Trying to comfort myself with the thought that I got plenty of great papers for the next “Lovecraftian Proceedings” volume today (the deadline is due), and that I also managed to send an abstract to an interesting conference in Gothic studies in the nick of time.

Can I enter another timeline, please? I don’t want to participate in this one anymore.

“Creative Differences” by Tad Friend (The New Yorker, August 29, 1999)

I find this old article (from 1999) about Lynch and his usual whimsical search for making his perfect artwork (Twin Peaks first, then Mulholland Drive) very telling: mind you, it was written BEFORE the actual production was finalised, meaning that the author of the piece hadn’t seen it and the only thing he knew was that (unsuccessful) attempt to make it as TV series for ABC. Quite fascinating. (Apologies for over-quoting, but it’s worth it)

In January 4th [1999—E.T.], Lynch turned in a ninety-two-page pilot script to ABC. Like much of his work, “Mulholland Drive” was conceived as an oddball film noir, opening with some gruesome deaths and then introducing an ensemble of desirable women and baffled or misshapen men. Lynch had kept many of these strange men to himself at the pitch meeting, because, he says, Krantz worried that “getting into them would blow the deal.” The most important, in the completed script, was an edgy young director named Adam, who is forced by a pair of mobsters to cast a particular actress in his new movie. (Adam appears to be a stand-in for Lynch, who is known to fear creative interference of any form. When Lynch was living with Isabella Rossellini, he refused to allow cooked food in the house, lest the smell contaminate his work.) Adam smashes up the mobsters’ limo with a 7-iron, then hops into his silver Porsche and drives home to find his wife in bed with the pool man. He pours hot-pink paint in her jewelry box, gets cuffed around by the pool man, and must eventually take counsel from an oracular cowboy.

Should women over 50 eat strawberries?

Should women over 50 walk their dogs?

Should women over 50 have a cup of coffee and dare to enjoy life?

Those and other exciting questions must be found in my new book ”Fuck off and stop masquerading your casual ageism and misogyny as a self-care promo makeup ad”

Those are certainly not the first crocuses and narcissi you will see, but not the last either. Their bloom in our back garden grows exponentially, despite the volatile weather.

 Три года.

Завтра очень тяжелый день впереди, и я пытаюсь морально к нему подготовиться.

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.7 “Rainy day: a recap”

Rainy day’s recap: surfers (two of them in the first pic), reflective sands, mighty emptiness, a pearl horizon, a few strangers and a doggo:

“Monstrously conventional: Caroline Blackwood's republished tale of suburban horror” by Muireann Maguire (TLS)

A brilliant review on suburban horror written by a (sadly) forgotten writer, Caroline Blackwood, whose fate reminds me of another smart and witty (yet unhappy) not-exactly-siren, Maeve Brennan.

Sincerest congratulations to Muireann Maguire who’s done a fantastic job!

Recently republished by Virago, with an illuminating foreword by Camilla Grudova, Caroline Blackwood’s The Fate of Mary Rose (1981) is a forgotten classic about suburban monstrosity. Too often remembered as a socialite and a siren, or for her succession of gifted husbands (including the artist Lucian Freud, the composer Israel Citkowitz and the poet Robert Lowell), Blackwood was an author of considerable talent: here she writes with both gothic verve and psychological precision. ©

Дорогие израильские друзья, скорблю вместе с вами.

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.6 “That one rainy day” (photos)

And as per usual several illustrations to the previous post:

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.6 “That one rainy day”

Today Cromer turned into its usual misty northern self, with intermittent (quite lengthy) drizzles and fog, but we weren’t disappointed (we actually cannot be disappointed by anything, while staying here). So, our previous plan to walk to Overstrand during low tide was altered, and we strolled around the town instead.

