility.  He, quite literally, washed his hands of the whole thing when every angle at his disposal to escape killing this man fell on deaf ears.  Even he knew this Jesus was innocent of any crime, yet the crowd still screamed for blood.

Yet, why would one man - a good man, put himself through such horrific torture, unless he was telling the truth? Or unless he had no real power to stop it? Insanity? The book of Isaiah more describes what Jesus endured physically before his death, without the descriptive power of a novelist to bring it to life.  Sufficient to say the man went through a living hell.  He was beaten until his face was so disfigured it was no longer recognisable.  His beard was pulled out.  He was beaten to the point of unconsciousness, whipped, scourged. All for a the so called crime of blasphemy? The fact was, the religious establishment had seen him as a threat to their authority.  It was pretty much the same for the Romans.  Yet, Pilate's obvious fear prompted him to clear himself of blame of the crime.  I sometimes wonder if his hand washing stunt was more to appease the wrath of God than ingratiate himself with the crowd.

I can understand for many, this means absolutely nothing.  It's another holiday weekend, for whatever reason.  So get over it and eat some chocolate.  And yet, doesn't this world more than ever need a saviour? Even this morning, the news I read makes very frightening Sunday fare with the threat of World War 3 looming a little closer.  I don't believe Jesus was insane, but I do wonder about many of us.  We can argue until doomsday (which may not be as long away as we think) about proving the death and resurrection of Christ actually happened. There are books on the subject which present great evidence to support it.  And still, people don't buy it.  And some do.  It's always going to be that way.  I have many friends who think it's complete hooey.  They are still my friends, despite their atheism.  And I hope I remain theirs.

So did Jesus rise on the third day?  I personally believe he did.  But I can't prove it.  If I could I might be claiming the the big cash payout from James Randi.  I'm just another of the millions who have simple hope.  I really think God does speaks through many varied and unexpected voices - even horror authors like Stephen King, and directors like Frank Darabont.  So remember this resurrection Sunday - 'Hope is a good thing - maybe the best of things.  And no good thing ever dies'.

Hope.

The dating game . . .

This is rather a self serving post so please forgive me.  I do usually try to provoke thought and comment in my blogging, but this first post of 2017 might be an exception.  I'll try not to do it again . . .

Dating using an internet site can be a serious business.  But it might not be good to take it too seriously, especially if you're really looking for that special someone.  Then there's the possible question of 'playing well out of your league'.  You might be slightly blinded to this depressing fact as you strut down the street like some geriatric John Travolta.  Ever had a consultation with a headshrinker, or been in counselling?  Now that can be an interesting experience - "Kevin, the way you talk about this makes it sound like it's a game". Well, it is, isn't it?  When you're doing it this way it surely has to be.  And you have to treat it so, unless you wish to get burned.

My own experiences with dating this way have been hardly successful.  Being thrown into this maelstrom by failed marriage suddenly puts you into the category by default.  Maybe there's little wonder I'm finding it tricky to be a macho man. What should one expect, looking like a cross between BBC political reporter Nick Robinson and an even more ageing Adrian Edmondson?  At least being follically challenged is not so much of a problem for me these days.  The balding man association have been summarily redeemed by shave head hero/villian icons like Bruce Willis, the Mitchell brothers (EastEnders), Jason Statham and Samuel L Jackson, to name but a few.

Of course, this very blog post is an offshoot of the frustrating non-success I have had so far in this regard.  I suppose you could call it the 'seeking of catharsis'.  All I'm saying in hindsight is don't fall for all the illusion put forth by over zealous advertising.  A big percentage of advertising in general dwells in a world of idealism, where people are basically good, hardly self serving, so very ready to help their fellow man. Unfortunately, the reality can be very different.  For a start, it is very easy to forget that every profile you might consider worth pursuing will likely be courting the same admiration from umpteen other longing souls, all wanting to impress for their next possible chance for meaningful relationship.  The whole thing can seem very contrived in the end.  Maybe that's exactly what it has to be.  This is no chance meeting in some pub or night club.  It's not a set up by a friend of a friend.  This is a self manipulated adventure; a browse through a huge catalogue of lonely hearts; a pathway for those wanting to find the man/woman of their dreams.

Oh, and don't pay too much heed to any advertising photographs of  new found blissful intimacy, generally used as leverage to get you to commit to a membership.  That's an illusion too - for most of us.  Forming relationships, like everything else, has embraced technology with an open network, often carrying with it the rather depressing feeling of being synthetic.  What does one do then?  Line up the dates like they were buying a second hand car?  It seems to play this 'game' you have to have a pretty thick skin, and be ready for multiple strike outs before you find 'the one'.  And then maybe I'm cynical because it just hasn't worked for me.  That's a possibility and I won't deny it.  Sometimes I have to admit that it's disappointment drives me to the keyboard.

