Happy Halloween, kids! May your costumes be original and hand-made and your frights bedevil in only the most wholesome of ways. Cavort in your whimsical finery, or out of it, I don't judge. Occupy Your Sidewalks, hang upside-down from the trees and chant “Nine Nine Nine!” (yeah, it's stupid, Michelle Bachmann might be the only one to get it, and that's not exactly a “win”). Whatever. ENJOY, is what I'm saying.
Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Not for trick-or-treating (you won't see me answering the door with a bucket of candy in hand with which to treat adorable scamps because there haven't been “adorable scamps” since Our Gang comedies were brand-new; curmudgeons, however, are perpetual and eternal), but because I've always been attracted to the night side of nature ever since I was a kid. It's not really that I believe in ghosts or devils or monsters, and I'm not drawn necessarily to brutality and acts of cruelty so prevalent in horror films (although I have a few favorites). I'm thrilled by the concept – however unsupported by modern science -- of realities close but unseen. Masked bogeymen lunging through doorways with power tools and that kind of thoughtless mayhem don't give me the frisson that a whispered name in an empty room delivers, the sense of not being alone; of quiet, not-quite-silent, presence.
During my childhood I had numerous episodes of what I just recently learned is called hypnagogia. In bed at night I would perceive sounds and shadows in my peripheral vision, and on several occasions experienced loud shouts and sudden blows across my back. I would leap out of bed, certain that my brother was playing pranks or that my father was trying to wake me by shouting and shaking me, only to find myself alone. I went so far as to search under the bed, sure that I would find someone hiding there. Nothing. No one.
I also suffered sleep paralysis quite often. THAT'S fun. Waking up in the night not being able to move or breathe. I recommend you try it at least once.
These episodes gradually came less frequently as I matured, and as an adult I rarely have them. One of the most powerful experiences, however, actually happened in my mid-twenties, in Abilene Texas, during an afternoon nap (I had called in sick that day, but of course I wasn't really). Lying on my back on my bed I became aware of a shimmering presence standing near, and I found I couldn't move. The apparition was blinding, I couldn't look directly at it, but I perceived that it meant to touch me with a flat, rectangular or square object it held. I remember thinking that my brother had entered my apartment and was showing me a record album he'd bought (my brain scrabbling desperately to make sense of it all), and then I remember thinking that I was fucked (excuse me, when you're lying paralyzed on your back with a glaring ghostly form hovering over you, you aren't likely to assume the best scenario for an outcome, gnome sane?) I was only able to turn my head away and moan...
...and no shimmering, no apparition, sunlight slanting through the window, birds outside chirping their happy little un-haunted asses off. I found I could move, and I did. Within seconds I was on my way down the stairs, one empty leg of my jeans flapping behind. I spent the rest of the day in Sambo's, regaling disbelieving yet mostly kindly indulgent friends with my tale of terror. Toward sundown I had a friend drive me home (this still strikes me as stupid – why go back as it's getting dark?), and we sat in his truck staring up at the window of my third-floor apartment. He declined to go up with me; he said it was better that I faced it alone and that I'd have to sooner or later. I've always preferred to view this as wisdom on his part rather than cowardice, because hey, that's the kind of friend I am.
Since it was the second floor landing's turn to have the lightbulb I had to ascend to my apartment in darkness, whereupon I pushed the door open (it had been unlocked since my abrupt departure) and felt around for the light switch while still standing outside. Once inside all the way, I crept around all two of the rooms (three if you count the bathroom, which I also inspected, drawing back the shower curtain so fast and hard I had to re-hook it to the rod) and then sat on the bed and just...looked around. For about half an hour. Without blinking. It was during one of the slow-motion sweeps of the eyes that a bath towel I'd left hanging over the back of an old naugahyde recliner near the foot of the bed chose to slip down into the seat. I am not exaggerating when I say I was halfway down the stairs still clutching the bed cover before I came to some dim shade of my senses.
That day and night have never left me. In these later years I haven't suffered anything even remotely that terrifying, although I still have dreams vivid enough to follow me out of my bed before I realize the events in the dreams aren't actually happening. Those dreams are usually of the unpleasant sort, yet I've always loved all of my dreams in hindsight if not while experiencing them.
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Portland and surrounds lend to a certain eerie atmosphere. The mist, the rain, and the architecture all conspire to suggest an other-worldly watchfulness. I don't think my description does it justice, really, but Portland is a spooky town. It's certainly had monsters in residence (look up Jerry Brudos sometime if you have the stomach for it), and there are many reputedly haunted locations – even a downtown Burger King (really, if I'm lucky enough to come back and haunt some place, my sights will aim just a tad higher...but wait, ghosts can't gain weight, right? SCORE!) So while watching the premier episode of “Grimm” last night I couldn't help but feel that Portland itself, as a character in its own right, gave the best performance. And honestly, I wouldn't blame my city for having a fit, flouncing back to its trailer, and holding out for better conditions. “Grimm” simply isn't up to Portland's potential, it really isn't. We need a better showcase along the lines of “An American Horror Story” rather than this lazy excuse to sell cars and dish soap. This is of course only my opinion, and I'll concede that at least it's better than that flaccid “Life Unexpected” – which I've just discovered via Wikipedia was set in Portland but filmed in Vancouver. Guh. You win pretty much by default, “Portlandia”.
Get out and embrace the strange.
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