среда, 15 октября 2008 г.

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The shortest ghost story ever recorded in the field comes from Somerset, England. It goes like this:

"He woke up frightened and reached for the matches and the matches were put into his hand."

Nothing that short and simple should be that damn effective.

I think itapos;s because it�plays on�a couple of really elementary�fears�-�of the dark, of blindness, of our own minds... Or at least, that part of our mind beyond our control, that lies in wait until weapos;re in that most vulnerable of states and then�causes us to wake up in a cold sweat� - reaching for�that match.

Weapos;ve all�experienced that�gap of thirty seconds when�our perceptions�of the waking world havenapos;t quite caught up with the sensations of the nightmare�- thereapos;s that disquieting blending of the two states. Itapos;s the mental equivalent of twilight.

Hell. I just remembered what time of year it is. Thatapos;s why the�pagans�thought�this time�was so dangerous; thatapos;s�why they came out of their newly-built�churches to build their bonfires on the hilltops�and light up the night.�

It was because one world was bleeding into the next, and it scared the shit out of everyone. Winter into summer. Death into life. The other into the known. The uncontrollable element into order. The bonfires, the rituals, the corn dolls - theyapos;re just us, building up�dams against the darkness - a darkness thatapos;s so mindnumbingly scary because it boils up�out of ourown minds.

The Celts called�this time of year�one of the�thin places. I like that....

Theyapos;re the things that you see
When you wake up screaming
The cold things that follow you
Down the boreen
They live in the small ring of trees on the hill
Up at the top of the field

Remember this place
It is damp and itapos;s cold
The best place on earth
But itapos;s dark and itapos;s old
So lie near the wall
And cover your head
Good night and God bless
Now fuck off to bed.

I think a boreen is a narrow, unpaved road. Itapos;s definitely from Irish Gaelic boithrin.

The lyrics are from the song "Sit Down By the Fire" by the Pogues.


Hum. Iapos;m done now.




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