So for those who have used these services and won, I salute you. Bravo and congratulations.  Others may simply want a few dates and I think these sites can deliver in spades for those who mutually agree.  It's the ones seeking something more permanent I suspect may have trouble here; the ones daring to invest just a small piece of themselves into every carefully picked date they might venture upon.  Rejection can feel like a sharp slap in the face at the time, even with someone new.  This is especially true if you been messaging a while prior to an initial meet up.  The 'falling flat after seeing each other in the flesh' moment can initiate a downer lasting for days after.  The texts suddenly cease like you no longer exist.  You're off the list.  Next! But just slow down.  Wait another six weeks pal before you pick out another chance for rejection.

No doubt I will have another go - in around six weeks time I reckon.  But that's enough of that.  Let's get back to talking about movies, books, and how damn awful the world is . . .

Happy dating.

The mysterious face of Christmas perception . . .

We all see the world differently. We live inside our own heads.  I don't know about you, but for me, Christmas time is always a time of strange feelings.  As I write this the holiday season is all but over. There are still fairy lights hanging in doorways, but I suspect most of these will have disappeared by the coming weekend - to be returned to their boxes and dusty storage for the next forty eight weeks or so.

I sometimes wonder how many people would go completely insane if there were many more times during the year in which we could do little other than reflect.  How much has my life changed in the last twelve months? Was this a better Christmas than last year?  Have I moved on?  Will I make it to next year?

I, like many other paranoid souls, wonder about these things, as if Christmas is so huge an event that the whole rest of the years happenings must revolve around it.  And yet, for many, it will be a long forgotten day by the end of January.  Maybe some of this is down to the fact we in Britain enjoy a seasonal weather pattern that almost cries for routine.  I use the term 'enjoy' somewhat tentatively. This year we have had nothing but rain and strong winds, causing terrible flooding in some parts of the country.  But on the whole, the winter months create a strange kind of brooding atmosphere, which has usually been captured best by writers of darker classic fiction.  Charles Dickens' 'A Christmas Carol' is essentially a ghost story as we know, evoking chill nights and dark unwelcoming streets - not to mention the plight of the poor Cratchit family, who surely must have embodied the state of many families in those days.

Somewhere in the Yuletide mix are other characters of course:  Santa Claus - that strange, magical old man who circumnavigates the entire world by reindeer drawn sleigh (in one night mind you), delivers presents to all the children, eats copious amounts of mince pies, drinks milk (and maybe a sherry or two), before disappearing back to his lair at the North Pole.  Oh yes, there's a lot to like here for writers of a weird tale or two.  He has his elves . . . those munchkinesque 'employees' who always have the skills necessary to source any item a child might desire.  No more carving and painting wooden toys for these guys.  Our kids have moved on, become hi-tech.  Now it's laptop computers on the list, an XBox One at a price.  Just who is this guy who has been granted control over the laws of physics for a few hours?  We put complete trust in this person, even encourage our children to believe in him (sorry kids, spoiler alert!)  Of course we may be less eager to send them into the grotto of a store hired charlatan; a mere temporary blip, masquerading as the man with the bag.  And real Santa always seems to get away with far more than any other stranger where our children are concerned.  We accept him as good and kind - a friend to us and provider of treats for children.  Normally, we tend to trust no one - not unless legend labels them as safe, or they wear a big red coat. Rather a big responsibility for those who are employed to understudy for the big man, don't you think?

Christmas can be quite bizarre.

The shopping build up starts somewhere around the last week in October, when the retail machine begins to gather steam for the big push.  I, in the meantime, always try to do my level best to not get caught up in the so called excitement.  Of course, we all know this relentless monster is being driven to a commercial end. That's probably why Christmas feels more 'over with' by Boxing Day than it might do if we lived in the middle of some remote field called 'nowhere'.

Then again, I have to admit to feeling a certain dusting of magic as the season approaches, which is far more evident in the build up than on the day itself.  So,what did I do this year?  After waking up alone in a hotel room, I wandered a lonely country road before enjoying a very agreeable lunch by the grace of my brother and his wife.  It was an excellently prepared feast.  Despite the good cheer, however, I could still feel the Christmas magic slipping at the passing of each minute.

In fact, I spoke to more people who felt deflated by the time it got to Boxing day than I think I've ever done. In some cases there was no particular reason for this.  I'll wager it was because they, like me, had been swept down the river of euphoria, to a level that simply could not be maintained once the 'big day' had passed.

