Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 40

Post the Eighty-Fifth: In Which There Is A Music Video

Gentle Reader, have you ever gotten roped into a project that sounds like such a wonderful idea, like a hell of a lot of fun, that ends up in hurt feelings, frustration, and wanting to avoid the people you were hoping to bond with? Look at the people in the above photo – look at them. They look happy, really happy, as though they’re thrilled to be with one another, and thrilled with what they are doing. They look as though they like each other.

This is not the case.

One day, while on the way home from work, Miss H. and I were listening to a CD that I’d made for her, and I don’t feel like dancing by the Scissor Sisters came on. It’s one of the catchiest, danciest songs about, well, not dancing, that you’ll ever hear. If you’re not familiar with the band, it’s modern glam pop and their music can’t be improved upon in any way. One or the other of us had a vision, on hearing this song, of a glamorous music video, full of all of the different types of dance that we could envision, and we started planning right away.

We spent the next several weeks scouting out locations that would be beautiful at night, and learning different types of dances, and strong-arming friends into joining the endeavor. Many evenings were given up to practice dancing, with youtube as our instructor. All of our volunteers grew to absolutely hate those evenings, as one of our crew had some experience as a choreographer, and was an exacting, harsh, mistress.

The first evening of filming was local, and went swimmingly. We’d found a number of great, really dramatic spots to dance in, and people were hopped up on hormones and excitement. Music video! Friendship! Dancing at night in illicit locations! It was a bit of a thrill.

We totally aren’t supposed to be here.

We were to continue filming, the next night, in Tacoma. I had ridden into town, and spent several hours, waiting, at the Mix. After several hours of delay, the kids finally arrived. I trotted down to the Spanish Steps to meet them, and commence filming. I was more than a little drunk. This was unwise. I’m not very coordinated at the best of times, and I was supposed to give everyone a quick lesson on how to Charleston. Dang.

Tempers were short and the night was long, and filming was going slowly. We also had some camera issues, and cast issues. The night was dragging on, and nothing was going as planned. Every scene had at least ten takes, and people were getting tired, and frustrated, and some of the crew had to leave early. We really had to move along to our next location.

We relocated to the Graffiti Garages, where we interrupted some strangers spraying the wall. When we explained our project, one of them volunteered to be on camera. This was serendipity in action, because honestly, his scene is the best of the lot. After thanking him, we finished up filming, and headed home.

Without further prevarication, here is the result, in all its glory. The editing is shoddy and the film quality is low, but it’s an honest disaster. Enjoy.

//

Tagged: Dancing, drama, Music Videos, Scissor Sisters, Tacoma, The Boys

Update: Patchwork Narrative

If you’ve been paying attention to me on Social Media, you may have noticed that I released a little project of mine out into the wild last night.

That is to say, I’ve released a book of poetry, arranged to tell a story of love and experience, loss, and a slow descent into madness and alcoholism. Patchwork Narrative, by Tyler Yoder, is currently exclusively available through Amazon.com, for Kindle and other e-devices. After ninety days, you’ll be able to find it elsewhere for download; I’m currently wrestling with the various print options. As soon as physical copies are available, you can absolutely count on me to tell you about it. There are a few people who still are to receive the first edition, which is hand-bound, and those are still being made, but they will be limited to those who have already purchased/won them. If you are one of those, please be patient; there are a few technical difficulties associated with making them, and they take a long time.

At any rate, Patchwork Narrative! Available! Here! Please buy it?

Patchwork Narrative

Tagged: Being a Writer Y'all, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, PUBLISHED, Writing

Post the Eighty-Fourth: In Which The Chaise Lounge Is The Most Important Part

Almost exactly one year ago, Gentle Reader, I was given a chaise lounge* for absolutely free.  As a rabid collector of both free things and pseudo-Victoriana, I snapped it up like nobody’s business. I’ve always wanted one, to dramatically drape my lithe and languid† frame on, clad in an enormous silk dressing-gown. Not only that, I’ve always dreamed of being able to fool around with a gentleman caller on one, like some sort of plucky heroine in a trashy novel.

