Happy publication day to Nick Pullen's THE BLACK HUNGER!

I hunted down my dear friend Nicholas Pullen's stellar debut The Black Hunger on this, the evening of his publication day. I've been involved with this brilliant book since its earliest manuscript days, and there was a certain profoundly moving associative pride in seeing it on the bookshelves at Indigo tonight. It's a glorious book, and I urge any aficionado of intelligent, articulate gothic horror to seek it out and take that dark journey with him. Bravo, Nick!
 

Kingston Writers Festival 2024, wrapped

 

With award-winning veteran broadcaster and author Carol Off, before we took the stage on Saturday night. [Photo: Bernard Clark Photography]

Signing after our panel, with political scientist Rob Goodman, author of Not Here: Why American Democracy Is Eroding and How Canada Can Protect Itself at the Kingston Writer's Festival on the evening of September 28th. [Photo: Bernard Clark Photography]

Watching the countryside scroll past the train window as I reflect on this wonderful, whirlwind weekend. After years of not by any necessity traveling to the city of Kingston, Ontario, this has been my third trip, all related to my work. The first was in February when I spoke to jack.org at Queen's University. The second trip was my first encounter with the Kingston Writer's Festival when they invited me out upon the publication of PRIDE in June. The third trip, this one felt a bit like coming home.

I was so privileged to share a stage with Ken McGoogan, Rob Goodman, and Carol Off, and to participate in such a vibrant, occasionally passionate discussion on the future of democracy in North America, and to find similar and sympathetic perspective among intellectuals whose work I respect.

I was also very grateful to the audience, who clearly took in what we had to say, and had insights of their own.

He will likely never read this, but thanks in particular to the Indigenous Canadian gentleman on Zoom who asked about the place of Indigenous representation in the mythology of Canada.

He gave us a great deal to think about, chiefly how essential that representation is, and how if any of us believe the stories we tell ourselves about Canada, there is no way forward for us as a people without that reconciliations. Our "classic" vision of Canada needs to be able to survive that reconciliation, and it will, because it's an essential component of everything we believe about Canada at its best.

And the folks running the Kingston Writer's Festival itself have never failed to make me feel anything but entirely welcome, and their grace under pressure is one of the wonders of the world, especially the literary world.

And on a personal note, it meant to world to me to have my beloved Mary Davis Little, the matriarch of my Kingston family, following along on Zoom, and to have my godson Michael—who's been very kind about his godfather writing about him all these years, and photographing him his entire life, likely ad nauseam—in the audience, not far from my Thursday Wife™ Jenny, who made the trip up from Toronto

2024 has been an exceptional year, and a striking contrast to the years it followed. I think I'm going to keep doing exactly what I'm doing, because it all seems to be working somehow.

Clouds

 

These exquisite Ontario early-autumn clouds through the windshield of Stephen's car, on the drive home from Orillia this afternoon struck me as particularly poignant after Jordan and Clémence's lovely wedding yesterday.

This morning, I got up for breakfast at the hotel, not because I was hungry but because I needed a great deal of coffee to move "this morning" out of the realm of "last night" and into the present, as I made rather merry over the course of Saturday night.

My last view of their wedding was the intoxicating one, a dance floor filled with people I've loved for years, as well as some glorious new folks who crossed my life last night, most of whom I will likely never see again, but some of whom I'll never forget.

Not a bad look backwards on the way to my room at the Marriott and my lovely bed, all told.

The breakfast room was packed with people from one of the other two weddings who'd billeted their guests there this weekend. None of them were from "our" wedding, but the sheer joy they were experiencing in each other's company was very affecting. I felt part of it because of "our" wedding's joy (so much joy, in fact, that a number of "our" guests seemed to be sleeping it off upstairs) which, I know, mirrored theirs. I enjoyed my passive participation in their pleasure immensely.

Tomorrow I'll celebrate another trip around the sun. One of the great gifts of having so many of those trips under my belt by now has been the soul-igniting joy of watching the cycles of life open up in front of me like a sped-up stop-motion film of the life cycles of flowers.