I'm not saying we should live in a cocoon of idealism either.  This world would feel like a terrible place if you watched more than one news bulletin a day.  Your world view might be equally as poorly influenced if you were bombarded with seasonal cheer for a seemingly endless time - to find the Yuletide door slamming behind you as you look desperately for the one marked 'Boxing Day'.  We don't go nuts like this over other holidays - we just enjoy the break.  The ramping up of pressure, buying gifts, making sure the larder is bursting at the seams (as if the shops are closing for a month), all must serve to send us into minor insanity. And then there's that guy whose birthday it's supposed to be.  What's his name again?  Oh yes, that's it . . . Jesus.

Where on earth has he gone all of a sudden.  A modern English Christmas is not about the saviour any longer (if it ever was), although the yearly school nativity play is hanging on by the skin of it's teeth.  We are so politically aware - and so embracing of every culture that we're afraid of keeping our own traditions - and our own faith, it seems.  It looks as if Britain is moving yet more toward secularism.  In time, we may have to forget the three wise men and just settle for repeats of rubbish Christmas television, Santa and his elves.  One thing's for sure; the big man will have to cut down on the yearly intake of pies and coke.  That may be a little difficult for him, seeing as he is obviously contracted to advertise 'the real thing' every year!  Well, I suppose we all have to earn a crust . . .

He's still got years to go before he can finally claim his pension.

The lottery of negativity . . .

I don't care much for flying.  I don't mind telling you.  Is there really any wonder, when we see what happens when things go bad?  Really bad.  I won't even try to relate a view of what I think the families of the victims of Germanwings flight 4U9525 might be going through.  I just think back to the first time I stepped onto a plane.  It looked rather small, sitting there, waiting for us to board.  It became a lot bigger as I walked toward it - and I remember wondering how such a thing could even get off the tarmac.  In all this I was, I believe, trying to convince myself that my fear was irrational. while trying to be reminded of the many 'fear of flying' tips I had watched on YouTube.

Statistically speaking, flying is the 'safest way to travel'.  And that's a well quoted cliche for sure.  We all know it. By studying the occurrence of any incident over a period of time, it is thought we can assess to some degree how safe (or unsafe) a future situation might be, calculate the chances of it going wrong. Well, that's all good if the space time continuum actually runs in line with human assessment. Who's to say it does? We get statements along the lines of: 'You've got more chance of being murdered than going down in a plane.'  This is rounded off with a guess at the odds, which are so many million to one in our favour.  I think it's that statistical factor that often provides enough courage to actually trust ourselves to that long tube of fuel filled metal with wings attached.

Those comforting odds don't mean a jot to those bereaved families today.

What killed all those men. women and children, was not a coin toss in a cosmic lottery, or an act of a capricious god.  It was a man.  A man whose mind was running along a path most of us will never be able to comprehend.  A man who, for whatever reason, had decided it was his day to die, and to do it in a way that would mark him in infamy.  The detachment you might feel watching a horror movie, populated with the strange and deranged, can never apply here.  This was another real life horror, stranger than fiction, where the tragic destiny of one individual dragged 150 innocent lives into the abyss with him.  His choice.  Not God's, or unexplained threads of serendipity.  It was he who decided fate that day.

That's the power and responsibility we all have.  We are fallible.  Now that tragedy has been fully played out, dead co-pilot Andreas Lubitz's life is becoming an open book.  The flaws in the aircraft's cockpit procedure are being brought to light.  Yes, we're very good at being wise after the event.  Still, I'll bet most people boarding that doomed flight didn't sweat it the way I would have done, looking to see if the pilot appeared to be in good health, checking to see if the plane was much better than an old bucket, trying to build up my trust in the event about to unfold.

Maybe I'm one of the irrational.  But that's what fear does for you.  Events like this do little to boost my trust in impressive statistics. The plane was mechanically sound that day, which will be reassuring for Germanwings and the millions who fly regularly.  There is however, no comfort for the families of those slain, who are left bereft, wondering how this disturbed man managed to gain control of an aeroplane.  Lubitz clearly covered his aberrant mental state well enough to be able to avoid serious scrutiny - and yet, one wonders how long he'd lived alone in his own spiralling universe.  It was enough time to finally run his sanity over the edge, to throw a metaphorical spanner into the long shot statistics we tend to put so much blind faith in.