You see, it had been brought to the Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire  by some friends of friends, for use in their campsite‡, and as often happens, it was too much bother to get it back home again. Luckily, I was living just a mile or two down the road at the time, so it was no trouble getting it back to the humble domus. I rearranged my bedroom, doing my damnedest to make it fit. I only just managed, but it looked splendid against the hand-lettered wallpaper.

All four walls were covered in my favorite quotations. The arm of the chaise is *just* visible at the bottom of the photo.

I had recently had an amazing epiphany in this little sanctuary of mine: If you stop asking yourself “is this something a crazy person would do?” and just do it anyway, you will be more free from self-judgment than otherwise. This is a fine philosophy in theory, but it becomes a little trickier in practice.

You see, we had suspended Mimosa Sundays for the month of August because we’d be tied up with the Faire, and the first Sunday back at the Mix was our triumphant return. My favorite bartender, Dallas, greeted me with a “Welcome back, sir,” a handshake, and a bro-hug. My companions and I set out as usual, to make more beauty and truth in this world, and to get plastered while doing so.

As the evening wore on, I met a nice young man, and encouraged by the libertine atmosphere of the Faire and also by Mimosa, I went home with the fella, which is completely out of character. I probably wouldn’t have done so without the encouragement of Miss M, who had freshly returned to Washington after several years in Virginia. She took the gentleman’s photo, just in case something news-worthy§ happened, and off we went to do what young men in lust do. In the morning, I took down the young man’s name and number, and returned to the bar to await my ride. As Dallas mixed me a bloody mary, he had a knowing glint in his eye. I waved a hand dismissively, and rolled my blood-shot eyes. With a smirk, he handed me my drink, and said no more about it.

As you may have gathered, Gentle Reader, I don’t date much, and I am constantly questioning my mental health. So when the young man got in touch with me, wanting a date, I hesitated. I’ve never really managed a relationship with anyone besides Ex-Husband, unless you count Wine, so I was naturally trepidatious. Still, new experiences mean new stories, so I agreed, despite the fact that I wasn’t exactly over the moon over this guy.

Pictured: A romantic candlelit evening with my true loves, Wine and Facebook

While waiting for my date, I quickly cleaned the house, getting ready. It was just possible that he might want to come home with me; it pays to be prepared. Even tidied up, though, I began to despair: I looked at the quite literal writing on the wall, and started in on a fresh new round of anxiety and self-judgement. The shelves of poorly taxidermed creatures and things in jars? The quotations of madmen and poets swirling around in half-finished sentences, the armless and chipped mannequin in the corner, and on and on – it really did look like a madman’s cell. Paroxysms of doubt, anxiety, and fear pulsed against my skull, until I quieted them with a cocktail♠, because that’s an excellent idea when you’re expecting company. As I rested on the chaise, I came up with the perfect scheme.

He turned up; we went on our date in a loud, crowded, and above all expensive restaurant. There was no chance of getting to know one another better, as it was far too loud, and since I’d seen him last, he’d shaved, which was disappointing. We hurried through the meal, and made awkward small talk on the ride back to my place. I was disappointed, but I was fully committed to my scheme; I invited him inside for a glass of wine.

Here’s where my cunning plan comes into play, Gentle Reader: as soon as he was inside my bedroom door, lest he see the glorious panoply of madness all around him, I shoved him backwards onto the chaise, and went at him full tilt. He was so distracted by my apparent ardor that he didn’t notice the decor until much later, when we were curled up together on the chaise lounge, watching Doctor Who and sharing a glass of wine. At that point, he was so enamored that he could forgive anything, and as we downed the wine and went back in for round two, he murmured “I like your place.”

*********

*Properly speaking Chaise Longue, I know. Still, in English, it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

† I’m pretty sure that I’m anything but lithe and languid, but I know people who would disagree.

‡Years ago my encampment and household had started the fashion of bringing actual furniture with us for camping. We’re a little ridiculous.