In the photograph of me with Ben and Stephen yesterday, I was struck by a certain avuncular stolidity that seems to have set in. It's appropriate, and it feels good. It suits me, even it I can remember how jarring it might have been as recently as five years ago.

Likewise the bride and groom, and their/our younger friends—some of whom I vividly remember when they seemed as dewy and post-born as baby seals—have grown, and solidified into secure, confident, and rooted, strong, intelligent, loving adults.

We are, all of us, exactly where we should be in the panoply of events and experiences that being alive stitches together into the quilt that is life. There's so much beauty, and it's so very easy to miss if you're not watching for it.

Weddings can be a mixed bag, as I discussed with the other queer couple at yesterday's, but at their absolute best, we agreed, they can be a pageant that celebrates the very best of what makes us human—the cycles of life itself, and the joy of one naturally evolving into the next.

Between the 89-year old grandmother cutting up the dance floor, and the three and a half-year old for whom the entire floor of the banquet hall must have looked liked the most exciting runway they'd ever seen, and all of us at various mileposts between them, everything just clicked. 

And it was all...perfect.

Coming to a writers festival near you

I opened a copy of the September/October issue of THE WALRUS this evening, and found this ad for our Kingston Writers Festival event on September 28th, "Election Year and the Fate of North American Democracy." Not a bad cap to an already entirely satisfying day.

Visitors from Jacksonville

Walking home tonight in the mercifully cooler night. It's been so humid that tonight, the t-shirt I wore to the gym was almost as damp as the one I took off after my workout.

Too, the AC at home has been busted for the past 5 days. As unpleasant has it's been for us, it was worse for old Beckett, who's been panting on the floor a lot more lately. But it got fixed tonight, thank God, and the house will be cooler when I get home.

I met a middle-aged tourist couple just north of the Marriott. The husband had the "dad" mien of a man who was used to knowing where he was, and how to get to where he wanted to go, brow furrowed, alternately glaring at his phone and looking around, trying to place himself. It's a visitor look I've seen a thousand times, especially in summer.

His wife was stunning. She had beautiful cornrows, green contact lenses, and a chunky diamanté pendant spelling out QUEEN in bold letters. In spite of decades of committed gayness, I confess my heart did the tiniest flip. There was a trail of Dior Addict perfume in the air when she moved,

I asked them politely I might help them find what they were looking for.

Unsurprisingly, the husband said they'd be fine, but the wife told me they'd seen a large Toronto sign on the way in from the airport, and were trying to find it. She thought it was nearby—was it? I told her it was a few blocks south, at Nathan Phillips Square. "Not too far to walk?" she asked. I assured her I'd just come from there.

"Welcome to Toronto," I said as they turned and prepared to walk the 3 or 4 blocks to the big Toronto sign.

The wife said, "We're from Jacksonville." She paused, then added "Florida," placing her hometown in case I wasn't sure which Jacksonville it might have been.

"You brought the weather with you!" I said brightly, with a general wave towards the drift of residual lower-hanging clouds.

"We're sorry," she said, smiling a smile so white and dazzling that my heart did that little flip again as she and her husband walked off, hand in hand, into the vast humid night twinkling with garlands of coloured neon lights.

 

Canada Day...out of town

 

Feeling a pressing need to spend this Canada Day outside of the city, the Hero MD™ and I drove deep into the countryside outside of Toronto, first north to Kleinburg, in then west towards Georgetown, specifically Norval, then back north again to Orangeville and Camilla.

I've been most positively marked in my life by the countryside, first as a child in Switzerland, then on the exquisite Western prairies during my high school years, then later with the Hero MD™ when we lived in Milton, before it became the sprawling, sclerotic suburb community it has since become. In the countryside, my blood pressure drops. The absence of my fellow man is a balm like no other, and there is something ineffably soothing about the miles of farmlands, forests, and blue skies.

