Gloriana.

Well, it took me a while to find a copy but oh my it was worth the wait. Knowing a bit more about Elizabethan history and understanding Michael Moorcock's multiversal meanderings than i did previously enhanced my enjoyment no end. I remember reading somewhere that this book was a pastiche of Edmund Spenser's "Faerie Queen", a more widely read reader might sagely sigh and take another glug of port ( people who nod sagely tend to lean towards port imbiding.) I found Michael Moorcock's droll and sexually violent fable to be so much more than that. I have, possibly unfairly, believed The Faerie Queen to be one of the great literary suck ups, easily on a greasy par with Machievelli's The Prince, which always struck me a brilliant application for a job he did not really deserve to get.A bit of courtly fawning I suppose. And also Edmund Spenser's fractured and violent relationship with Ireland has always been warily off putting to me. he crafted a "final solution" to the "Irish problem", suggesting that the island of Ireland would never be completely pacified, properly domesticated , until every vestige of its indeginous culture was utterly wiped away. I figured it would be tough to seperate his poetic leanings from his genocidal ones. As the title of the book suggests Michael Moorcock's er, penetrating narrative high fives Gloriana's inability to achieve sexual satisfaction despite her efforts to do so. No matter the size, quality or fetish she reamins forlornly unfulfilled. And yet, Gloriana is crafted as a mirror to her age, a reflection of her kingdom's aspirations and notions of self. It feels more like an alchemist's scrying mirror , a reflection of a face that never was, beautifully crafted off course. The main threat to her rule is the court corruption and international intrigue, just as Queen Elizabeth the First found herself mired in throughout her life. Oh were it ever so. Her spider like chancellor Mountfallon sets his very worst, or best depending how you feel about bloody outcomes, on the case, setting out to both seduce and reduce Gloriana's state and being. With the sexy and sinister Captain Quire ("Oh Captain, my Captain"), something of a dark King-maker. The Gme is afoot and kingdoms will fall. This is epic tantasy writ large, steeped in a historical wash that feels as real as anything genuinely Elizabethan. I would be tempted to say this has more to do with Gormenghast that The Faerie Queen and absolutely nothing remotely Tolkienesque. But I wont say that. So you never read that... Its a heady mix of history and speculative fantasy, complete with courtly ritualism that includes the alchemical dabblings of Doctor John Dee and hand made Golems or Humonculi. In fact it all may very well be true as far as looking down the lens of history may allow. Actually, Michael Moorcock dedecates this book to Mervyn Peake, and quite right too. As with so much of the work I have read by Michael Moorcock I did feel the tug of mutliverses of possibilities, the gravitational pull offset by my own lack of awareness of the difference between speculation and fact. Especially when those facts are a bit long in the tooth, in a four hundred year old set of gums. The distortion thrown by centuries passed is understandable, look what we do to facts twenty years into this century, if we do not like how they make us feel we discard them. Its a hazardous crumbling Escher-like pathway and we hardly know which steps to trust when makes for great reading but proves to be an unreliable map to follow. Not in this instance,though. a journey into Gloriana is a splendid endeavour. An illuminated parchment that leads to an embarasment of riches. Glorious.

The Jokers Wild.

 

Cannot think where this started. Just putting aside any joker themed or interesting playing cards. no good can possibly come off this. It is going to end badly. or madly.

Scooby Doo

 

Heres a little Woobie -Doobie-Doo. Off which there is never enough on any given day.

Wyrms In The Milk.

                                                              From my sketch book.

I have written a short story involving demons and corner shops and a rather nasty entity named Harry Webb. And it is not who you might be thinking off...

An illustration for a short story I have writte; Wyrms In The Milk.

The Spirit Engineer.

I actually sort of pounced on this book, a moment of excitment in a recent book haul. The very striking, to my eyes, both of them, certainly helped, the cover illusration, catching my eye.a quick perusal of the fly leaf sealed the deal, with its appealing mix of real world historical drama and undoubted tragedy, also mentioning a series of interesting real world cameos, or walk on parts for people who have reached such iconic heights they might as well be fictional.) A very obvious echo of Susan Hill themes, restless revenants and actual events made for a heady sounding mix and boy was it all that and more. Crowning this swarthy concoction was the idea it was all based on real events. And having grown up and spent my whole life in Belfast I know how strange real life can be. In the capable hands of writer A.J. West we really go for a walk on the wild side. It was a mean old city then where people could wear their prejudices lighly on their sleeves with a degree of casuality in fact that boggles the mind. And in actual terms its still only moving away from such uncomfortable terrotory in painfully small increments. But then that is life, is it not? Per4haps there is still something of this air about the province and perhaps it is that invisible wedge which draws film makers and arty types from all over the world. To oogle at the spectrum of unfettered hubris that passes for art and history. A J West is a survivor. A survivor of a stay in the Big Brother House. The "celebrity" version which seems even crueller than the non celebrity version as it activilely gives permisssion to dislike certain types of people greedy for fame. or at the very least bristling resentfully at their short term in the spotlght. Any Warhol got it slightly wrong when he said in the future everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes, its more a case of everyone would believe they had been famous for fifteen minutes. As I said, its a cruel spectacle. One of his memorable moments came when his partner proposed to him on television at a time when many people were unaware of the possibility of same sex marriages. Hope it worked out for him. He has written a very compelling book. Its laced with the contradictory nature of real life and through some no doubt intensive research he suceeds in convincing he got into the hearts and souls of the people he has written about. I wonder if he used a medium to achieve this? This is a fantastic if at times grotestque yarn that feels very auntentic. As a Belfast Boy born and bred it was almost comforting to see familiar locations used in a way that leant the book a real sense of place and time.

