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GESTALT REAL-TIME REVIEWING
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And Click: HERE for full Navigation, Stop Press & Backstory.
Träumerei: Co-Vivid Dreaming
DFS LEWIS: Reading Aloud
Available DFL books: HERE
The Three Ages of D.F. Lewis
0. 1948-1985 — Poems / Zeroist Group (1960s), The Visitor (Novel) 1973, Agra Aska (novella) 1983.
1. 1986-2000 – Over 1000 fiction publications in magazines and anthologies, some selected for the Prime Books D.F. Lewis collection ‘Weirdmonger’ (2003). Work once in Stand, Iron, Panurge, Orbis, London Magazine….
I was awarded the BFS Karl Edward Wagner Award.
2. 2001-2010 – Publishing multi-authored ‘Nemonymous’.
3. 2008-
GESTALT REAL-TIME REVIEWING (www.nemonymous.com),
Plus one novel NEMONYMOUS NIGHT (Chômu Press), a story collection and two novellas entitled THE LAST BALCONY (InkerMen Press), and a novella entitled Weirdtongue (InkerMen Press), and my reprint of Agra Aska that was originally published in 1998 by Scorpion Press,
Plus three originally created multi-authored anthologies that I published,
Plus two books from Mount Abraxas Press, and an Eibonvale chapbook called The Big Headed People. And a book collection from Eibonvale: DABBLING WITH DIABELLI,
Plus, in July 2020, a past story selected for THE BIG BOOK OF MODERN FANTASY edited by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer.
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THE LAST BALCONY: HERE
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After many satisfying years of gestalt real-time reviewing, it now feels really special to see one of my own old stories showcased here!
My detailed review of this Big Book: HERE
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The ultimate expression of Gluey Zenoism from an author who wrote The Demon Lover in one of the Aickman Fontana Ghost Books:
“‘I’ll tell you something, Clara. Have you ever SEEN a minute? Have you actually had one wriggling inside your hand? Did you know if you keep your finger inside a clock for a minute, you can pick out that very minute and take it home for your own?’ So it is Paul who stealthily lifts the dome off. It is Paul who selects the finger of Clara’s that is to be guided, shrinking, then forced wincing into the works, to be wedged in them, bruised in them, bitten into and eaten up by the cogs. ‘No you have got to keep it there, or you will lose the minute. I am doing the counting – the counting up to sixty.’ . . . But there is to be no sixty. The ticking stops.”
From ‘The Inherited Clock’ (1944) by Elizabeth Bowen
MASK
The Ha of Ha above.
Late Labelling:
“Des Lewis obviously needs no presentation to the wayward fantasts. Even if I have enjoyed reading his fine volumes for Dan Watt’s press and the one for Chomu Press two volumes I recommend I feel like there is still space and reasons to discover D.F. Lewis. It is no easy feat to break Mr. Lewis’s Code. His work is constructed like a house, almost like a living mausoleum, according to his particular way of thinking. In other words: astonishing and uncomprehending. There is no key to this house, although there are a lot of doors. Everything is available, everything is waiting to be plucked but few dare knock at the door. Caution is good. Running away is even better. You don t read Des Lewis to understand and enjoy his works. That’s not the point. You read him because you have to believe in something, after all.” (EOP)
WHITE RABBIT by Georgina Bruce
“Every object has its animus, its story.”
Rarely, but I DO sometimes read a special story and think
think
like this story’s brilliant elliptic section breaks
think that I am lucky to have managed to live long enough to read a particular story, THIS story, as something I really really needed to read and learn from, with its deep poignant poetic lesson.
It is about an old man’s marital bereavement after many years, the premonition by crows, the reaction of daughters, the needle in a barely audible music and its recurrent vinyl scratch.
A story about inadvertently not being present at the exact point of death of your wife in the house where you’ve both lived for countless years and the house takes over instead.
Coupled with a mathematical love of routine. Like the author of Alice? Or this author herself?
Quite horrific, but eventually stoical, eventually beautiful…. A wonderful story, brilliantly adumbrated, with no strident links, but a myriad subtle ones like that almost inaudible music. I’m so glad I caught it.
MAN OF THE HOUSE by V.H. Leslie
“It’s just her stuffing, it’s moved around a little.”
