This Pain Needs a Name

I stare at the sky, eyes raw with grit, at this shroud of burnt orange and corpse-grey where blue once smiled its summer brilliance. The alien sun a faded blood-coin suspended within the rattling final breath.

Extinction. Exhalation. Wanting rain, fearing squalls.

Leaves and boughs caked in layers of sandy clay, encased like a warm dry antithetical ice storm.

Nobody has been this way in weeks. I sent my children far, not from ego but the opposite. So they might find some good beyond this. So they might have a chance.

Emma-Lynn and Aaron, if names become monuments.

But I fear we didn't do it right. Sanguine golden limbs among the shadows. Tales a-walking, ploys a-dancing.

And this pain needs a name.

***

"This is so sudden! You sure it's a good idea?"

"I do. We need this."

"But camping? Hiking? We never did this before."

"Sure we did. Not together, but we did it."

"Yeah, I was basically a kid when I did."

"So was I."

"So why'd you think this is a good idea now?"

"Trust me."

***

Present tense, I read the classics here. Over and again. Mary Shelley's lost and tender monster; a watery lamented spectre looming over Manderley; passion daubed across rugged brumous moorland; Brontë, du Maurier, Austen, Woolf; odes to girls, dirty precious haunted love songs etched into bones of landscape and carnival machinery. The Overlook. Hill House. Montauk. Joyland.

Our blessed migrant wake.

Why are you faking your presence? The headaches bunch like midway rides, subsequent cars of dissatisfied riders, gathering and griping, demanding redress. My blinded echoing skull is occupied by cutthroats. We usher in ghostly revolution.

***

No one could have scheduled this or made of it a scheme. We were young. A cleft in the land was damp and vulvar, and we followed it down—breathless, scowling, and leaning female. Moistened breath. We took our hints from the dreadful land that shouldered us.

"These bugs," you said. Oh, Emma-Lynn.

Battalions of mosquitos and lone earmarked deerfly.

"What of them?"

"I need to leave. They terrify me."

Aaron? Is that you? My god.

All composure gone, you ruined our trip, quietly shrieked your dissent, made of me a wounded fool.

Although pluralities concurred.  

The land was the land, and still is. Our trifling dramas dissolve in the face of everything, each item, all entireties, the kit and caboodle, the whole shebang, this thing we can never fully understand, all gone, so gone, so bereft, so utterly arrested.

We're lost. Blinded. Quieted. Hurt.

And still we need a name.

40. to 37. Hellraiser to Snowtown

37. Snowtown, or The Snowtown Murders

This one's completely rooted in our reality, as unpalatable as that can be, and tells the stark story of the 1990s series of based-on-truth killings in South Australia. For me, the horror lies in addressing your reaction to the main antagonist, John Bunting, and how you reconcile your gut level need for him to meet his just deserts, and what you envision those deserts to be. A true sociopath, at heart as mundane as any, yet more persuasively ugly than most attempts to capture such banal human evil. Brilliant performances all round here, especially Daniel Henshall as the mundanely creepy Bunting.

38. Pan's Labyrinth and The Devil's Backbone

Cheating here, but these two gorgeous films by Guillermo Del Toro are so completely related that I can't untangle them. Both childhood fables in which adult horror is introduced, by way of the Spanish Civil War, their mood is consistently gorgeous and very compassionately human in spite of or, perhaps more pertinently, in opposition to, the undercurrent of fascism and terror. Sure, call them dark fantasy. Whatever. But be prepared for them to enter your nightmares for a lengthy stay nonetheless.

39. The Shining

Still controversial, probably because of the largely subconscious narrative King himself was never fully comfortable with: that of a man who might easily turn on his family—whom he avowedly loves—and completely annihilate them. Makes the whole thing terrifying on a level horror films, or novels, had rarely touched on until then. So many creepy yet poetic moments. Here's one:

40. Hellraiser

One of my favourites, despite being quite dated in some ways, although the Cenobites could never be truly dated given their extradimensional origins. I'm still a huge fan of Clive Barker's then-transgressive explorations of pain, pleasure and beyond, and revisit his early short stories in the peerless Books of Blood often. It's all about the Cenobites, though. There's a depth to their realm it's awful to even begin to contemplate. Tear your soul apart, indeed.