"There's a horror in my head"
Sep. 23rd, 2011 02:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ferineAnd, keeping true indeed to the lyrics from Curve's alluring melody "Horror Head", there's long been a horror in my head. One could be so bold as to say the horror's also in my aspect and my eye, but at that point we take an unseemly detour into pretentiousness land. >;-)
The earliest memory of my gravitation toward the spooky was when I was 5, and had a child's unswerving inkling that any humanoid dolls or store mannequins were sentient and desired my doom in the slowest, most tortuous of ways. I had many terrifying realistic dreams on this subject, and they didn't stop until I turned 7. At which time, I dreamed that in reality all that the dolls had desired to do was trim my toenails with their teeth, not to frighten or harm me *chuckles*.
At 7, somehow I was convinced a sarcophagus was in our attic, above my bed. I also dreamed, reoccurring, that I hovered a foot above the floor and floated throughout the house on a night watch, a reassuring all's clear routine. Before kindergarten, I was convinced the neighbor's shrub covered the gateway to a subterranean netherworld. I had to steel myself and speed past on my bright yellow Bigwheel when I was playing outside, which was more often than not. I was relieved to pass the brush unmolested, yet there was the smallest yearning to have my theory confirmed, to once have some wart-riddled mole man or stereotypical-looking devil leap out and attempt to abscond with me as I sped from his grasp. Around 7 is when I rifled through dad's college copy of The Hero With A Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell (which, to my surprise and delight, is available free in PDF format at: http://0775776.student.wdka.nl/herothousandfaces.pdf). He explained the philosophical gist of in an accessible manner. The pictures, though... paleolithic line art, ancient figurines, antique paintings of fanciful foreign beings and deities. Absorbing such expanded my brain and broadened my already hyperactive imagination. In particular the Shaman of Trois Freres Cave line art.
Once in school, I focused on studying the history of witchcraft. I'm really not sure what prodded me in that direction, but my interest in that same subject hasn't diminished after all this time. I found a great love in short horror stories, most of which seem innocent now, but at the time struck me as edgy. Horror films, though, terrified me to the point of hysteria, and I avoided them like the plague. When I was 8, 9, 10, even 11, I was made to quake in my shoes passing through the hallways to the movie theaters in Steamboat Springs, which were plastered with stills and promotional flats from a myriad of films. The ones for Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Night Of The Living Dead, even Jaws unsettled me and I always ran past them. When I turned 12, my parents were watching the premiere of the miniseries of Stephen King's Salem's Lot on TV. I had been in bed, and when I got up to pee I wandered over to peer at the screen. The scene, of a frightful-looking Mr. Barlow, haunted me for years. It disturbed me so grievously for the next few days, I'd wet the bed rather than risk an encounter with the dreadful nosferatu on the way to the bathroom. After nearly a week of such, well, childish behavior, it dawned on me that a vampire couldn't bite my neck if I were a werewolf. Why? Because, according to my unerring 12 year old logic, a werewolf's neck ruff is too thick for a vampire's teeth to seek purchase. As this realization dawned on me, I suppose one could say I began channeling my inner werewolf. After that fateful shift in mindset, so to speak, I spiraled into my obsession with werewolves. Werewolf movies, werewolf comic books, werewolf photos and art, werewolf tomes (both fiction and non-fiction.) I was officially bitten by the lycanthropy bug and haven't looked back once. At 16 I injected more philosophical, metaphorical, and spiritual influences into it, thus understanding my obsession in a more sane light. Sanity, being subjective in many ways, stands on shaky ground at best. I recant sanity and cloak myself snugly in harmless eccentricity, then. >;-)
Also at 16, I began a strange dance with horror movies. Werewolf and monster movies weren't horror movies to me--they were almost invigorating. No, to me horror films involved human, or humanoid, killers.They were formulaic, poorly acted, intensely violent, and scared me uncomfortably. Oddly, I dared myself to stomach them--or to see how long I could watch without stumble-running downstairs to my bedroom to hide. At the time, reliant on a wheelchair when not in the house, and going through medical tests galore to figure out the nature of my neuromuscular disease, subjecting myself to gory horror films and subsequently freaking out was a handy distraction on my hind-brain's part.
After the need to be scared/distracted by the horror genre passed, it morphed into a genuine amusement and interest on my part. Now the genre, strangely enough, offers me comfort. Perhaps the films offer me a sense of control. My preference is for witty horror, horror with a sense of humor, and the fancifully macabre. The unintentionally funny or groan-worthy also has it's place. Horror or dark fantasy books offer escape, intensity, and release; at least the ones I voraciously devour.