§ i.e. murder

♠ As my twitter feed from that day notes, “Rum and possibly-expired hibiscus juice go together, right?” This is because, as demonstrated, I make excellent decisions.

Tagged: Chaise Lounge, Dating, Madness, Romantic Encounters, The Mix, wine

Poetic Interlude XVII

Anniversary

Like all the most bewitching sins,

You overflow with vice -

Oh, let the merriment begin!

And don’t skimp on the ice.

You comfort me when I am woeful,

And you meet my giddy grin,

You permit me to be social

Go on, pour the tonic in.

Sobriety is over rated -

Life with you has been sublime;

You know that I’m self-medicated:

Pour another gin and lime.

The Field

The swallows swoop, singing -

My foot gives the meter

The grain grows in chorus; Demeter’s refrain.

I march each new furrow,

Attending the tiller,

Powered by petrol, no longer by hay:

I’ll conquer this field by the end of the day.

*******

I reap what was sown in

A more hopeful season:

I feel as they did in my forefathers’ day.

The sun and the sweat

And the flies are the backdrop

The reaping’s fulfilling, in back-breaking way:

I’ll conquer this field by the end of the day.

Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Writing

Post the Eighty-Third: A Jazz Age Castration

Gentle Reader, if you don’t know by now, I’m besotted with the Jazz Age, and I always have been – or rather, with an idealized version of it. It should be no surprise at all that after the collapse of the F. P. A., I began throwing an annual 1920′s-themed party. After all, I am the sort of fella who owns his own white suit, and there simply aren’t enough occasions in which to wear it.

See?

This post will be picture-heavy, by the way, so be prepared, and before we get too much farther, in the spirit of full disclosure I should note that this post only nearly contains a jazz age castration. After all, it doesn’t actually take place in the 1920′s.

The first of these prohibition-themed parties was particularly fine. It was a brilliantly sunny July evening, and I’d run into a handsome gent while making the liquor run who helped me load up the car. Once the bar was fully stocked, I prepared a few hors d’oeuvres – caviar and smoked salmon, that sort of thing. My home is already decorated in period style, so there was nothing to do on that score but wait for the guests to arrive.

The gentlemen trickled in first, including our new bar friend, Mr. Leighton, who we’d only known a month or two.

The Gentlemen

This young fellow, with whom I no longer speak, looked particularly fine. This is probably because I dressed him for the occasion.

So fine. In my clothes, or out of them.

The ladies then began to arrive. There were a number of familiar faces, but we were excited to host our new friend, Miss D, whom we’d also known for only a month.

Seen somewhere in this photo

Well, the air was full of yellow cocktail music, and all that jazz. As at any good prohibition-themed party, the cocktails were also flowing freely, and everyone was in the spirit, due to the spirits. There was even some impromptu Charlestoning, the only dance that I’ll do in public. All in all, things were going swimmingly.

Mr. Leighton left early, due to arrive at another engagement. We must accept his explanation when he returned, though, that he thought he’d have a better time at my soirée, because if I thought that instead he’d just gotten lost in the rural backwater I live in, I would be very upset indeed. Just as he re-arrived, Auntie R. turned up as well, having been running late.

Seen here, looking tres Steinbeckian

Well, things were swinging, until the booze ran out, as is fitting and proper. People began to trickle out the door as the final drops of champagne trickled from my glass, except for those who were overnighting – Auntie R and Mr. Leighton – as well as Miss D, who was awaiting a ride. Incidentally, this is where things get interesting.

WARNING: IF YOU DON’T WANT TO READ ABOUT A JAZZ AGE CASTRATION, LEAVE NOW.

Unbeknownst to us, at the time, Miss D suffered from occasional blackouts, where she would demonstrate violent behavior. We must forgive her, because these things are in the blood, and she never remembered any of her actions afterward. However, these episodes were exacerbated by alcohol, and Miss D does like to did like to drink. When Auntie began talking about one of his drag shows, it was a complete shock to us all, as Miss D produced a knife from somewhere in the sleek sheath of a skirt, and proceeded to announce that she was going to make him into a woman. Mr. Leighton – miles from home in a relative stranger’s house – furiously pretended sleep. Miss D was flailing wildly, getting closer and closer to R. Auntie thought it was all a joke and a bit of a laugh, but the closer she got with the blade, the more worried he got.

