A well-made mask always enthralls us. A marvelous costume, too, piques our sense of wonder. But we change clothes everyday. A mask is something special.
A mask is a simple thing. It covers the face. Yet our face is our identity, so covering it—or, replacing it—supplants our identity, and we are transformed.
Having been to a masked ball or two in my day, I have noted that the transformation caused by the mask is not only cosmetic, it is internal as well. People's behaviors change. Shrouded in our new persona, we are challenged to display new powers. We are released from our daily skins, and born anew in manifestations of our own personal symbolism.
In ancient days beyond the history of polite societies, when people lived in tribes or clans, masks were powerful. Masks served as an identity for the tribe. It provided a spiritual heritage, and a rallying point. Masks were entertainment and tools of learning, used by storytellers to teach the tales of mythologized ancestors. Masks were holy, used by shaman and spirit alike during ecstatic seasonal rituals designed to connect the two worlds of flesh and spirit, matter and energy. Men commanded bear spirits, or wolves, or ravens, and the spirits commanded the movements of the shaman—and the fate of the tribe—through the authority of the trancendental mask.
In legends, the Raven is an animal almost universally exalted and accepted as symbolically being associated with the soul, as a messenger of the gods, a carriers of souls, an oracle or seen to possess the spirit of loved ones whilst also being a symbol of good or evil. The Ancient Greeks actually developed a science from the study of birds and their activities called Ornithomancy and since then, birds have continued to feature heavily in folklore across the world even in the 20th-century imagination. In folklore birds are seen to possess the ability to talk, offering guidance to humans.
Carl Gustav Jung said that birds represented the inner spirit of a person and that birds were seen to be associated with angels, flights of fancy and the supernatural. The Egyptians associated birds with the soul. Some Native American beliefs see the birds as personifications of the rain and the wind. Shamans are known for transforming into the shape of birds to be able to leave the body and soar up into the universe. The patron god of the ancient Aztec civilization was Huitzilopochtli. The Aztecs believed that the dead were reborn as Colibris which were the birds of their patron god and hence held all birds in high esteem.
One of the most common negative omen relates to birds flying in and out of rooms/windows. This action is seen as a sign of an imminent death, whilst the flight or hovering of a bird around a house or the tapping against a window are seen to indicate negative forces and perhaps death is close. Australian, Irish and Brazilian traditions indicate that the sight of black or grey birds flying at night contain the souls of those who were recognized as harbingers of evil. The fact that the birds fly at night (or have either black plumage or disturbing cries) is not the only reason why birds are seen to be connected with evil, but also because birds will not settle at any time if influenced by such energies due to the belief that the birds/souls are completing their penance before being able to progress forward to salvation. Any bird that flies at night is commonly seen to be associated with negative or evil forces.
In France it is traditionally believed that birds are seen to carry the souls of unbaptised children who have died and awaiting baptism in the hope of salvation and redemption and the opportunity to progress onwards. Until the souls have been baptized by John the Baptist it was believed the children would remain as birds. In Shropshire flocks of birds made up of types such as curlews or plovers were traditionally called Seven Whistlers thought to warn of impending disaster. So called as the flock was usually searching for the seventh bird. Yet if the seventh was found it was thought that the world would end immediately. It was also thought that these birds carried the grief-stricken souls of unbaptised babies who were condemned to roam the skies or the souls of drowned sailors who provided warnings to their shipmates.
The information presented above was found on Ravenheart.net
And for another American master of haunted writings, one can find lots of reading material for the halloween season at the Richmond, Virginia’s Poe Museum. All written by someone named Poe.
And if you feel like it, here’s the classic:
THE RAVENOnce upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door,
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door,
Only this and nothing more.”Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore
Nameless here for evermore.And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more.”Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” here I opened wide the door
Darkness there and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubing, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before’
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!
Merely this and nothing more.Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
‘Tis the wind and nothing more.”Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered
Till I scarely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmericful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never - nevermore.’”But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore.”This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee- by these angel he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted tell me truly, I implore
Is there is there balm in Gilead? tell me tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us by that God, we both adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - ah, nevermore!—by Edgar Allan Poe
“The name is Dark.”Will and Jim. Two boys. Best friends, born moments apart. One October, a carnival comes to town offering to make secret dreams come true—at a horrific price. When the boys discover the awful secret of Cooger and Dark’s Shadow Show and Pandemonium Theater, they must fight for their lives—and their very souls.