Werewolves, my obsession. Monsters, my friends. The rest of the horror genre, a mixed bag of fun.
Without any of it? I can't even fathom that.
Next up? Those September 3rd pics!
The earliest memory of my gravitation toward the spooky was when I was 5, and had a child's unswerving inkling that any humanoid dolls or store mannequins were sentient and desired my doom in the slowest, most tortuous of ways. I had many terrifying realistic dreams on this subject, and they didn't stop until I turned 7. At which time, I dreamed that in reality all that the dolls had desired to do was trim my toenails with their teeth, not to frighten or harm me *chuckles*.
At 7, somehow I was convinced a sarcophagus was in our attic, above my bed. I also dreamed, reoccurring, that I hovered a foot above the floor and floated throughout the house on a night watch, a reassuring all's clear routine. Before kindergarten, I was convinced the neighbor's shrub covered the gateway to a subterranean netherworld. I had to steel myself and speed past on my bright yellow Bigwheel when I was playing outside, which was more often than not. I was relieved to pass the brush unmolested, yet there was the smallest yearning to have my theory confirmed, to once have some wart-riddled mole man or stereotypical-looking devil leap out and attempt to abscond with me as I sped from his grasp. Around 7 is when I rifled through dad's college copy of The Hero With A Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell (which, to my surprise and delight, is available free in PDF format at: http://0775776.student.wdka.nl/herothousandfaces.pdf). He explained the philosophical gist of in an accessible manner. The pictures, though... paleolithic line art, ancient figurines, antique paintings of fanciful foreign beings and deities. Absorbing such expanded my brain and broadened my already hyperactive imagination. In particular the Shaman of Trois Freres Cave line art.
Once in school, I focused on studying the history of witchcraft. I'm really not sure what prodded me in that direction, but my interest in that same subject hasn't diminished after all this time. I found a great love in short horror stories, most of which seem innocent now, but at the time struck me as edgy. Horror films, though, terrified me to the point of hysteria, and I avoided them like the plague. When I was 8, 9, 10, even 11, I was made to quake in my shoes passing through the hallways to the movie theaters in Steamboat Springs, which were plastered with stills and promotional flats from a myriad of films. The ones for Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Night Of The Living Dead, even Jaws unsettled me and I always ran past them. When I turned 12, my parents were watching the premiere of the miniseries of Stephen King's Salem's Lot on TV. I had been in bed, and when I got up to pee I wandered over to peer at the screen. The scene, of a frightful-looking Mr. Barlow, haunted me for years. It disturbed me so grievously for the next few days, I'd wet the bed rather than risk an encounter with the dreadful nosferatu on the way to the bathroom. After nearly a week of such, well, childish behavior, it dawned on me that a vampire couldn't bite my neck if I were a werewolf. Why? Because, according to my unerring 12 year old logic, a werewolf's neck ruff is too thick for a vampire's teeth to seek purchase. As this realization dawned on me, I suppose one could say I began channeling my inner werewolf. After that fateful shift in mindset, so to speak, I spiraled into my obsession with werewolves. Werewolf movies, werewolf comic books, werewolf photos and art, werewolf tomes (both fiction and non-fiction.) I was officially bitten by the lycanthropy bug and haven't looked back once. At 16 I injected more philosophical, metaphorical, and spiritual influences into it, thus understanding my obsession in a more sane light. Sanity, being subjective in many ways, stands on shaky ground at best. I recant sanity and cloak myself snugly in harmless eccentricity, then. >;-)
Also at 16, I began a strange dance with horror movies. Werewolf and monster movies weren't horror movies to me--they were almost invigorating. No, to me horror films involved human, or humanoid, killers.They were formulaic, poorly acted, intensely violent, and scared me uncomfortably. Oddly, I dared myself to stomach them--or to see how long I could watch without stumble-running downstairs to my bedroom to hide. At the time, reliant on a wheelchair when not in the house, and going through medical tests galore to figure out the nature of my neuromuscular disease, subjecting myself to gory horror films and subsequently freaking out was a handy distraction on my hind-brain's part.
After the need to be scared/distracted by the horror genre passed, it morphed into a genuine amusement and interest on my part. Now the genre, strangely enough, offers me comfort. Perhaps the films offer me a sense of control. My preference is for witty horror, horror with a sense of humor, and the fancifully macabre. The unintentionally funny or groan-worthy also has it's place. Horror or dark fantasy books offer escape, intensity, and release; at least the ones I voraciously devour.
Werewolves, my obsession. Monsters, my friends. The rest of the horror genre, a mixed bag of fun.
Without any of it? I can't even fathom that.
Next up? Those September 3rd pics!