Max Brooks Devolution

Big Foot is Hot Footing it, fleeing a devestating volcanic eruption, on its way to a new place to hide and feed, only problem is a small hipster eco tourists are in thw way. The unspeakable tackling the not so uneatable. A small community trying to live on better terms with Mother Earth are about to learn you can love nature as much as you want, it wil never love you back. Way back in the day I saw the photograph by Eric Shipton, taken during a 1951 expedition in the Himalayas. I was actually only a boy when I first saw that photograph of the pick axe and the massive foot print and I immediately took it as proof positive that The Yeti actually existed. Not only that they existed but were still roaming the glacial peaks of that remote region on the roof of the world. So much so that when I heard the Shipton expedition mentioned in the Nigel Kneale scripted The Abominable Snowman I mentally accepted that Peter Cushing film as a documentary. The authenticity of that photograph has been debated for decades but I always took it to be true. Mind you, I also sort of belived a time traveling Galifreyan Doctor had also visited a monastry where he encountered robotic versions of The Yeti controlled by The Great Intelligence. I was born with an unlimited temperence for credulity, the only thing stretching beyond belief was Irish politics. So when I came acrross a copy of this book on a recent book trawl it was not too much of a leap of faith for me to buy into its subject matter.Is it really that much of a stretch in a world that sees the Eurovision song contest as a sprinboard for subversive talent and new voices? I was not familiar with Mount Rainier and at first believed that some catacysmic event had occurred which social media had chose to ignore. not then realising the volcanic eruption that caused the bigfoot tribe to go looking for new hunting pastures had not actually happened, more Jellystone than Yellowstone. 2Doh" to quote a wise man. The small eco-community which finds itself in the path of the relocating Sasquatch is very well realised. From those citizens genuinely attempting to lead a life style that does not feed upon the life force of the planet without regard through to the more "Desperately Well Meaning Housewives." It feels as though only the prosperous and the wealthy can actually afford to rough it through a more faux-primitive way of living. as they have their groceries delivered daily by drone, with daily commutes through the wavey waters of Wi-Fi and Internet seas. Until the eruption brings all that to a resounding and sudden life threatening halt. The2community" then finds itself adrift in unfamiliar and decidely unfriendly and indifferent waters showing itself to be the opposite of hardy. As the residents discover a sack of potatoes is infinitely more valuable than the most cutting edge tech.

Come Along With Me.

 

A very interesting collection of work by Shirley Jackson. From the well known to the hauntingly obscure. Which really would not have been a bad title for this collection. The Lottery is off course the most well known of her short stories, famous in the way that many novels are. As American as Catcher In The Rye and as ageless as anything written by Truman Capote or Tennessie Williams, redolent in a yearning for a small town existence that may or may not have actually existed. Think Smallville if the mayor had have been HP Lovecraft. or maybe do not think that at all. The Summer People is another stand out. A cauctionary tale of just what money cannot buy. as wealthy out of towners outstay their welcome and longer shadows throw shade that takes down their perceptions of where they fit in the food chain. It is an understated but creepingly powerful exercise in less is more. Quite timely too as so many of us the last couple of years have experienced through lock downs how our certainties may be chipped away, in quietly unmanning ways. The fear that our unspoken reliance on those we pay buttons can be taken away to reveal a Babel like wobble. What use would being a million in the black be as the lights flicker off, the water stops running and even the radio falls silent? Unnerving stuff to be sure but beautifully crafted. Like an intricately woven lace doily that reveals itself to be a death trap of a spider web. I once stayed in a counrty house in Galway, a house quite distant from its nearest neighbour. night after night in the room i was staying in I was troubled by restless nights and disturbing dreams I would wake up from, with a sense of some, not seen, standing close by. The double bed I slept in would sage at the edge, as though someone were sitting on it. The final night I slept in that room I awoke with the feeling that some was leaning over me and breathing into my face. That was the last straw and I told my hosts I no longer wished to sleep in that room. when they showed no surprise at this I asked if they knew something they had not told me. Apparently others had experienced this feeling of company in a room where you were the only visible occupant. They had told me nothing, not wanting to plant the idea. As it turned out I had lasted longer than most. Yet to this day I can say i saw nothing in that room but I do not think I would like to spend another night in it. Some of the stories in this collection resonate with this feeling of "otherness". They possess a haunting quality but perhaps not in the manner one usually associates with this word.

A Good Dog Goes To War.

                                                                 (From my sketch book.)

(From my sketchbook.) An idea for a story about..er,well, a good dog going to war.