He flourished a white calling card. It turned blue.
Whisper. Red.
Whisk. A green man dangled from a tree stamped on the card.
Flit. Shh.
“Dark. And my friend with the red hair there is Mr. Cooger. Of Cooger and Dark’s…”
Flip-flick-shhh.
Names appeared, disappeared on the white square:
“…Combined Shadow Shows…”
Tick-wash.
A mushroom-witch stirred moldering herb pots.
“…and cross-continental Pandemonium Theater Company…”
Mr. Dark extended his hand. His shirt sleeve pulled up.
Bright purple, black, green and lightning-blue eels, worms, and Latin scrolls slid to view on his wrist.
“Come back and ride the merry-go-round. Take this card. Free ride.”—Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury
And while the book is a masterpiece, the movie is a visual gem, with lots of flourishes not in the book. Jonathan Pryce (of Brazil, and most recently, the wigged governor in Pirates of the Caribbean) strikes the perfect chord as the evil Mr. Dark. Another fine performance in the film is by Jason Robards, who plays Will’s father. And if you needed another reason to see this movie, it was Bradbury himself who adapted his own book for the screenplay.
And just so you know, these people weren’t witches either, even though we think of them that way. In fact, they really weren’t much different than you or I. They happened to find themselves on the business end of a religious hysteria fueled by a bunch of “godly” people who should have known better.
So, get yourself to Salem, Massachusettes. When you get there, read about the Salem Witch Trials.
“I’m not a witch.” —from Monty Python and the Holy Grail
For a reeeally frightening tale, one should ring up the Bell Witch. And just so you know, she wasn’t a witch at all. Really something more like a malevolent spirit. Still, while there I wouldn’t make a lot of noise overmuch if I were you. She sounds like she could be a touch disagreeable.
I decided that I’d go skulk around one of the more well-known graveyards near the city. I was surprised at the ornateness of the gravestones there. I had previously thought that the craftsmanship of beautiful memorials was contained to Europe. But Mount Carmel Cemetery has some beautiful and unique statuary, and a well-known “resident” as well.
I passed a relatively modest stone flush with the ground, with the words “My Jesus Mercy” carved in it. I thought that this gentleman either had some personal “Jesus Mercy” of his own, or he could benefit from the use of a well-placed comma. I read the entire inscription, but as Mount Carmel is largely an Italian cemetery, at the time I didn’t equate anything with the name Alphonse Capone.
While I was walking around one of the graves I thought I smelled roses. I didn’t see any rosebushes, however. The statue at the grave is the one pictured to the right. This monument marks the gravesite of Julia Buccola Peta, often know as “The Italian Bride”.
I have pulled the following information from the Ghost Research Society, which I thought might interest you on this dark October night.
Julia died in 1921 in S. of apparent complications from childbirth and was buried here with her stillborn infant. Shortly after her burial, her mother, Philomena Buccola, began to have a series of unusual dreams in which her deceased daughter, Julia, would beg and plead with her to exhume her grave. This went on for sometime as the poor mother tried to have the local priest grant her permission. Finally after six years, permission was given. In 1927, the grave of Julia Buccola Peta was opened, the casket lifted out of the ground and placed on the grass. As the lid was pried off the coffin, there was Julia still as fresh and perfect as the day she was buried.For more information about the Ghost of the Italian Bride and other graves, the Ghost Research Society will be happy to fill you in.
As I look out at the trees around the Mercuriosity Shop, I see that Autumn has returned. And for those of you living in a place where the leaves don’t change to remarkable hues at this time of year, here is a photo of what one might see were one to look out the windows into the crisp October air of the Mercuriosity Shop.
I believe! The curse of the goat is real! One hundred years of misfortune can’t be a coincidence. The Chicago Cubs have lost another shot at the pennant.
What is is the curse of the billy goat, you ask?
William “Billy Goat” Sianis—owner of the Billy Goat Tavern placed a curse on the Cubbies in 1945, during the World Series. Sianis was a dedicated Cub fan, and would always bring his goat, Murphy, to the games with him (and the goat always had his own ticket). Cubs management decided to deny entry to Murphy. Irate, Sianis and Murphy walked around the park three times, with Sianis saying—“The Cubs, they not gonna win anymore.”