I dashed to D’s side, just in time, pinning her arms, narrowly averting disaster. When she was herself again, she was profusely apologetic, but the gentlemen really weren’t at ease until her lift had picked her up.

Thus it was that a jazz age castration nearly occurred at one of my famous fêtes. It was just as well that this incident happened early in the summer, because at my next function – just a few weeks later – I was able to hide away the knives before the guests arrived, to general acclaim.

//

Tagged: 1920's, Cocktails, Entertaining, Fabulous Parties, Jazz Age Castration, Knives

Post the Eighty-Second: The Victorian Technological Exposition

According to the Internet, Gentle Reader, my blog is entirely about angry ghosts, abandoned buildings, death, QUILTBAG politics, and my ex-husband.  While this amuses me, this is not entirely what I set out for. For example, there aren’t nearly enough posts about costumed events or fancy parties. We’re going to do our best to improve that, while still bringing you all the Angry Gay Ghosts &c. that you know and love. You’re welcome.

In the winter of 2008, the Fabulous Party Association had been going strong for several years, and we had outgrown our beloved Hale’s Pass. Our signature event, the Formal Holiday Historical Costume Ball, had become popular enough to draw people from Seattle to our humble hamlet, and we had the audacity to start charging for tickets, beginning with the FHHCBV: The Victorian Technological Exposition*.  Since Steampunk was just starting to take off in the region, we were terribly excited to be a part of a burgeoning costuming movement.

For our events, Miss Ward and I would spend at least six months making arrangements. Shopping for venues, carefully arranging playlists for music, selecting the guests – or, in this case, promoting our event, applying for permits, and on and on. Three or four months before the VTE, we released our promotional material:

The Invitation

Tickets went on sale, and the word spread like wildfire. We began crafting a number of steampunk devices for the occasion, and also began work on a short, silent, film, The Madcap Adventures of Professor Cogsworth in the Year 1950!†

The movie poster

I put a computer into an old console hifi cabinet, and made a computer monitor from leather and brass. We made another cabinet and some brassy bits into a device to announce the arriving guests and their assumed names to the hall, and Miss Ward purchased a working Wimshurst Machine and an antique medical battery. Miss P. – with permission – lovingly displayed some of Justin Gershenson-Gates work, and we modified an enormous, ancient, projection T.V. to look more Victorian. Further, we created a working automaton, the Mechanical Bandleader, seen here in the balcony:

All he could do was pivot from side to side, while waving his baton-arm.

When it was finally the weekend of our event, a number of disasters befell us, mostly during transport: the Thinking Engine’s monitor came loose from the console while we were moving it, and broke;  the Cabinet for Display of Pre-Recorded  Images suffered a falling tree-limb right through its circuit boards, and on and on and on; the film was not quite ready to be shown. We were beginning to get a trifle worried. We set up as best as we could with our numerous set-backs.

The Pavilion

We were able to completely cordon off the kitchen area, as well, which was useful, as in the past we’d had our kitchen staff complain of guests wandering in. While this was still and issue, it was less of one than in the past.

Not Pictured: The Kitchen

We were also thrilled to have a split-level venue, allowing us to have dancing and games down below, on the dance floor, while those who preferred cocktails and chat could sit above and watch. Further, this allowed us to get overhead shots of the dance lesson, and subsequent dancing. But wait a moment – our dance instructor failed to arrive! Luckily, the very first strangers who purchased tickets, Mr. Phair and Miss LaViollete, were ready and willing to take her place. Here is the delightful overhead shot of their leadership:

The Dance Lesson

Some people enjoyed the dancing so much that they continued dancing long after everyone else.

Would you care to dance, Lady Whoopminster?