You see. when we sit and think about randomness, there's really no way to rationalise it.  Such long odds on our side almost suggest we've next to no chance of being involved in such a tragic event.  That may turn out to be arrogant assumption on our part - but we do have to have some hope.  Aviation research and development has swung the confidence balance so far in our favour that it's like having a pile of bricks on one side of the scale, compared to a feather on the other. Isn't it reassuring?  Should be.  However, there's always that nagging voice, reminding me at least, of an unknown factor; on this occasion the free will of a person who is planning some terrible act.

Time and destiny is a far more complex matter than we might think.  The fact remains, most busy people don't waste time considering the fragility of their own existence.  It's obvious we have to take reasonable risks if we want to live any quality of life at all.  People expect to get off a plane at the other end of the journey - and nearly always do.  In this case, a man living in extreme mental torment had remained locked in his own world, while life carried on its merry way.  Lubitz's failing mind formulated a dark intention, which nobody detected until it was too late.

The possible phobics who fly can often be seen as irrational.  Take Richard Matheson's famous story, 'Nightmare at 20,000 feet'.  It is a real study of flying phobia and a man who looks to be on the edge of insanity, yet in truth is the only one aware of the real danger threatening the aircraft in which he travels.  It is his 'irrational' awareness of his surroundings makes him more likely to see the problems - and amplify them to panic levels. That's not to say we should actually seek to feel nervous about getting on a plane.  If you are that way inclined, it's going to be a constant battle to quell such fear anyway.  Stories like the Germanwings tragedy do little to assuage any feelings of trepidation.  Maybe it's useful to remember just how many aircraft are in the air at any given time; compare this with the number of major incidents, to give extra credence to those long shot chance values.

It's ironic that a safeguard to prevent a terrorist getting into the aircraft cockpit, prevented the captain getting back in after Lubitz had locked him out.  It is difficult to imagine the terror inside that cabin as passengers desperately watched the man try to break the door down so he could regain control.  It is, unfortunately, another episode of real life horror we dare not think about.  Yet, we must, for this terrible darkness, be it right or wrong, is part of the mechanics of the world.  Call it an act of evil, a cruel injustice, anything that will give even a suggestion of purpose.  There is no glib answer or clever reasoning to answer this one.  Some lessons will be learned from this tragedy for sure.  The world will carry on.  And we will all take life's acceptable risks, because to have any quality living at all, that's what we have to do.

The grand master of horror . . .

Who was it said horror writers are a strange bunch? Maybe even warped?  I'd be surprised if there hasn't been more than a few comments running along such lines.

However, I think it's safe to assume horror writers spend a lot of time thinking about things; pondering the world and its ever present ills.  That's where I have found reading about H. P. Lovecraft's life enlightening. Without delving into finer detail (which anyone can do quite easily), it has occurred to me that H. P. found the main thrust of his genius as a result of his discomfort with the world.  He was a misfit, a trait largely fuelled by his difficult family life. He was uncomfortable with people, contemptuous of other races; only finding any real contentment for minor periods of his all too short life.

He died young by today's standards, unrecognised, and almost penniless.  Ironically, he would probably have been a genre megastar today, high on the rich list, regularly mobbed by the countless fans who have come to appreciate his work as a horror fiction pioneer.  The worlds he has created are on a scale opposite to those laid out in any book of scripture or scientific manual.  His vision is rather the stuff of nightmares, of monsters so huge and hideous to behold, they would send an enquiring mind into incredulous insanity.  Lovecraft's world is one of paranoia, of no inner peace, of existing with the perpetual Damoclean sword of impending destruction. Sounds kind of familiar doesn't it?  Personally I have only yet dabbled in Lovecraft's work, but I intend to go deeper, and herein to record my excursions into the New England madness he describes so eloquently.

I suspect some would have found the man quite distasteful.  Paranoia and racism play big parts in his work, often in the guise of the monsters he has created.  Lovecraft describes himself as an outsider - also an atheist, which is quite interesting considering the thread of many of his written horrors lead toward encounters with god like creatures, far removed from any benevolent relationship with mankind. These are the 'old ones' - hideous and huge tentacled beings languishing just outside of our own reality. They are waiting for opportunity to punch through and destroy the insignificant species called mankind. These deities have their own followers of course; misguided, insane, ritualistic worshippers who seek to invite them back to reclaim control.  It seems there is little room for non believers in Lovecraft's world.

In all this, I admit I am very much a Lovecraft amateur. I started my excursion into horror reading with more contemporary fare, like Stephen King, James Herbert etc, so I am going to have to adjust the literary palette somewhat for this work.  Whereas Mr. King has used character and dialogue to create a realistic vista, H.P. relies on reams of dense description for effect, with hardly any dramatic speech employed at all. Pick up a Lovecraft story collection and skim through it to see what I mean.  You are tempted to groan if you're not used to such rich prose; pages and pages of unbroken text lay before you.  In this world of fast food, multiple distraction and quick fixes, it could seem like a daunting challenge.

