Their directive is simple and the same as the plot of the film which is to bring pleasure or pain. Frank wants both. He gets his pain and pleasure.
His desire and dark passion are truly clear.
The Cenobites are cold and as calculating as surgeons.
They hear the call to serve without emotion or desire and abide by a law foreign to their viewers.
“Jesus Wept” ~ Frank Cotton
“Where love rules, there is no will to power; and where power predominates, there love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.”~ Carl Gustav Jung
Happy Halloween: An essay using the Third person.
“Frank Cotton: I thought I’d gone to the limits. I hadn’t. The Cenobites gave me an experience beyond limits… pain and pleasure, indivisible.”
Hellraiser – 1987
Halloween time is mystical lights, shadow and darkness which now play with humanity. Death, pain and fear are presented now before us as our shadow.
The film Hellraiser brings this all to an audience. Yes, Halloween time is “Hellraiser” time. Cable, Netflix, or old TV re-runs. Clive Barker’s creation is a thrill to a generation of horror dorks. He creates a box that opens the world to hell. The Cenobites don’t see it this way.
Pinhead defines the Cenobites as, “demons to some… …angels to others.”
The film begins with the statement, “What is your pleasure?” It pivots on Julia Cotton’s desire to be with her brother-in-law. It is because of her that Frank Cotton is resurrected, and the Cenobites are called back through a magical box.
Kristy Cotton is the heroine of this film. She hates her mother-in-law who desires her uncle Frank. He abused Kristy and so she summons the Cenobites to tear Frank’s soul back apart. Julia is killed by Frank.
This film is about blood, gore, and dead people. It was released in 1987 and is the building block for the over-saturated horror films of our current generation. More influential than Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Suspiria.
Hellraiser’s plot is about desire gone bad; so, people die and suffer because of this. This is due to the desire of one woman’s memory of a clandestine affair.
Dark feelings and unbelievable gory impressions dance throughout this film, and this is what haunts us. Julia and Kristy are in opposition to each other.
The cold shy personality of Julia is evident. Her conservative sexuality is ready to burst forth.
All the characters in the film notice this about her, even her husband is on a tight leash.
Kristy has a different projection. She looks androgynous and glows with a superimposed image of both Jesus & Krishna.
Blogging is fun. It is a place to express thoughts and feelings by writing. It is a place to learn and make friends. Today It clicked. First, second and third person perspective. It came and now it clicked. It is clear. Learning and growing is what blogging is all about.
“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pain / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.” ~ ~ John Keats
The trusting woods?
The unsuspecting trees
Brought out their burrs and mosses
His fantasy to please.
He scanned their trinkets, curious,
He grasped, he bore away.
What will the solemn hemlock,
What will the fir-tree say?
by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Can a fir-tree say anything to humanity? What is Dickinson projecting onto the hemlock and fir-tree?
“The trusting woods” is a statement of observation which is the perfect blending of the subjective and the objective. For a fir-tree to get big and strong means years of growth, trusting that the sun, rain and moisture from the earth will be dependable. The woods have all the natural processes for life and photosynthesis to occur, the seasons and the arch of the heavens brightly shown as confidence in an abundant life. How dependable nature is. Does humanity think often about the great relationship it has with the “trusting woods” for oxygen? Our world economy is rooted deep in the “unsuspecting trees.”
“His …He…He…He” enters the poem objectively. Actions that bring great conflict to the passivity of nature as “His fancy, He scanned, He grasped.” This is the rape of nature. The sixth line of the poem states that,” He scanned their trinkets, curious,” is an objective statement showing the desire of “He” for the trinkets. This word speaks of those things in nature that are precious; trinkets are the jewels of nature. Nature then becomes an object to be “grasped” taken and used for the “fancy” of “He.” He is the “Who” that has robbed the woods.
Dickinson uses the “solemn hemlock” in her poem as the one witness to the rape of nature. An action “He” does against the “woods.” A beautiful poisonous plant is alerted to this action against the woods. The hemlock has a conscience. The hemlock knows it is wrong, and the inward reaction is the feeling of being solemn. “He” is poisonous to nature. This is a contrary idea. It is commonly known that the hemlock plant is poisonous yet, in Emily Dickinson’s poem, the “hemlock” is the face of truth.
Nature has a conscience in this poem, and “He” does not.