As we sent our servers around with trays of the newly-released and U.S. legal Lucid absinthe, we indulged in one of our favorite period party games, the Human Knot. Essentially, you gather everyone into a large group, and then you join hands with two people across as far away from you as you can reach. The group then tries to disentangle itself into a large circle.

We had also just discovered the Victorian fad of post-mortem photography. Naturally, we set up a portrait station where people could have their portraits taken, with all sorts of variations on the theme. We even provided a vintage baby-doll (with christening gown and tiny coffin accessories!) to those who might desire them. We’d then double-expose and provide prints for sale, to help fund our organization. Here’s an example:

Talk about an angry ghost.

All in all, it was a delightful evening, and as the guests slipped away, they were a-rumble with gossip about what our next possible themed event might be.

*********

* We consulted a number of leading authorities in the field on all sorts of aspects, and very nearly booked Abney Park for this function. They were most polite, and were willing to work for very reasonable prices, but we didn’t really have room for them to sell their merchandise, so the deal fell through.

† A note on Cogsworth, which will get its own post, eventually: It premiered months after the party, but after its premiere, I was recognized by Diana Vick as the Professor at the Mercury. The conversation we had that night directly‡ led to the creation of Steamcon.

‡Well, indirectly. It was definitely connected, though.

//

Tagged: Absinthe, Angry Ghosts!, Entertaining, Fabulous Parties, Steampunk

Post the Eighty-First: In Which DADT Is Repealed

Gentle Reader, the day that the ban on gay folks openly serving in the armed forces was lifted was momentous. I was watching history being made, history that directly affected me – Ex-Husband is ex-military, you see. I was proud of the country that I live in for the first time in ages, briefly; while still flawed, I had a glimmer, a glimpse, of hope.

I knew that iconic images were going to be made that night. I wanted to find myself a soldier or sailor , and recreate this:

Doesn’t it just fire the imagination?

Dressed all in white, I grabbed Auntie R. and Miss K., and insisted that we had to go the Mix that night. I wanted to be around my people to celebrate, and surely – despite being a Tuesday – there would be plenty of celebration going on*. K. agreed to drive, and off we went – to a near-empty bar. Frustrated but determined, I downed my G&T, and we walked the block down to Club Silverstone, another local gay bar. Here, there were a few more people, but not many.

We ended up talking to a man in his sixties, who was a veteran. While not as dashing as I’d hoped, and not in uniform (or still in the service), he was the best lead we’d had yet. However, once I explained how desperately I wanted that photograph, he advised us to go to an ostensibly straight bar, quite a bit closer to the base. Given the night that it was, he assured us, there would be plenty of soldiers; I’d have my pick. Up the stairs, to the door, and back into the car – we were going to capture that image if we had to drive all over the damn city.

Thank you, Wise Counselor!

I was getting awfully frustrated by this point, Gentle Reader. Not that we weren’t having an acceptable night – I was trying to live through a Significant Moment in History, though, and have something significant to show for it, and I was being thwarted. My temper was not improved when we got lost twice looking for the pub that the old man had sent us to.

The evening dragged on; we found the pub. Considering that it was next to Joint Base Lewis-McChord, it was a trifle tacky to go with a nautical theme, but no worries. As we waited for another friend to arrive, R. and K. played pool, and I scanned the crowd. From what the old gentleman had said, I would have to approach carefully, make small talk, and then broach the subject. He had also warned that if I found someone willing to take the photograph with me, to “be prepared for the fella to want something more.” I wasn’t prepared to offer anything more, mind you, but the warning was uppermost in my mind.

Naturally, in any bar that’s close to a military installation, most of the young men there are going to have ridiculous amounts of muscle. I’m a little weedy, myself, and as a heavy smoker, I wheeze. Few and far were the gents I was willing to approach without fear of getting a fist to the face. I nursed my drink – an amaretto sour, perfect for kissing with – watching the soldiers mill about.

Just look at that. I’d have no chance at all -of not getting punched.

