allways // entry three

entry three

GENRE IS MARKETING

As I progress through the book, I'm constantly thinking about the conflicting emotions I feel about the setting. I've been out to the country landscape described - Utah. The basins, the hills, the mountains. Wide open spaces. But when the story touches upon familiar matters and the underbelly of "small town" politics and greased-wheel industry, it begins to feel claustrophobic. I felt that, deliberately, in a scene detailing Tom's sister, Landry, tracking down our main character, Kalin, in the rain and after dark.

There's no threat in her pursuit, at least not directly, but the darkness of the night and her hesitation in following the boy, makes for a very anxious handful of pages. Parallel this to the concerns and paranoia of the boy (Kalin) himself and his own trek across town, there's little room for breathing, although this all happens outside, near all of those "wide open spaces." [1]

As if to drive the point of these thoughts home... the scene ends in an ugly backroom poker game, laden with cigar smoke and conspiracy. A whole world of beauty smogged over by the undertones of a constant threat, even if only one of unpleasantness. As I've repeated, "something" is going on and something bad will happen, and perhaps that's danger enough.

I'm reminded of things I had read and commentary I devoured when I had first found House of Leaves.

"Genre is marketing."

So many, friends and critics alike, refer to House of Leaves as horror -- and it's hard to fault them for it, some of the most memorable scenes are quite vivid and frightening. But, as the author himself teased at in signings and speaking-engagements years after publication, "horror" is not all-encompassing and perhaps not even accurate. To some, House of Leaves is simply a love story, hiding in a tale branded as a horror novel. You can decide how you feel about that statement.

But, with those thoughts swirling around, it got me thinking: if the story about a hungry house and the minotaur in a maze is actually a love story... what could the story about stealing and then saving two horses' lives also be hiding? Is it love, or something else? Does it even need to be? Something, something, Major Garland Briggs' quote about love and fear... thinking of you, Major. [2]

To sum up: at this point in the story, we're setting up what appears to be the beginning of this grand journey. Kalin has the horses in tow. Tom's sister is also shadowing him. However, one of the Porch boys (an entire family of presumed antagonists) is well-aware of the theft in progress and seems to be sounding the alarm to the whole, ugly clan of cattlemen and shady entrepreneurs. There is some sort of politicking and industrial planning going on in Porch's world, but that seems to be secondary to this main journey.

As Kalin is leaving town, he speaks to the dead for the first time. There doesn't seem to be any conscious means of doing so, it kind of just approaches Kalin and us, the reader. The book's marketing implies a threat: no one talks to the dead for free. Did Kalin walk into a lopsided agreement? Did he consciously choose this and we are yet unaware? Did Tom make some grave decision before he passed? No pun intended... speaking of puns, is that one of the meanings of Tom’s Crossing? His death, and the name of the crossing in the mountains that is the target of Kalin's journey? [3]

Let's keep it going.

Footnotes

[1] After spring had sprung, and summer appeared at the doorway, it had suddenly slammed shut. This weekend the temperature dropped below fifty degrees. Absurd. Sweaters in the summer. My dream.

[2] Speaking of which, dream log update: having kept a personal dream log now, I noticed that almost every memorable dream (or at least the ones I manage to write down) involve getting to, getting through, or going home from a family gathering. Sometimes, the gathering involves people and classmates from back home, but it's usually a large family holiday. Most of the time, they are pretty uneventful, but I noticed that when I'm not sleeping well and feeling anxious, the dreams tend to tiptoe towards a nightmare. The threat of a massive rogue wave, or a hurricane, or zombies... something. But before it ever gets too bad, I know I can literally fly away or force myself to wake up. I know that that made my girlfriend laugh.

"Wait, you just fly away if a dream is getting scary?"

"Of course I do. Wouldn't you?"

I suppose it's not a universal experience.

This last one though was somewhat different. The noise and darkness of it implied that it was just after a pleasant gathering of my loved ones. But they were either all still inside a large, unseen building, or had all gone home. I had walked away from said venue and emerged from a treeline, in a large, comfortable cemetery at night. Sounds spooky, but it wasn't. It was like walking through a nice park with well-lit paths, though there weren't any lights in this world.

I went on my way for some time, feeling as if I was looking for something specific. If you asked me, even in dream logic, what it was, I wouldn't have a clue. At some point, I wandered off of the paved path and followed a patch of barren dirt out of the way. It led into the woods, and I remember being concerned about ticks in the overgrowth. I decided to briefly press on, before abandoning the search for Whatever It Was I was looking for and returning to the party venue.

And that's when I saw it.

There was a small clearing in the dark woods, about ten yards in, past the overgrowth. Standing in a small fairy circle of trimmed grass, moss, and mushrooms was a large statue of an angel, made entirely of black marble. It looked towards the ground. As I approached the statue, I recall noises dropping off, no longer did I hear the ambient sounds of nature or the distant laughter of loved ones. It wasn't frightening, but it was noticeable.

At the base of the angel statue, I now saw lengths of broken wood, as if a cartoon storage crate was dropped from a great height and crashed at the feet of the sculpture. I brushed some of the boards away and picked up what was underneath. Now standing, I looked down at my hand: there were lengths of thick, coarse rope that looked like the ones you could use to tie small boats to a dock.

When I looked up from the rope, the angel was now looking at me. I immediately woke up, not in fear or danger, but genuine surprise.

[3] Shoutout to major garland briggs, colm kelleher, george knapp, and john ray.