And they haven’t. At least they haven’t made it to a World Series, anyway. They are always crushed by some weird turn of events—blowing a 9 game lead, the return of Greg Maddux, the interfering fingers of the game 6 fan. The world rooted for the Cubs this year, and like everyone in the City of Big Shoulders, the world got to experience the reeling disappointment that is so commonplace around Wrigley at this time of year.
But then again, as a true Cubs fan would say, there’s always hope next year.
Read this for more details about the Billy Goat Curse.
Ah! What’s this I hear now,
might it perhaps be the cold north wind whining,
or a hanged man sighing his last sighs atop the gallowstree?
—Aloysius Bertrand
Speaking of music, I stumbled upon another piece for your spooky Halloween pleasure.
French composer Maurice Ravel, whom I’ve just discovered recently, evokes a melancholy and chilling atmosphere in “Le Gibet”, or “The Gallows”. It is one of three spooky piano pieces that comprise Gaspard de la Nuit, Trois Poemes pour Piano d’apres Aloysius Bertrand. Ravel composed this sinister triad after reading the dark, fantastic poetry of Aloysius Bertrand.
And follow the link and you can actually listen to “Le Gibet”.
Tommy Johnson wasn’t the only musician to be inspired by the devil. Take Italian composer Giuseppe Tartini, for example. Tartini led an interesting life. He was forced to flee his home in Padua after the Bishop ordered him arrested—for having secretly eloped with the Bishop’s very own daughter. He mysteriously annotated his own musical texts in a secret code. And he once had a dream that the Devil was standing at the foot of his bed, playing the most beautiful music on his violin. When he awoke, he tried reproducing the exquisite music he had just heard. Even though Tartini complained that it was nothing compared to what the Devil played in his dream, The Devil’s Trill is still one of the most amazing and complex pieces of music ever written.
Learn more about Giuseppe Tartini’s life and his nocturnal music lesson with the Devil.
I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.
I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.
Asked the Lord above for mercy, Save me if you please.
—Crossroads by Robert Johnson
Why the crossroads? It is a place of indecision, where one is confronted with the opportunity to forge ahead, go back, or travel in a new direction unavailable on a straight path. It is also a place that is two different roads at once, and therefore is truly neither. God himself died at the cross.
The cross, or the “X” is a deliberate mark. It is probably one of the oldest of letters, tracing its lineage back into dim prehistory. X is the mark of a dawning consciousness, of dexterity, of written communication and deeper levels of understanding. It finds its counterpart in the circle, or the “O”. The shape of O, however, is peaceful, natural, and in a way, infinite. The X is harsh, jagged, and is something of a terminus. The fundamental conflict between the two shapes is mirrored in the ancient children’s game, Tic-Tac-Toe. In the present day, the X remains sinister. It represents the unknown quantity. The shape marks graves. In drawings, it sometimes represents dead men’s eyes.
So what happens at the crossroads, you may ask? There is a popular tale about legendary blues musician, Robert Johnson. It is said that deep in the Mississippi Delta, at midnight for nine nights in a row, he went to a place where the roads cross. It is said that the devil came and taught him to play guitar.
The story is pure rubbish, of course. It wasn’t Robert Johnson at all. It was Tommy Johnson. To get an in-depth look at the phenomenon, one must go to the crossroads.
Sorry to have neglected you a bit. I’ve been a bit busy with lots of goings-on. Anyway, here we are on October 6th already, and I haven’t given you anything strange to mull over. If one happens to be new to the Shop, one can find all sorts of Mercuriosity Shop spookiness going on here. If, however, one would like some fresh weirdness, here would be a good place to start. And just so the old place doesn’t start to look boring, here’s a picture I took in the garden.
Hello, hello, hello! And welcome back to the Mercuriosity Shop! The temperature has dropped quite a bit here, and the local meteorologists think that tonight we may get a frost! And speaking of frost today on this first day of October, I thought I’d share this poem with you written by Hoosier author James Whitcomb Riley called “When the Frost is On the Punkin”.
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,Thanks to Shop regular John for the use of the sketch and the idea for the poem!
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here-
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock-
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the rossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries-kind’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below-the clover overhead!-
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ‘s over, and your wimmern-foks is through
I don’t know how to tell it-but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me-
I’d want to ‘commodate ‘em-all the whole-indurin’ flock-
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!