Auntie R saw that I was growing more and more agitated; in aid of this, he invited two soldiers to join the pool game, and led the conversation – encouraging me to interact with them. I did until their girlfriends arrived; I stormed outside for a cigarette. K joined me, realizing what was the matter, and suggested that we call it a night. I agreed, and went to use the restroom before we left.

After finishing, I went to wash my hands, next to a young soldier, in uniform. As I turned the tap, he turned to me, telling me that he’d overheard a little of my conversation earlier, about DADT’s repeal and the historic picture, and how I desperately wanted a serviceman to kiss that night. Though he declined a photograph, Gentle Reader, thus it was that I found myself kissing a soldier at midnight in the bathroom of a strange bar.

*********

* As I later learned, Gentle Reader, the soldiers and sailors were all partying celebrating on base that night. If I’d waited until the Mix’s Military Appreciation Wednesday – which is every Wednesday – I would have had much better luck†.

†Even though it would have completely defeated the point, being a day late.

//

Tagged: DADT, LGBT, Military, Queer, QUILTBAG, The Mix

Poetic Interlude XVI

In the esoteric morning

When the sun has crawled my way

And I’ve woken far too early

With a rising urge to pray -

With the rigid miles between us

That will shortly bring you night,

As I listen to the birdsong

With its need to fuck or fight -

And the Moon, she still is waiting,

So I trust you to her care:

Though you’re a hemisphere away

Your lips taste of despair.

Yes, I know that it’s your evening

As I watch the Sun arise,

Tonight, perhaps, you’ll dream of me

And hold me, while I cry.

Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Writing

Post the Eightieth: The Guardian Lesbians of Buckley

When first we moved to Teaberry Retreat, Gentle Reader, we were giving up the convenience of proximity to the city. We were packing it in, to raise wormwood and tea, and enjoy a more relaxed pace of life. Buckley is a quaint little town, that boasts very little in the way of diversity. They actually have an actual Main Street. In short, Buckley is bucolic.

This is downtown. And uptown. The whole town, really.

Having grown up in a rural backwater, I was no stranger to this sort of arrangement. Typically, while I refuse to hide or apologize for who I am, I will attempt to butch myself up a little, lest I wind up like Matthew Shepard. I’m not that great at it, though, so it was with some trepidation that I decided to walk to town, to investigate the local community, to see if I might be able to make some new friends.

After an hour’s walk along the busy highway, with only intermittent sidewalks, I was beginning to question my decision. I had thought the trip would be like one of the Bennet sisters walking into Netherfield, rather than the sweaty, dusty, noisy trek it was, with cars whizzing inches away from me. However, I had nearly reached town, and I like to think that I’m plucky and determined. Excelsior!

Strangely, despite the business of the highway heading into town, the town itself seemed deserted. Shops and library were closed; the bars were dark; there were no children in yards, no open curtains. There wasn’t a soul in sight, and I was sore disappointed, and alarmed. That’s when I saw them: two women in late-middle-age, waving me towards their shop – a liquor store*.

*sigh*

Once inside, I noticed a sun-faded poster advertising Tacoma’s Pride Block Party. I mentioned that I’d gone, and was surprised to see any local support for that sort of thing. They laughed – they’d noticed the little lost gay boy, wandering the street.  Apparently their shop was the de facto “gay meeting place” for the area†. They warned me against acting too flamboyant, and I told them that I’d tuned it down – they laughed again, and told me to be careful.

Apparently, the couple were a couple of matchmakers. They immediately began assessing whether I’d be more suitable for Tom, Dick, or Harry. They never reached a conclusion, because I interrupted with an inquiry about the current lack of people in town. Another peal of laughter, and a quip about a tractor festival in the next town over reassured me that I wasn’t in a Children of the Corn situation.

The ladies gave me a pint of Malibu rum, gratis, and sent me on my way, demanding that I return so that I could “meet the fellas.” I agreed, already knowing that I would have come back anyway: I was thrilled to have them watching over both me and the queer community hidden in the small, silent town.