First, “Bookworms”; nothing has changed since our last visit: it was quiet and empty inside, with a (usually) contemplative owner, who was meditating in the tiny room behind, listening to his beloved Classic FM (it was Mahler today). I bought di Lampedusa’s Leopard (my memory about Visconti’s classic is quite vague, although you’re not supposed to confess such wrongdoing, as your highbrow friends would laugh at you… or maybe not), Gormenghast (L. has been mentioning Peake for eternity, so there) and one of the relatively vintage Rupert books (the newer ones, albeit masterfully executed, are lacking that awkward charm of the earlier series). A book combo somehow makes perfect sense to me.

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.5 “’Cromer sunset”

Winter Cromer has one of the best sunsets, no doubt about it.

«Носферату»: итоги

Борат 2.0 с элементами всех плохо сделанных готик-RPG, вместе взятых (это когда разработчики вместо того, чтобы довести игру до ума, срутся в твиттере или реддите), кровь, говно и муравьи (то есть, крысы), выдаваемые за фолк-хоррор, метаироническая вампука, в которой «он пугает, а нам не страшно». Очень жалею потраченных на стрим фунтов.

1/10

Snowdrops-2025

It was a hassle to catch up with the snowdrops this year (they emerged two or so weeks ago), as the weather has been particularly ghastly this winter—idiotically warm, bleak, sunless and damp. But today I finally got a chance to take a few pics, and here they are.

Reading about the last Poe’s wanderings around (as if Highsmith was personally invested in this sorrowful story), I was reminded of Hart Crane’s “Forgetfulness”:

Forgetfulness is like a song

That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.

Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,

Outspread and motionless, —

A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.

Forgetfulness is rain at night,

Or an old house in a forest, — or a child.

Forgetfulness is white, — white as a blasted tree,

And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,

Or bury the Gods.

I can remember much forgetfulness. ©

And here’s Highsmith’s description of Poe’s last days:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
You can have a slice of cake
For whatever reason or even without one

“Pomes Penyeach” in Cambridge

L. gifted me a rare copy of Joyce’s Pomes Penyeach (1942 edition): Joyce’s attempt to create neologisms wasn’t exactly appreciated at the time (and was initially rejected by Ezra Pound), yet it still works in odd and enchanting ways.

Rosefrail and fair—yet frailest

A wonder wild

In gentle eyes thou veilest,

My blueveined child. ©

Письма-дневники Татьяны Гиппиус в «Лит. Наследстве»

В ужасном новостном потоке внезапно прекрасное: в «Лит. Наследстве» вышли эго-документы (письма-дневники) Татьяны Гиппиус, и все, кто хоть когда-нибудь занимался эпистемологией Серебряного века и соловьевством, должны этому чрезвычайно обрадоваться, потому что там, в хронике бытийственного фин де сьекля, чего только нет (а того, что есть, и вовсе не могло быть).

Мои самые горячие поздравления всем причастным, работавшим над изданием — многоуважаемому Константину Львову (и спасибо ему огромное за хорошие вести) и Маргарите Михайловне Павловой за невероятный труд.

Даст Бог, и у меня когда-нибудь получится подержать книжки в руках.

(Сжимается сердце, когда видишь на стене рядом портреты Галушкина, Коростелева и Котрелева: светлая им память и Царствие Небесное)

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.4 “’bit more Sheringham” (photos/video)

Когда Лена добрела до Шерингема:

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.3 “Sheringham” (photos)

A few pics, as per usual, for illustrating the previous post:

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.3 “Sheringham”

So, 5 hours and 20.500 steps later I can definitely confirm that our winter Sheringham coastal walk was done.

The good thing was that at the very last minute, while packing my suitcase, I decided to grab my merino wool jumper and an Aran wool scarf (with sheep faces all over, mind you): it was wise, as the gusty West winds that blew in our faces when we were walking to Sheringham were something else. Friends who knew me for quite a while were very well aware of my resistance to cold, but the fresh sea gale, even under the beaming sun, was persistently nippy.