The anti-barbarian intellectual will be an artist…for only the poet, the painter and the musician know how to name evil and fish for its bloody pearls. ~ Bernard Levy, Barbarism with a Human Face.
At Mr T’s Bowl with Shane (RIP), Hudley and Falling James a few years ago. Picture by Bob Cantu
I have had the privilege of collaborating with some amazing individuals in my time. Believe it or not real rebels. I have chosen three individuals to light a candle for the Day of The Dead.
The first candle to be lit is for my mom. She was a creative individual who did not fit the normal mother mold. She was an excellent cook. She was highly creative with her hands. She nurtured her children’s wild and creative side. Her skill as a mother is what made her unique and beautiful.
The second candle to be lit is for Darby Crash. He represents the real wild side of individuation. He is the building block for so many in the underground music scene today.
The last candle to be lit will be for Shane Williams, also known as the Rock & Roll bank robber. His expertise was as a music critic. Shane was a talented writer; He had the big ear for Rock & Roll.
The letter included in this post was originally published in Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine number 36, known as the Vandals issue (cover picture by Ed Colver).
This is the first letter Flipside received from Shane. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship that lasted for over thirty years.
RIP Shane Williams
Celebrating a Flipside reunion a few years back. Photo by Bob Cantu
“Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit?” “Nothing, precious,” she said; “they are the eyes a mother leaves behind her to guard her children.” ― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan: A Classic Illustrated Edition
JF and Shane around 2012
I ran after my parent’s car. Wet and salty teats in my mouth. My sister turned 16 and they were taking her out to a birthday dinner without my brother and me. I ripped my favorite pink square polka-dot dress. I screamed. They drove away. They took her to Kwan’s restaurant, a Chinese restaurant where my family went often. My dad was close friends with the owner. Tonight I was not included in my sister’s birthday celebration and I felt awful. My sister did not want the kids around.
Nights without our parents could be fun. My older brother would turn off the sound to his awful baseball or football games. We listened to classical music while watching sports. He got to watch his sports and we got to laugh. I learned that staying at home is better than going out with my parents, sometimes. This included TV dinners. Mom only brought those out when she went out. To this day I love TV dinners.
I have a niece and nephew on my husband’s side of the family that are the worst of the worst, they are down and out rotten tomatoes. Even my high and mighty mother-in –law ignores them. I avoid them at all costs. Our great-grandmother said,
“Jim and Jane are so spoiled. They are embarrassing to be with!”
My kids are good kids to be around with adults. They are shy and introverted. They don’t even mind siting at the little kid’s table during Thanksgiving dinner, but then again neither do I. Adults can get pretty full of themselves.
In conclusion I would like to repeat something a nice church elder told me,
“It just isn’t Sunday morning at church, if there aren’t some kids crying on the pews!”
The motto of this little commentary is,
“ Don’t be afraid to use the word “no” when it comes to bad kids or bad parents, while remembering to give a special treat to those human beings that behave themselves.”
If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance. – G.B. Shaw
My brother called to tell me mom passed. There were few tears to shed. A year before I shed my tears knowing that this day would come soon enough. Giving birth and waiting for death are so much alike in their ways. One waits and endures through the pain while caught in the eternity of this waiting. It passes. Human beings are born and then they die.
The funeral director was called by phone to come and receive my mother’s body in death. They arrived quickly. A gurney was brought into the house. The man asked if my father and I would like to join my brother downstairs.
“Many family members find it hard to witness their loved-one’s bodies being placed on a gurney.”
My father and I stayed. I watched as the mortician picked my mother up as a bride over the threshold. Her body hung down lifeless. A vivid image of Christ on the cross came to mind. Then she was placed on the purest white sheet I ever saw. Then they wrapped it round her. She was the center of a beautiful white Lilly. My father bent over and kissed her, I followed and kissed her, and he followed again. Then she was gone.
I only have a copy of this book from the library. It is one of the most valuable things in my heart.
I like this man because he attacks perfection. He attacks technology and he attacks big egos.
I think everyone should read this book. Blake is a humorist; he is very esoteric and clever.
He knows human nature best because he shows he has been burned emotionally by friends.
Betrayal is the great realism or knowledge of the heart.
Blake includes nature and art. What a remarkable creation. Why are all the interesting people dead… well maybe not so? I feel like he is around when reading his work.