Well, we are going to start with 'The Dunwich Horror'.  I've no special reason for this choice, but I'm sure it will be a favourable one.  This tale was written in 1928 and first published in the April 1929 edition of 'Weird Tales'.  I am giving out the  no synopsis here.  I will reserve any comment until I have visited the terror of Dunwich for myself. Feel free to join along, if you've a mind.  However, if you're of rather more cynical mind, maybe sampling a little Lovecraft might increase your creeping darkness . . .

next - 'The Dunwich Horror' review.

The Integrity of Monsters . . .

Are you a glass half empty, or half full type of person?  I suppose that could really depend on how long you've been around the place, and how long you've had to observe life and form an opinion.  And maybe that opinion has often been coloured by the time of year, whether you've eaten that day, or a simple mood swing.

There's a lot of good in the world (so people tell me), but there's also plenty of the other stuff.  Try watching the first five minutes of a news bulletin and you'll see.  The news is obviously prioritised from the worst atrocity to the least, gradually moving down the scale to a possible thirty seconds of fluffiness at the end of the show.  You know the thing:  a dog that collapses in ecstasy after seeing its master again for the first time in months.

Man creates.  And then there's a planet we call home that always seems to be fighting against us.  It's covered mostly in water; an environment totally hostile to humans (without the use of special equipment). Parts of the earth rumble in anger, collapse, erupt, get blown to hell.  And all the while, many people choose a path that will either end in the grisly destruction of another person, or themselves, as well as the other person.  I'm no psychologist, but these experts must surely ponder this mystery.  Just what is it drives us to destruction?  There are more subtle killing methods too . . .

It doesn't take a super intelligent being to work out that we often forge our own pathway to oblivion.  Obesity, cancer, heart disease, and the rest are at epidemic levels if you take the statistics head on.  Yet, the shelves are constantly restocked with the chemically infused, processed crap that will help to accelerate our demise. Paste an attractive photo on the package and we'll take it - or just a plain box if the price is right.  I don't think an alien would see our predicament as a beautiful sight.  The world may look exquisite from space, quiet and peaceful.  But that view serves as a very effective mask.

And therefore I say, a hearty hurrah for the monsters.  Yes, we have created them.  But there has to be an argument for their pure integrity.  What was it space freighter 'Nostromo' science officer Ash said about the deadly Alien roaming loose around the ship?  'I admire it's purity'.  True enough, for the creature clearly had no moral compass to consider.  Not in the way we might understand it.  You wonder of it's motive within the violence - and then discover the effort is simply to expand the species - and eradicate potential aggressors. Basically, it's motive is to survive.

We can only boast such drive at various points in our own history.  All too often the reason for our violence is darker, more self gratifying, and certainly less noble.  We have a claim to some land, and so fight for it.  A skewed religious view becomes a reason for genocide.  Dependence upon an injected stimulus leads to another soul fighting for their life after being mercilessly robbed to provide the finance for a fix.  Look deeper, and you see the truly monstrous is inside us. Those who create fantastic fictions, who populate their worlds with the hideous and otherworldly, may know just a little more about what force drives the entity we call 'Monster'.  Definitions are varied, but in essence the description of fictional monster is 'a mythical beast' or something that may have human characteristics but is clearly not human in appearance or general behaviour.

The list of our likely 'heroes' is endless:  Wolfman, Frankenstein, Alien . . .

There are many monsters - formed to entertain us, to disturb, to educate.  Educate?  Why not.  The behavioural traits of the movie monster are often more noble than those of the human beings trapped inside the story with him.  Seldom will a monster covet the riches that might motivate a man to darker deeds.  It will kill of course, without mercy or compassion, but I can't help thinking its motive is always primarily one of self preservation.

Don't berate those of us who boast a 'friendship' with the macabre, or prefer to dwell in the fictional lands of the strange.  Real life 'monsters' are with us in abundance, stripped of the behavioural compass they might have possessed on the printed page.  They have no scales, or hairy hide; their motives are completely powered by self gratification and self promotion. They kill without reason, steal and maim, satisfy their sexual lust on the young and helpless, whilst carrying an illusion of respectability  Oh yes, make no mistake, we certainly dwell in a land of real evil, with real 'human' monsters.  And so, let's look a little deeper on those misunderstood creatures of horror fiction; learn from them.  They seek neither our sympathy or understanding.  They stand ever nobly upon page and screen.  They are who they are.

And maybe sadly, so are we.