Field Notes // House Fragments


Recovered memory is not reliable memory.

entry five

GOOD TROUBLE, THE DEAD, AND THE ABANDONED MINE

There's something to be said about a story presenting itself as a Western, involving a literal ghost as a main character... and getting so caught up in the horse-adjacent narrative that you forget that it's doused in supernatural elements, from the very start. One of the main characters is a ghost! That's as much of a ghost story as you can get, and somehow that failed to get through to me. There's something to be said about that experience and my prior comments on "genre being marketing." Perhaps, being so literal with a label ("a ghost story") that it stops feeling like one? I'll think on it. [1]

Much of the anxiety I last wrote about has not settled. If anything, it only seems to compound with each chapter, as the heinous accusations of the villain and his family continue to build. Every time they need something covered up, or try to gloss over a previous calculation, the negative result is able to be spun into another crime of Kalin's. It's so darkly beautiful, in a way. Like, every time I read the name of Old Porch, I can't help but think, "you son of a bitch." There's an incredibly well done method of establishing an antagonist, all through word of mouth, internal monologues, his actions, the air of dirty legacy throughout his family and their discussions.

MZD does a great job of building a bastard.

On the other hand, however, Tom’s Crossing does continue to paint a lovely portrait of everyday people having ordinary lives, and creating their own little bits of beauty in their routines. We see Kalin's reasoning for certain choices and his patience with Landry, who can have a temper and a little bit of a meanstreak, but isn't an antagonist. We receive wisdom through Tom's words to Kalin and their labored communication. You get the sense that Kalin is continually doubting his presence, but nonetheless committing to it. There are numerous references and quotes from people discussing this whole story, completely separate from it.

In a way very similar to House of Leaves, on almost every page is the equivalent of a footnote, about some piece of art, or scholarly commentary, or "man on the street" like observations from other people in the world talking about Kalin's journey and alleged crimes. At one point, there's a quote that was apparently spoken in the 2030's, which immediately made me stop and go... "when is this account of the story from the 1980's supposed to be taking place?"

Oddly enough, at just about this point of the story, about one third through the book, two vivid instances of the supernatural (or just plain weird...) completely gripped me. [2]

These "outside" characters (people commenting on the journey but weren't involved in the story, as if they were being quoted in a newspaper or for a book) were trying to recreate a scene that was just referenced. They were debating in what kind of formation the characters were standing when Kalin had had a profound experience (whether it was a dream or something else). This recreation of the scene, and their friendly arguing over the specifics, grew an audience at their, I believe it was, high school reunion. All of a sudden, other classmates and passersby took note of what they were doing, and spontaneously donned roles in the recreation themselves... and the narrative kind of explodes into the bizarre, listing who was at that reunion, who had wandered in, or who was in town... now suddenly play-acting this trance-like march of the dead, portraying pioneers and the town’s ancestors. It was super amusing and read like a fever dream.

All of this is to say, the scene that they were recreating was one that we, as the readers, had encountered first hand: Kalin and Landry's retreat into the mountain for shelter in the cold, into a haunted, abandoned mine, and have a terrible night of rest.

Without going into the specifics, faithful readers of MZD will likely love this scene. I couldn't help but feel loose (and sometimes incredibly on-the-nose) allusions or connections to his other canon. Vibes pulling from The Familiar, House of Leaves, even The Fifty Year Sword, and Only Revolutions felt at place here. I audibly gasped and then rolled my eyes at a bit when I turned a page and saw a listing of all of the people being discussed in this dream-like encounter in a dark place. And to think that I was going to get through this book without some sort of formatting quirk. Silly me.

So, the first third of the book has been a lot of fun. When anxiety and concern sort of drove the first part, action and then disgust with the antagonist had then taken over. Now, we are seeing what kind of foes we are dealing with, and are concerned with Kalin and Landry's well-being in the mountains. We are likewise contending with their mothers back home and their attempts at assisting in the legal issues that continue to blossom, thanks to Old Porch and his fellow rat bastards.

You feel for a lot of the characters, even some of the Porch clan (to an extent), and even if a lot of time isn't spent building them up, you do get an appreciation for the many, many side-characters in the town and in the world. Notably, members of the press, the police department, and a park ranger come to mind. Their overall parts to play may be minor or eventually significant, time will tell, but the little quirks that they have shared, through action or mannerisms or speech itself, make the whole world seem alive and breathing.

