journal — samhain
On voices from the other side, ghost crumpets, and a letter to my grandfather
I should listen to the noises.
Guttural grumbles. Harrowing hum. Sorrowful squeal.
Samhain — or All Hallow’s Eve, or Hallowe’en — is coming to an end as I send this, when the supposed veil between this world and whatever ‘comes next’ is at its thinnest. It’s a time to remember those and that which we have lost, though I also consider it sensible, albeit following what some may call an insensible line, to think those same losses may try to give a little guidance in return.
My last full tarot reading suggested my outcome by the season’s end, right about now, could be represented by The Fool: stick-carrying beggar, ragged vagabond, beginner's luck, and faith in the future. It suggested a spontaneous leap of faith.
I apologise for another short, rushed letter. I’ve been coaxed by the spirits — or dust, as Pullman put it — to listen to my gut and hurry along.
Take leaps, try to land them.
Here are ten things from the past season I’d like to remember.
one
Some sweet notes on death, from both sides of the barrier.
Here, they’re from Casper (Brad Silberling, 1995).
Kat: What's it like to die?
Casper: Like... being born, only backwards. I remember, I didn't go where I was supposed to go. I just stayed behind, so my dad wouldn't be lonely.
Amelia: James, I know you’ve been searching for me, but there's something you must understand. You and Kat loved me so well when I was alive that I have no unfinished business. Please don't let me be yours.
two
… and here, they’re from Rob Delaney’s A Heart That Works (2022), a truly hilarious, tragic memoir about the death of Henry, his ‘beautiful, bright, gloriously alive son.’
The growing number of politicians and newspaper-owners who aim to privatise the NHS need to fuck off ten times, then gargle a big bowl of diarrhoea. I pray that Vishnu purifies your heart in a dream tonight, or, failing that, you fall down a deep well in February.
There is no physical paradise where he’s waiting for me, and for that I’m glad. I have to imagine it would get boring … Rather, I suspect I am a glass of water, and when I die, the contents of my glass will be poured into the same vast ocean that Henry’s glass was poured into, and we will mingle together forever.
three
My horde of black cats is multiplying. Boudica (left) has now been joined by Marceline (right), and she’s not (yet) entirely happy about it. Bou has been diagnosed with epilepsy, while Marcie has yet-to-be-labelled issues with her wobbly back legs.
four
I’ve discovered a great new podcast about the history of horror as a genre of film. I’ll cover it more specifically in future, through the ongoing process of wanting to be more project-focused in what I do, but as a brief example of a point made in the above intro episode: they discuss Ari Aster’s powerful 2019 film Midsommar as a powerful moment of processing grief — and if you remember the scene of hyperventilation, it becomes both obviously and profoundly more powerful.
five
Birds above a tyre place, attracted (I assume) by the nearby tip.
six
Edited from a letter I’ve just finished writing to my grandfather. (Sorry for the spoiler, grandad — a box of books is arriving very soon.)
You’ve waited too long since writing your last couple of letters to me, I’m sorry. I could feed you spiralling scraps of some bear attack tale, or let details slide about a deeply secretive mission and / or seedy love affair that stole all my spare moments. However, if I’m to show my grandfather that I’m an honest, respectable grandson, I must tell you the truth. It was a banshee.
Banshees are, I’ve read (though I intend to read more), typically witnessed as beautiful female spirits or fairies (derived from Irish ‘bean sí’ or ‘bean sidhe’ translating to ‘woman of the fairy mound’ or ‘hills’), with flowing hair and dresses of green and white. There’s a catch, though, to their allure: their wailing grief. They pierce silence with their cacophony of mourning as a sign of imminent death, though the act is not necessarily propelled by threat and malevolence — by some, it’s considered an act of protection, warning family and gifting them time to save someone, or prepare to lose them.
My sleep has been crooked for some time. Months, really. I wake around 2–3am most mornings, drag my tired bones to the sofa, try to finish the night. When I was young(er), I remember a similar habit, though then it was coupled with a recurring dream: chased through a cardboard cutout city by a floating woman — long, mad hair, a dark and billowy shadow with mouth agape, though silent from what I remember. I wonder if, by now, she has found her voice and caught me, right when I feel more receptive to warnings that may, in the past, have made less sense. I suppose I’m wondering whether what keeps me awake is — in the words of Radiohead’s ‘Burn the Witch’ — some low-flying panic attack about the loss or pain of people around me. I don’t know how to help, how to be of use, and I feel like my current life holds me in place like the cog I am. Then again, maybe it’s too much coffee — Hanna [my sister] tells me our family respond poorly to caffeine. Once I fix it all, I wonder if the problem will persist regardless, due to Marcie’s kitten agility managing to leap directly onto my testicles five times each night. In the words of Kurt Vonnegut: so it goes.
But I hope you’re doing okay as the one-year mark comes up for nan. Please call if you need someone who is anything but sensible to talk to. I miss and love you.
seven
The Ricotta Eaters (1585) is a painting by Vincenzo Campi. It focuses on the ricotta, consumed to form the image of a skull as a memento mori — a reminder of death, in an atmosphere characterised by excess and abandon.
eight
nine
Pumpkin picking at Avon Valley.
ten
This coming season, before Yule on 20 December, I plan to consume more of what I already own or have available to me. I’ve planned the following.
Reading. Nick Cave’s The Red Hand Files. Susan Cooper’s The Dark Is Rising series. The stack of LRB papers my my sofa.
Watching. More of my best films from the 90s list and 80s list.
Listening. Podcasts for some cultural education.
I’m Daniel Kelly, a writer living in Somerset.
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Beautifully written. As ever. X