Get it and make some wrinkles in your clothes. Go out and misspell something. Be imperfect in grammar and voice.
But never-never be insincere, greedy, or inhuman.
Read. Intelligence of the heart is the game he plays… and you got to have one to play Blake’s game of intelligence…brain, heart and honesty and William Blake.
I find so much decadence, arrogance and lying in the world today…How comforting it is to have Blake in the world to read.
Today I watched my beautiful white Himalayan male cat mock pee on the outside brick fence. Male cats turn backwards and then spray their territory.
The male cat does this by vibrating their tail. Mr. Po Po is different because he is a very clean cat. I know he learned the pee ritual from Flash our other male cat.
Flash does the real thing. He marks his territory all over the yard. This is what male cats do. Mr. Po Po is a very intelligent kitty.
I think he realizes that peeing around is a filthy thing to do, but he is respectful of the social ritual and etiquette required of all male cats.
It is an important ritual to uphold. So he mocks his territorial pissing. My son and I laugh about it all the time.
“I have seen the dark universe yawning Where the black planets roll without aim, Where they roll in their horror unheeded, Without knowledge, or luster, or name.” ― H.P. Lovecraft
The Monster
One impression from my childhood was of the invisible monster. This is how I remember the monster which is my first impression from my macabre youth.
The whirlwind went round & around. As a child I watched it while sitting on the concrete steps. Was a monster in the whirlwind? All week the kids talked ’bout the monster. They were chasing the monster. They were running from the monster.
This week was the week of the monster. A pack of kids from the neighborhood grabbed me. They encircled me. We ran down the hills. We hung from the trees. We dug for thin white crystals deep in the earth. Playing, laughter and stories filled our days. One of the kids said,
“There over there, there it is the monster!” They were all now pointing their fingers at something I could not see. I yelled,
“Where, where?”
Then I ran with the others to the safety of a home.
Gales of wind and rain outlined the monster while looking out the windows. The storm ended and we all raced outside. Our rain boots left footsteps in the mud. A child yelled,
“Look I found a large footprint. The monster is here the monster is here too!”
We all looked at it and yelled. We all ran down the muddy dirt road. We ran by some trees. As we passed the trees a strange coolness ran through me. These were the same eerie and cold pepper trees that were always moving, was this the place where the monster lived?
Another impression from my macabre youth is an image based within a story told to me by Gigi.
She was my best friend at eight. On Friday we walked down to Gary’s market on Topanga Blvd and for twenty-five cents each of us got a bag of candy. This would fill a pillowcase and was necessary for our Friday night sleepovers. There were only two channels to watch on Saturday mornings on TV. It was either cartoons or scary movies.
We watched The Werewolf, Frankenstein, and The Mummy. Gigi’s room was on the other side of the single-story house, which was far away from her parents, giving us a lot of privacy and time together. Gigi had a fantastic way of telling stories. I did not talk much so I was always listening to her narratives. This is the one that made a deep impression on me. Etched, inked, and printed in my memories.
Gigi’s Story.
All the lights were out in the house. There was a thunderstorm over the valley. The light of the thunder lit up the rooms. The trees scraped the windows. The howling of the wind blew past the house. I was all alone and walked into the kitchen to turn on the lights for a glass of water. The lights were not working. Then … then I noticed a shadow outside the kitchen window. I hid behind a curtain. I saw nothing. My parents were coming home soon.
They did come home with lots of candles and some food. We lit the candles and had our supper. My brother and I were then put to bed. Later that night I heard more scratching and scraping on the windows and could not sleep.
I got up to get another glass of water when I stopped and listened. I heard a scratch at the front door. It got louder and louder. I had to pass the door to get to my parent’s room. I walked very slowly, very gently like a cat. I stopped breathing as I looked at the door. It was open and I felt the cold from outside.
The only thing holding the door from opening was a gold chain lock. I closed my eyes and continued to walk. I had to take one more look before I burst into my parents’ bedroom. There before my gaze was a long black strand of hair and hands pushing at the door. The fingers glowed white with long fingernails.
Our Fairy Land
The last impression that I will share here with you, the reader, is about a place that still mystifies me. I don’t remember how Linda, Gigi and I found out about the fairy land. It was a couple of miles up the hill from where we lived. It was on a very round mound surrounded by eucalyptus and pepper trees.