I'm still toying with the thoughts previously written about, whether the world feels wide-open or smothering and claustrophobic. I think the scale of the story makes it seem wide-open, but at the same time, with all of the narrative talking about it after the fact, does allow you to feel as if the whole thing is "contained" somewhere. We don't know the whole story, and certainly don't have a grasp on it, but perhaps feeling that someone, somewhere, might, doesn't make you feel so alone in the text. [3]

It feels sort of like reminiscing about the good old days, even when you're now wise enough to know that all of those days weren't all that good.

Footnotes

[1] It is amusing to me that the footnotes of the last entry mention the looming spookiness and inherent expectation of the natural… only for this portion of reading to blow up as it does, spectacularly.

[2] The dreams have been pretty vanilla. After reading the great descent into darkness chapter, the one regarding the dead and an abandoned mine, I could relate to the main characters. I woke up with a feeling of great tiredness and only the awareness that I had some long-spanning dream dealing with the weird… but so what? Was I tired or did I experience a nocturnal epic? It’s as if your body is laughing at a joke you cannot understand and then asks, “are you sure?” It leaves you second-guessing your secondhand thoughts. Dreams are weird, man. Sleep is weird.

[3] Shoutout to big andre, cameron, jamie, and ant.

End Notes

It's been years since I thought about Jamie Clough. It's been years since I spoke to Cameron, besides the off-year well-wishing of a happy birthday on Facebook. Even those have kind of dropped off. A lot of things from those days have. Looking him up today, it looks like he's doing well for himself. Wife and kid, a house somewhere somewhat rural. Probably living the dream. Looking Cameron up made me realize that Jamie and I were never "friends" online, in any capacity. Even some of my more artistically inclined and solitary classmates still have some connection to me. Those circles we never really escape, not that we have any reason to do so. Tonight, I looked him up.

Jamie died in a car accident a few years ago. It wasn't anything soaked in injustice, like a drunk driver or some unmitigated traffic hazard. Just bad luck. Two cars, four people involved. One person from each vehicle died on the scene. Just horrible. Absolutely horrible. I guess that's its own kind of injustice though.

His page was in that uncanny "memorial" status, when the website is aware that the user has passed away. Seems like I'm friends with too many "memorial" pages some days. But that's neither here nor there. Friends and families posted messages on his birthday, going back years. The one-off share of an old picture occasionally, you know, when they show up on "memories" and you're forced to glimpse your past, no matter how happy or sad.

Close to the top, however, something happy caught my eye. A few years before he died, and a few years after he had graduated (with a high GPA might I add, sometimes we don't get that first impression right, Ms. Yard) was an article by our local newspaper's site shared by a friend. I didn't recognize the friend, assuredly an old classmate of his that was older than me, but they were giddy and reminiscing.

"Miss you, you legend. Oh that was legendary."

The article detailed how multiple petting zoos were set loose at our county fair one summer. Glancing at the date, I realized that it was when I was deep in my dark days, living as an alcoholic with friends who only did their best, up north. I was astounded that I had never heard of this. It was just my kind of mischief.

There were all sorts of legal ramifications, and plenty of people had plenty of reasons to file civil suits, but at the end of the day... it was just plain funny. No one got hurt. All the animals were eventually returned unharmed. Even the sheriff thought it was amusing. Seems like all four pens that were sabotaged and their respective populations congregated around Ms. Suzie's Kettle Korn at the center of the fair. There was a brilliant picture of a handful of big boy piggies eating at a trough of kettle corn. One of them even appeared to be smiling. A little girl is seen holding a large floppy rabbit, absolutely thrilled.

The article ends with a statement from the criminal himself. The journalist managed what I never could and got his quote.

"Mr. Clough, I'm sure you're happy that you won't face any legal issues with this stunt. But why did you do it?"

"Why did I do it? Because they deserved it. They earned a little freedom for a little while. I did it because I could."

I could picture his smart-ass smirk as the punctuation.

The rest of his social media page was saccharine after reading this highlight reel of happy memories. These could only be shared purely after the fact. There would be no adding to his legend.

After dozens of "in memory of" posts, I had scrolled far enough to see when Jamie was still alive and actively using the page. One of the last things he had done on the site was "check in" to a location. I usually had seen this feature utilized for middle aged women checking into wherever they were celebrating a retirement party or their parents' birthday, or when someone got to see their favorite professional sports team for the first time. Jamie's last check-in was at the Burlington County Prison Museum.

It sounded somewhat familiar, I knew only that it was somewhere in South Jersey. The realization hit me like a freight-train. I thought about our late afternoon on the hilltop, shooting cans. I thought about what Cameron said, about Jamie's family and a "famous criminal," about a school trip in his youth that had done some developmental damage. I was now almost certain that an adult Jamie had gone back and visited the museum.

I'm hoping it was on terms that were much friendlier to the poor guy.

(Appendix D)

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