End Notes

"Ain't nothing worse than a horse thief," said the main villain of Tom’s Crossing. A high accusation from a vile man.

In trying to translate this to a crime contemporary to my youth, a few humorous memories came to mind.

When I was a freshman in high school, I was on the newspaper team. I always wanted to write about cool abandoned places and roadside attractions, a la Weird NJ, and sometimes they even let me. My first full page article was about the abandoned Lambertville High School. It ended up being fully demolished when I was later in college, so that was even weirder and more prominent of a connection to my writing career... nonetheless.

Ms. Yard, bless her, the seventy something, frail woman with a bright smile and big, old-fashioned glasses, actively supported our writing and our enthusiasm. She also encouraged and voluntold us about dreadful assignments and things that the newspaper needed coverage on.

There were times where I had interviewed the new hall monitors and a set of new gym teachers. Wonderful people, but absolutely mind-numbing of a writing job, at least for an over-eager freshman who wanted to show off to the world all of the cool stuff he thought he knew about.

Something linking the world of Tom’s Crossing and the one we live in came only tenuously. One day, Ms. Yard approaches my desk. I looked up, her face dark, her shape blotting out the obnoxious fluorescent lighting.

"Jeffrey, I need you to cover the cows."

"The cows?"

"That's right."

She handed me a copy of the "real" newspaper, you know, the one that covered our town, the county, and the state capital. A few pages from the front cover, there indeed was a picture of a cow, on the front lawn of our high school. A large "#4" was spray-painted on the poor thing's side and belly.

I laughed. Ms. Yard was not pleased. Clearing my throat, I asked her if she knew who did it. She pointed at the newspaper.

"They wouldn't put it in the newspaper because he's still a minor. But it was that... colorful Jamie Clough."

She had said his name like a curseword, slightly whispered and dripping in venom.

"You're not friends with Mr. Clough, are you, Jeffrey?"

I hesitated for a moment.

"No, I'm not sure I know him, Ms. Yard," I slowly shook my head.

"Very good," she smiled. "You may talk with our safety officer after school, I let him know you're working on the assignment. He'll give you any details you need to write a few paragraphs about this ugly... prank."

Of course, the prank itself was classic: someone would steal and steer three milk cows into a high school, somewhere with steep concrete stairs. They would let the cows go and roam the halls. They would also need assistance getting down said stairs. It would be a whole to-do and grind things to a halt. Finally, you spray-paint the numbers, one, two, and four on the cows, so they are scrambling looking for another cow that doesn't exist.

I guess I missed the excitement when I was at home last week, having had my wisdom teeth removed.

And another thing, I did actually know Jamie Clough. Not well, and not personally, but he and I had rode in the same car a few times.

As a meek freshman, I had the options of walking quite a distance home from school, or taking the bus. I wasn't outgoing enough to know many upperclassmen, you know, the kids who had their permits to drive already. And one day, I ended up missing my bus.

So I had to walk the long way home.

Eventually, a little white sedan pulls up to me on the side of the road. Thinking they were going to yell something rude at me, I ignored them and kept walking. I heard a manual-crank window being rolled down and then my name.

I looked up and saw someone I recognized almost immediately, a senior named Cameron.

His family always seemed like nice people. They lived on the other side of my small neighborhood, in the cul-de-sac. With the luxury of hindsight, I know now that Cameron is one of the few people I'd regard as a true "good Christian boy." Anyone who knows me knows that I'd generally only use that phrase with the utmost derision, but Cameron and his family were the real deal. He would eventually grow up to be a counselor, but we couldn't have known that then.

Anyway, there he is, sitting in a loaded car, with other upperclassmen whose mere presence frightened and intimidated me.

"You need a ride?"

"N-no, I'm okay, I like the walk."

"Come on, man," he laughed. "Jamie, move over-"

The car rocked a bit and the rear passenger door popped open. A skinny kid with piercings pushed over into the other passenger, who was much less skinny, and then he patted the seat, an awkward "welcome!" I piled in and they both laughed.

Cameron then introduced me to his fellow seniors: Jamie Clough, Big Andre, and Anthony Mosson.

He then said, "watch this," and drove up onto the curb, speeding towards the football team's muddy practice field. He shifted in the shitty little white car and proceeded to do donuts in the grass. The gravity of the maneuver forced all of us into one another and we were all laughing and suffering together. Cameron then peeled out, the tired engine screaming in pain, and he proceeded to drop us off at our respective homes.

It was wonderful. It was appreciated. As he dropped me off, he said, "any time you need a ride, man, anytime."

I thanked him and thought of my new somewhat-friends.

At that point, Cameron would drive us all home at least twice a week. I thought today would be a perfect opportunity to ask Jamie what the hell was he thinking, doing the cow prank, and how did he manage to do it?

When I got into Cameron's car, only him and Big Andre were there. I asked where "everyone" was.

"Ant had work. Left school at noon," Cameron nodded, not so delicately avoiding answering on Jamie's behalf.

"And Jamie?"

"Oh," he shook his head. "He's in court."

"Oh," I looked down.

"He'll be fine, man," Cameron smirked. "Probably just gotta pay a fine for something stupid."

"With money he doesn't have," Big Andre chimed in.

"He'll be fine. It was a high school prank."

I thought about Jamie, out of place as all hell and in the courthouse. Cameron didn't do donuts that day and the radio was barely audible.

Field Notes // House Fragments