The silence of the countryside isn't merely aural; you can feel it in your soul. And in the oddest way, it roots me in my family's Ontario history—a history that was never emphasized by my father, but which came to me in later life, and with which I connect, like WiFi, whenever I'm outside the demanding, even oppressive forcefield of Toronto, which has been my home for 42 years now. I love my "home" cities, here and abroad. They make sense to me, and I can navigate them with joy and ease. But the countryside is who I am when I'm most still, and most myself.

Today was a perfect example of that. The fireworks outside the house will probably blast on for hours yet—thank God Beckett is too ancient to be bothered by them. But I checked in with my country, and my roots, hours ago, and had a Canada Day that made sense to me, whoever (if anyone) else it might have made sense to, or not.

PRIDE in the Globe and Mail

 

This past weekend, the Globe and Mail ran a full page 800-word excerpt of my essay from Pride as an op-ed in the Opinion section, which is national. (For the benefit of our American friends and family, the Globe is Canada's equivalent to the New York Times.) I first saw my byline in print at age 15, in 'Teen magazine, on a newsstand at the Winnipeg bus depot in November 1977. I can remember that moment like it was yesterday, and even after all these decades, and the advent of online media, there is still nothing like seeing it in a physical newspaper or magazine. Years ago, my dad and I had a very earnest and serious talk about whether or not gay marriage would ever be legal—he emphatically believed it would not, certainly not in either of our lifetimes. As an ex-journalist himself, I wish he had lived to see this morning's Globe, and his son's words in it about the necessity of Pride. I know he would've loved it, even if the drag queens might've freaked him out a bit.

Sadly, it's that time of year again

 

Link to article here. 

Excerpt from PRIDE in today's TORONTO STAR, June 1st, 2024

 

Link to article here

CBC Metro Morning interview for PRIDE with Angel John Guerra, Friday May 31st, 2024

 

Interview link here. 

Happy (official) pub day, PRIDE

Happy (official) Publication Day to PRIDE! Our beautiful little jewel of a book (thanks, Douglas & McIntyre, you did us so proud!) is now available nationwide from all the usual suspects, including Amazon, in advance of its forthcoming availability in the U.S. this fall. Western Canadian friends, please consider purchasing your copy from McNally Robinson Booksellers in Winnipeg, a bookstore very close to my heart, and with whom I have a fond history (and who can ship books to eager U.S. friends who truly can’t wait till October.) My co-author Angel Guerra and I dearly hope that between my words and his pictures, our book might have something relevant to add to the ongoing dialogue about the state of the 2SLGBTQ+ community today; mostly, why our lives and histories—especially the lives and as yet unwritten histories of the precious queer youth coming up behind us—are worth all the vigilance and love we can muster, as well as all the joy and celebration Pride itself warrants.
 

Prudence Emery (1936-2024)

 

"Though the sex to which I belong is considered weak, you will nevertheless find me a rock that bends to no wind."

—Elizabeth I

[Prudence Emery photographed by Richard Paris, August 12th, 2016]

PRIDE in the wild

 

Defying the official publication date, which is April 27th, a few copies of PRIDE have snuck into key bookstores across this city. So lovely to visit "the kids" today in the 2SLGBTQ+ section of Indigo, both Bay/Bloor and the Eaton Centre. They'll be available for order on Amazon on the 27th within Canada (U.S. readers can pre-order for  the October U.S. release) and will trickle into bookstores across Canada during the next few weeks 

Author Copy Friday

 

Some thoughts on Chuck Konzelman and Cary Solomon's NEFARIOUS (2023)

 

Chuck Konzelman and Cary Solomon's R-rated Nefarious (2023), which I watched last night, is an interesting paradox—a beautifully acted and written, absolutely top-notch demonic possession horror film with wide genre appeal, written with a primarily Christian audience in mind.

You can easily imagine youth pastors all over America solemnly arranging viewings in church basements for their older teenage congregants, warning them grimly that while what they're about to see may frighten them, it's all scripturally sound and a dire warning about the state of worldliness, but it's still "just a movie," and reminding them that it was made by Christians, "so you're safe."

