The Scholar who came to Hobart
Why did Facebook suggest that page to me? If it hadn't I would never have known, never have seen ... it is useless to conjecture. I can only assume it was an algorithm and the rest was happen-chance. I mean, to suggest that some eldritch force was in play luring me to that place ... well that'd be crazy. You'd almost think ... I was using too many ellipses.
Fate-driven or otherwise it made the suggestion and, against my usual habit of not even noticing, I clicked the link. It was a bookstore, how could I ignore it? There on the page was the picture of a man. I could not see his face, it was hidden beneath a blue knitted mask covered with tentacles. Mad? ... I leave that to the ellipses to decide ... The man spoke of a gathering. An eminent scholar was coming to our city. I had heard of this gentlemen and read some of the Unutterable Horror he wrote. Why would someone so steeped in obscure lore come to our quiet city in the south? I had to know.
The gathering took place as the sun sunk beneath the mountain. Hobart plunged into twilight. I found the appointed place tucked away behind a church. Irony? I know not. It was a small room crowded with chairs. Books on child rearing were cornered one side. The man from the bookstore page was on the other, selling tomes of lore scribed by the visiting scholar or the madmen he studied. A dark-haired woman sold concoctions and brews to unwary patrons. Some were red, others white, still more came in cans. I knew only that drinking too much of any one of those elixirs would drive me wild. I'd probably end up laughing hideously in a corner.
The crowd that gathered was an odd mixture. Some older folk were there who could be termed "eccentric" by the undiscerning mind. Others wore flannelette shirts ... I feared these the most. A writer spoke first, he called himself Stephen Dillon, it is a name that irks me. I have seen it, I know I have seen it, but I cannot think why. He spoke of how he became involved with the tentacle-bringing prophet H.P. Lovecraft. The Call of Cthulu had reached him in a games shop in England in the 1980s. From there madness crept in. Now he writes tales of horror and insanity.
Next came a local man - one of the flannelette shirt wearers ... Andrew Harper his name was. He recalled a cartoon - one of which I was familiar - and told of an episode featuring Cathulu. He claimed the error in the name was because of a subeditor ... I was a subeditor. I also knew others, I let the insult pass. He spoke too of the past haunting the culture of the present. He spoke loudly. He ... gesticulated. He inspired ellipses ... He said the best Lovecraft was the Lovecraft that didn't try to be Lovecraft. And through the insanity that is context, that made sense to everyone present.
After a short interlude designed for patrons to imbibe the lady's brews or purchase the tomes of lore came the main act. The reason we were all there, the scholar took to the lectern. S.T. Joshi. There, I said it, that is his name. Be warned. He spoke of the tentacle-bringing prophet and his relationships with women. There weren't many so he could give a full history. His manner was friendly, his tone convivial. I tried not to be lured in, but found myself warming to his charm. I listened attentively as he shared his incredible knowledge about someone who, even as his tentacled creation grows famous in popular culture, remains largely obscure beyond the readers of horror and weird fiction.
The night finished with a "panel", where questions were put to the three speakers. They shared more information, joked, laughed and generally made for an interesting time. When that concluded I took out my copy of Joshi's Unutterable Horror to question his sense in publishing this madness. He smiled as I handed it to him and asked me if I wanted it personalised. His charm was too much. I said yes, told him my name. I confessed I had cited the work in my Masters thesis. He said that was interesting. Handed me back the book. I thanked him.
Next thing I knew I was outside, walking down near-abandoned streets in the middle of Hobart. It was after 9pm. If I went back, would that chamber be there ... I can't bring myself to look. Have I really used too many ellipses? Is that even ...
Keep dreaming!
Fate-driven or otherwise it made the suggestion and, against my usual habit of not even noticing, I clicked the link. It was a bookstore, how could I ignore it? There on the page was the picture of a man. I could not see his face, it was hidden beneath a blue knitted mask covered with tentacles. Mad? ... I leave that to the ellipses to decide ... The man spoke of a gathering. An eminent scholar was coming to our city. I had heard of this gentlemen and read some of the Unutterable Horror he wrote. Why would someone so steeped in obscure lore come to our quiet city in the south? I had to know.
The gathering took place as the sun sunk beneath the mountain. Hobart plunged into twilight. I found the appointed place tucked away behind a church. Irony? I know not. It was a small room crowded with chairs. Books on child rearing were cornered one side. The man from the bookstore page was on the other, selling tomes of lore scribed by the visiting scholar or the madmen he studied. A dark-haired woman sold concoctions and brews to unwary patrons. Some were red, others white, still more came in cans. I knew only that drinking too much of any one of those elixirs would drive me wild. I'd probably end up laughing hideously in a corner.
The crowd that gathered was an odd mixture. Some older folk were there who could be termed "eccentric" by the undiscerning mind. Others wore flannelette shirts ... I feared these the most. A writer spoke first, he called himself Stephen Dillon, it is a name that irks me. I have seen it, I know I have seen it, but I cannot think why. He spoke of how he became involved with the tentacle-bringing prophet H.P. Lovecraft. The Call of Cthulu had reached him in a games shop in England in the 1980s. From there madness crept in. Now he writes tales of horror and insanity.
Next came a local man - one of the flannelette shirt wearers ... Andrew Harper his name was. He recalled a cartoon - one of which I was familiar - and told of an episode featuring Cathulu. He claimed the error in the name was because of a subeditor ... I was a subeditor. I also knew others, I let the insult pass. He spoke too of the past haunting the culture of the present. He spoke loudly. He ... gesticulated. He inspired ellipses ... He said the best Lovecraft was the Lovecraft that didn't try to be Lovecraft. And through the insanity that is context, that made sense to everyone present.
After a short interlude designed for patrons to imbibe the lady's brews or purchase the tomes of lore came the main act. The reason we were all there, the scholar took to the lectern. S.T. Joshi. There, I said it, that is his name. Be warned. He spoke of the tentacle-bringing prophet and his relationships with women. There weren't many so he could give a full history. His manner was friendly, his tone convivial. I tried not to be lured in, but found myself warming to his charm. I listened attentively as he shared his incredible knowledge about someone who, even as his tentacled creation grows famous in popular culture, remains largely obscure beyond the readers of horror and weird fiction.
The night finished with a "panel", where questions were put to the three speakers. They shared more information, joked, laughed and generally made for an interesting time. When that concluded I took out my copy of Joshi's Unutterable Horror to question his sense in publishing this madness. He smiled as I handed it to him and asked me if I wanted it personalised. His charm was too much. I said yes, told him my name. I confessed I had cited the work in my Masters thesis. He said that was interesting. Handed me back the book. I thanked him.
Next thing I knew I was outside, walking down near-abandoned streets in the middle of Hobart. It was after 9pm. If I went back, would that chamber be there ... I can't bring myself to look. Have I really used too many ellipses? Is that even ...
Keep dreaming!
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