We tried to take into account all possible incongruities, such as difficulties to wander around during high tide and such, yet it’s next to impossible to calculate everything: it turned out, our main hassle today was to avoid numerous rock formations with mini-streams inside: they tend to evaporate in summer, but in winter they remain intact, and one can take a bit of a detour to cross them in order to reach that pristine wet sand that looks like a mirror, but we finally succeeded.

The Ole Boys Groynes between West Runton and Sheringham are almost completely destroyed at this point: let’s hope they’ll be renovated with freshly sourced sturdy timber blocks.

But despite everything, the walk was divine and blissful, and I already want to do it again.

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.2 “The surfer”

And, of course, you simply cannot imagine Cromer, even in winter, without surfers: this one was breaking the waves until it got completely dark, and as far as we could say he didn’t even shiver a bit.

“Vertigo

Rewatched* Vertigo tonight.

I didn’t expect to be *that* stunned, as I’ve seen quite a few visual arthouse masterpieces in my lifetime (only a minority of which were produced in the States), but Hitchcock’s thriller still takes the cake. Weird, non-linear, aesthetically opulent to the point that you feel as if you are going into a dream-like state yourself. The plot doesn’t make a lot of sense, of course (as it should be), but its Ambrose Bierce ambience doesn’t escape you anyway. The romantic line would’ve been silly had it been in any way regarded as important (it wasn’t). The forest scene was the purest magick.

___________

* I did watch it before, but it was more than 30 years ago, and I didn’t remember a thing, except a vague Doppelgänger motif

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.1 (photos)

 And a few pics to the previous post:

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.1

Visiting Cromer in winter was an impromptu decision, growing and building up in us throughout the bleakest of Januaries I’ve remembered: we both felt overwhelmed with multiple issues, and going to the seaside became our ideé fixe. Once we figured out the actual logistics (certain tasks connected to work could be either postponed a bit or put aside), we started thinking about the practical things—where to stay (our beloved Virginia Court is closed for the entire winter season) and what to do, as the tide schedule, albeit almost the same, has its own peculiarities this time of the year.

Since it’s an official “off season,” there’s not so much choice in terms of where to stay yet it certainly exists (note to ourselves: there might be more than one option out there in the future). We booked an old Victorian hotel on the West side of the Promenade (the opposite end of town from Virginia Court and The Gangway): it’s half empty and its residents are mostly quiet old folks, which I highly appreciate.

Кромерские tutti quanti: the arrival

Oh. My. God.
***
There be islands in the Central Sea,
whose waters are bounded by no shore
and where no ships come
—this is the faith of their people. ©

Nothings and [garden] trivialities

After coming back from Cromer, L. and I almost immediately spotted several deep holes in the back garden, close to the places where we had planted tulips and whatnot a few months prior. We were puzzled: the holes were indeed quite massive to be created by squirrels (although ours are very pleasantly round-shaped and tend to look more like balls of flof, it could still be an incredibly difficult task for them), and neither would our flying dinosaurs (mistaken for wood pigeons) be able to do so.

Well, the mystery was solved earlier today: when I went down to the kitchen for lunch, I noticed a certain familiar silhouette in the window. He joyously jumped around the dull winter shrubs and remaining foliage, sniffing the soil and barking to himself, and his tail wagged at the speed of light. He, however, was quick enough to recognise me behind the kitchen window and ran away (being NOT ashamed of himself at all).

Since we completely forgot to mend that one place in our garden fence where we put our little trellis for a climbing rose bush, our guest decided to invite himself in, apparently in order to join our existing menagerie (squirrels, jays, black birds, robins, dinosaurs and you name it). Not that I mind, but I am not sure he would like to trade his kibble for fresh nuts.

Today marks 35 years since Depeche Mode released their incredible anthem of contemplative solitude, “Enjoy the Silence.” I was a 14 yo teen at the time, shy and awkward, like every other adolescent of this age, and the song helped me—not to dissociate, but to feel what I would now call a frantic reflection, full of joie de vivre. There are only a few songs in my life that have that similar introspective influence on me. Sometimes words are very unnecessary indeed.