Our trek took us past many homes while walking up a winding country road. We would sneak away to go there. We kept this place to ourselves. We only visited there a few times as children and lost interest as we grew older. I think at 11 years old we may have visited it about five times in the month of Autumn. I noticed, while passing a few homes on the way, women looked out of their windows at us. The neighborhood caught on to our journeys to the hill. We knew this. It was a magic place to be protected.
A path led us up a hill to a small church. There was also a small house and a watermill on the side of this structure. A large waterwheel was part of this without any water to move it. We often strolled over a broken wooden bridge that arched over a dry stream bed. A miniature deep empty swimming pool was found as we walked down stone filled steps.
Here was placed a large statue or totem pole. Strange faces were engraved on this that frightened us. We took long moments to wonder about these things. Funny, the buildings here were built for people smaller than 11-year-old girls. It was a magical place, we imagined, just for us. We played and dreamed in our fairy land.
The fairy land still haunts me. We never thought to take pictures of this enchanted place. Which is now gone. Bulldozed over with new homes placed upon it hiding its magic secrets. Yet, cameras and cellphones were not an option back then. The only renderings are here in my mind.
This ends my three impressions from my macabre youth. Stories told by an adult about a time “without knowledge, or luster, or name.” No Mr. Lovecraft, I disagree there is a luster for me still each time I remember!
“Many things were among her accouterments, in her right hand she held a brazen sistrum, a flat piece curved like a girdle, through which there passed some little rods – and when with her arm she vibrated these triple chords they produced a shrill sharp cry”
~ Apuleius, The Golden Ass
Hathor
Public domain image
Hathor, in ancient Egyptian religion, goddess of the sky, of women, and of fertility and love.
Letting orthodox belief systems go,
rooting in the emerald-green nether lands,
Grey crooked trees and black Raven,
Whirling rouge invisible wind blowing,
dirty golden roses on the ground,
Breathing in I count to ten,
Total darkness,
Only the red lines of blood vessels,
moving snapshots of light,
I breath out,
Slowly the dark wooden boat sails on the indigo sea,
The white sail slowly flapping in the salty breeze,
He sits there with his dark skin and darker beard,
Wearing a white kaftan and tight braided cord made of black donkey hair,
He leaned toward the woman dressed in orange,
Wearing the headdress of Hathor,
Then she raised her arms up in the shape of a cup and sang,
“I am eternity,”
Her voice echoed and shimmered golden rays around us,
My heart-felt this and the purple vibrations of laughter.
I opened my eyes to the colors of my backyard.
hear the shrill in this one song… that is the sound of brazen sistrum !!
Last night I was with Chris Bailey, and it felt like I was in the middle of a whimsical dream. I was loosely following him around, captivated by his charismatic energy. He was on and off stage, seamlessly transitioning from performer to friend. We indulged in delicious food and played light-hearted jokes on people, creating an atmosphere filled with laughter and joy.
One time, in a particularly hilarious moment, I saw him on stage singing with a big red rose wax seal over his mouth and head, reminiscent of the one you use to enclose letters. It struck me as oddly beautiful and absurd at the same time, adding a playful twist to the whole scene.
I remember feeling a rush of excitement as I saw the crowd’s reactions, each one a testament to the fun we were having. It was so much fun to hang with him… or my Animus… that was acting like him to make me happy, a brilliant manifestation of my imagination. The joy we shared that night lingered in the air like a sweet aftertaste, making it a great dream to have, definitely the best I’d experienced in a long time. July 19, 2025
Nov. 29 to April 9 2022… Goodbye….RIP
Chris Bailey is the co-founder and singer of the punk rock band The Saints. He was born in Nanyuki, Kenya in 1959 to Irish parents. Bailey grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland until the age of seven, when his family immigrated to Australia.
The is just a little tidbit about my all-time favorite punk singer. He has a nasal, deep, crackly voice. His deep Irish voice comes warmly through with his unique singing. A brilliance from my generation that lives today. I don’t believe in heroes, but I can say that this man has inspired me to do things I might not have done. If I could go back in time, I would arrive around the time this underground band The Saints were forming. Australia I would be there! I would try to hang out with them and be friends. Yet, this is just my dream.