*********

*Of course it was a liquor store. I swear, one day I’ll tell a story that involves alcohol in no way at all. It just keeps turning up, somehow.

†A friend also informs me that the men’s room in the local Wal*Mart is another place to meet local guys. Classy.

Tagged: LGBT, QUILTBAG, Rural Gay

Post the Seventy-Ninth: In Which There Is A Seance

By the time we threw the Day and Night Regency Ball, Gentle Reader, the Fabulous Party Association had been going strong for three years. Most of our functions had been hosted at Hale’s Pass Lodge, in Arletta, owned by the Parks Department and rented to a preschool during the week. The standard procedure was to collect the keys on Friday, decorate that night, host the function on Saturday, and clean up and return the keys on Sunday. On this particular occasion, we were prepared to turn the lodge into the Villa Diodati, where Lord Byron, the Shelleys, and their assorted hangers-on famously told ghost stories*.

This, into

This.

Whenever Miss Ward and I arrived at Hale’s Pass, our first order of business was always the same: the pilgrimage to the Sad Chair Room. You see, once you’re inside Hale’s pass, there’s a locked door at the end of the hallway. It leads to a stairwell; at the bottom is another locked door. Once inside the basement, amid the many things stored there, behind a cinderblock pillar, is a third locked door. Behind this, Gentle Reader, is a puddle, with a single child-sized chair in its center. Every. Damn. Time.

This place functions as a preschool, as I said, and we were always horrified by this chair, imagining the punishments inflicted on the terrified children in that solitary chair.

On this occasion, when we made our pilgrimage to visit the Sad Chair, we heard a faint, regular ticking, like a watch – suddenly a flurry of flying beetles was heading straight for our faces. Once we ran to safety, we were reasonably certain† that we were in the beginning of a bad horror flick. That‘s when we hit on the idea for the best party-game ever: a séance.

We set up, as usual, full of mad chatter about the probable ghosts just dying to pierce the veil and come to our party. We talked of nothing but ghosts that night. We talked of them while hanging the decorations. We talked of them the next day, while cooking the dinner, and while setting the table. You may have noticed, I talk about ghosts quite a lot.

You were expecting a different picture?

As the guests trickled in before dinner, we let them mingle, have a few amuse-bouches, a few apéritifs. By this point, most of our guests were familiar with the standard plan of our entertainments: Mingling, dinner, party-games. Miss Ward and I were dying of excitement, but we kept it contained until after the rôti de turquie and viande de mystére‡ had been cleared away, until after the croquembouche had been entirely eaten.

It’s the one to the right, by the lamp.

We then informed our guests of our cunning plan. Those who were made uncomfortable by the prospect of potentially raising the dead would be free to amuse themselves upstairs, while those who fancied a darker, more robust entertainment, were to follow us to the Sad Chair Room. I picked up my candelabrum, and Miss Ward and I led the way.

Three locked doors later, our guests were snugly sitting on the concrete floor, watching our faces flicker in the candle light. We invited those who felt compelled to cast a ward or utter a prayer to do so, until everyone felt sufficiently protected. We joined hands, and began.

The sad chair.

We all took turns serving as medium, but not one of us was able to break through to the other side. The candles didn’t sputter, the wind did not begin to howl. There was a significant lack of supernatural activity. Disappointed, the guests began to file up the stairs to rejoin the rest. We did our best to try to salvage the situation  – Clearly, someone’s wards were too well cast for anything to break through - but the mood was broken. The guests made their goodbyes, and shuffled, one by one, to their cars.

Mysteriously, the next time we returned to Hale’s Pass, none of the keys fit the padlock on the Sad Room door. Clearly, the dead no longer wished us to disturb them in their sanctuary, and had taken measures to prevent it.

*********

* If you didn’t know, this is where and why Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein.

†About 90% certain

‡For the first time, we had menu cards, which were laboriously hand-lettered in French.

//

Tagged: Angry Ghosts!, Fabulous Parties, Hale's Pass, Seances