Vaguely linked to the previous story’s theme of a house that inimically wears a person who lived there, this story presents an obsessive, naïve, sexually-awakening, frustrating manning-up by a thirty-five year old man, arguably still living with his parents, and this is by means of a doll’s house that he meticulously fits out. It is in many ways the ultimate doll’s house fiction; where can you take it after this one? It may not even be a fiction, because the story itself is a sort of doll’s house, I guess, arguably written by someone equally obsessive as the story’s protagonist in deploying its inner rooms – with artefacts and well-characterised inhabitants/visitors – for our inner gaze. It is compelling and as page-turning as its turning population. Think Pinteresque mingled with Sarban.
The ending is one to grapple with, though, and I’m not yet sure whether I have tamed its meaning. Be interested to hear what you think.
CHILD OF THORNS by Ray Cluley
“…he’d never looked so long at Jessie’s nethers, never seen them open and unfold, but he could tell it didn’t look right…”
After listening to the seven thorny tracks of Blackstar yesterday and learning of the sad momentous death by self-distressed nature as well as by self-made (tantamount to) crucifixion by video, I learn today, by means of this thorny tale, of a new birth, a new remedy for barrenness.
These are highly prickly-tactile birth throes of words, as if DH Lawrence had swallowed a mutant thistle too large for his gullet. People close to the spiky ground where they survive, one couple in a single cabin, giving strained natality to nature’s monster in disguise, with stray acquaintances living in the same area, acquaintances who inter-penetrate in more ways than one, wreaking love from more than just soft cuddles. A series of life-filled stigmatisations derived from self and habitat, as if popping out like Russian Dolls from Leslie’s doll’s house habitat and cruel-to-be-kind tutelary forces from Bruce’s loving marital habitat. The eternal trial and error of creative projection, like the endlessly shed husks of Bowie. Or the devil who comes in from the woods with logs for chopping.
GREENTEETH by Gary Budden
“Now I have more time to notice.”
I am rather taken with the description of the three vertical levels as layers of London described here, as opposed to the more usual triangulation by horizontal maps of it, and this thoughtful story is a layer itself, what they otherwise call a tranche of time or a slice or life, with no obvious beginning or ending other than the words beginning and ending. I was also taken with the description of the canals, having been on city canals myself (albeit only when on holiday.)
These vertical layers, though, represent, for me, a horizontal map of austere existence today. These are moving straitened houses – as a means of negotiating or escaping that existence – houses that can be compared to the Russian dollish, body-skewering and punishing houses earlier in this magazine’s fiction. We readers can assume for a while the role of canal gongoozlers, watching today’s mode of austere existence as souls grapple with the locks of life, gritting their teeth above the weeds through which they float…
FOUL IS FAIR by Tyler Keevil
“Almost as if the theatre space was a dream, another world he could enter and exit, a kind of mindscape or alternate reality.”
Although longer and more linear than the Budden story, this is also a story of layers, also a tranche or trance of time, a slice of life with a fine indefinite ending – artfully and deeply adumbrating, in plain compelling language, the levels of acting in theatre (another front and back of house like the earlier doll’s house) and real life, layers between nations like England and Scotland, the layers in literature like Macbeth, marital and casual love affairs, the levels of creation where one child was perhaps meant to be another’s, rowdy pub life and personal anguish inside, football as religion and personal religion, weakness and stoicism concerning fateful life, indeed fate and chance themselves.
Another fine stage in this chance audit trail of tales. A tale of ‘groundlings’.
Cf: Cal’s interface with Amy and, earlier, Dudley’s with a doll.
BUG SKIN by Tim Casson
“…these ‘lyrics’ are dangerous, therefore, that subliminal messages lie under the surface,…”
A moving story, in more ways than one, moving house as well as one’s emotions, a portrait of the loss of this woman’s teenage son – his loss to death itself or to a musical act called Miya who is a possibly ‘androgynous’ performer synchronously in tune with our image of David Bowie who unexpectedly (for us) died in the last few days after pre-staging his own requiem and obituary by means of his music? It all seems to resonate here…
There is also a crowd compared to a football crowd that relates to the image created by that in the Keevil story.
Moving house to recreate the son’s habitat or destroy it by forgetting it? As the best route through a sad bereavement or a hope for his return?
I know I say it often, but it is usually true of most sets of Black Static fiction, a set as a fine resonating selection with this its perfect coda.
There is much else in Black Static to please the Horror arts enthusiast, including, in this issue, an interview with Simon Bestwick who once helped publish my first novella in 1998.