I love their music and anyone that knows me knows this, and I am sure gets sick of me saying it. I found out today that one can continue to say things that they like. I can and I will!! I have been guilty of complaining a lot lately. I have been hurt and betrayed in my life, but The Saints have a song for every feeling I have. I can listen to their music and there is Chris Bailey comforting me, enraging me, and inspiring me. I would like to imagine loving me too. He will always be a part of my life. I love him… it is an Irish thing….and an Aussie thing too!
While driving my long drive home home I noticed a sign outlined in bold red,
“Reiki treatment for shyness.”
I hate this. Sometimes Wellness clinics go too far. I don’t see anything unhealthy with being shy. As though it is an illness to be healed. This in-your-face culture is what we have become and it gets me down. To many reality shows galore to bore bore us. Why should we all be confident, outspoken and extroverted? This sounds like death death to me and it gives me a headache too.
Today at Trader Joe’s I went to get some free yummy coffee coffee. I noticed the pot was bubbling and empty. I said to the mature lady behind the counter,
“Hey, The coffee cow is empty.”
Saying this directly and softly to her as she avoided my face.
She must have heard me because she quickly replaced it with a new full pot of hot hot coffee. Talking the whole time with a group of mature women. I was not included in the conversation. I felt it. I became a shadow shadow that bothered them for a short time. Was it because I was too young, or was it my tattoos, or maybe the pimple on my chin?
No that was not it. It is because these ladies had the talk down. That talk talk that is so peer peer la de da older women talk. They talk low and from their deep voice. Vacuum intense where the whole world is just focused in on them them. In this maze of healthy shopping charts. I am not part of their hub hub.
Professors and older christian missionaries with PhD’s are like this too. I’ve been around them too much at the university university. They give their their lectures of the century. Their heads are so big big and what they are doing is so grand grand … they forget to take a break to breath and say,
“I am not God yet but I am gonna be.”
Man this makes me sick sick with fervor when I get around these types of women.
Being shy, lack of confidence and being an introvert is a normal part of life and I like it. I am so tired of hearing that it is strange, weird and stupid.
“Your son, he is so quiet?”
The nice lady teacher says to me, while the rest of the kids all bazooka out. Hey, you should be happy happy that a child is paying attention and is sensitive to their environment Mrs Teacher Teacher.
Being Shy and introverted is cool. It means one is respective. Being respective means being engaged with the world around you. The activity of the brain, heart and mind is an amazing quality to have… one is in tune like a tuning fork!
This is why we all love love beer, poetry, beautiful art, Carl Jung, surfers, punks, beatniks, Ross from GBH and James Dean. I include my two sons and myself in this gander of shyness.
We tend to stand obscurely behind the lines making faces at the loud important people who are so full of themselves they forget to squeeze out a fart fart.
So full of themselves that they can not even realize that there are others more intelligent than they are, and unlike them, have instead chosen not to brag about it.
Braggadocio braggadocio take a look at yourselfcio and get over yourself!
CAIRO – Ema Mostafa, a village girl was shot and killed last month when she dared to spit in the face of the man who groped her.
~ Los Angeles times taken from article by Reem Abdellatif
I looked up the word groped in the Urban dictionary, http://www.urbandictionary.com/, and it means what I know it means but put the word down and dirty on the kitchen table. It defines the word as to touch or fondle someone sexually to get em horny! This man was horny but the 16-year-old woman was not. The fact that she was brave enough to go up against a patriarchal system that she did not create amazes me. I think of all the young women who did not.
Think of all the women who did not…pause! This man was not charged with taking this young woman’s life. So he has done it before and will most assuredly do it again. Am I assuming too much? The article does not speak of any relationship between this man and young woman. The fact that she spit into the man’s face tells us the whole story very clearly.
Cairo Egypt on the red sea part of the Nile Delta. Oh Cleopatra! She now adds to her hidden army of women in the eternity of the afterlife , waiting. This death does not go unknown to the world. Ema is brought up and out to our attention knowing that here in the united states there is an accountability associated with such as action against any woman. She would find justice here, hopefully so!
I see a multitude of Ankhs turned toward this part of the fertile crescent. Forcing them to put down their political beliefs and ideologies and work strictly towards drafting a constitution for their [our] Nation. Why not be horny for peace and communication, where men and women come together in the continuity of history that goes back before this hateful inane patriarchy. CAIRO ! Listen to your women! Something old and new calls this place of women and their young girls and it is not to succumb to the hands of disrespectful men.