What makes it a paradox to me is that while Evangelical and Catholic audiences will doubtless have their "aha!" moments with predictable, near-epileptic regularity, any sophisticated horror viewer will be able to settle back into the exquisite writing, and particularly into the occasionally terrifying performance by Sean Patrick Flanery (whom I had not seen since he broke my heart as the eponymous star of 1995's Powder) as the possessed death row inmate Edward Wayne Brady.

The film is set at a prison in Oklahoma on the afternoon before Brady's execution for multiple murders. A psychiatrist, Dr. James Martin (Jordan Bell) has been brought in ascertain whether Brady, who claims to be a demon, is actually insane, in which case he would spared execution. All of which is a pretty standard death row horror movie setup.

What followed was extraordinary: an extended dialogue between the two men—the death row inmate with the odd twitch and the rough, bulky mannerisms of a dockworker speaking in perfectly crafted sentences, exhibiting a vast knowledge of theology and Christian mythology, while never once breaking character and becoming pompous and artificial, and the avowed atheist psychiatrist, exhibiting a brittle intellectual and clinical disdain for Brady's "delusion," at one point taunting Brady's demon to enter him—a moment that doubtless brought both the Evangelicals and the horror fans in the audience together in a "you fucking idiot, don't do that!" moment.

Having known nothing about very publicly Catholic filmmakers Chuck Konzelman and Cary Solomon's cinematic oeuvre before this film (you can look them up), I didn't make the connection until a throwaway line by the demon, explaining how he began to enter Brady's body when Brady was a child who'd received a Ouija board from his grandmother, tipped me off

Evangelicals and Catholics are obsessed with "gateways" to "demonic possession," and they've always been quite excited about Ouija boards and Dungeons and Dragons in particular. I paused the film and did a quick Internet check, which confirmed my suspicious. But I was enjoying the film so much that I went back to it, and was not disappointed that I did.

As I said, the writing was stunning, and a viewer knows that he or she is in beyond competent hands when a film that is basically a set-piece of two men talking can be that frightening (of course the cast expands later in the film, but by the time I does, the horror die has been well and truly been cast.)

If did force me to examine something I hadn't really thought of before: we have been absorbing Biblically-founded horror for centuries, much of it written by believers of one kind or another, from Dante, to Milton's "Paradise Lost," to Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown," to The Exorcist (1973), The Omen (1976), and even The Devil's Advocate (1997.)

The films that came to mind while watching this were, in particular, The Seventh Sign (1988) and, oddly Exorcist III (1990), film with which it shares some thematic overlap.

A devoutly Catholic filmmaker can bring what William Peter Blatty brought to The Exorcist—an "insider" view of the darker side of Christian mythology, as offered by someone who literally believes in the possibility of what he's writing. If done by a gifted writer, you get something like Nefarious. If done badly, you get a Chick tract.

Part of the horror of this film came from the shape of the demon's sadism and hatred towards its human host —some grotesqueries that I won't share in this note, but even things like making sure it requested the electric chair for its host to die in, knowing it would be more painful for Brady than lethal injection. Or even the scene where it allows Brady request his final meal as himself, then cancels it when he repossesses him, and leaves Brady to wonder, when the time comes, why he isn't being fed in the hours before his execution.

The magnificence of Flanery's performance derives in no small part from the moments when the demon let its tormented, wretched human host show through—the murderer who doesn't remember his crimes, and who is aware of being dominated by a malefic force against which he is utterly powerless.

The film has been criticized for using the demon as a mouthpiece for the filmmaker's fundamentalist beliefs, but to that I said, so what? They do it seamlessly. It's a horror story about exactly those themes.

The things the demon says to the atheist psychiatrist are exactly the sort of things any demon worth its brimstone would say to an atheist psychiatrist, and the lines are delivered with a deadpan matter-of-factness that is genuinely chilling.

And to their credit, they resisted the temptation of making Dr. Martin into an Evangelical caricature of "an atheist."

Only a clunky, pedestrian info-dump second-to-last scene—an interview between Dr. Martin and Glenn Beck—threatened to sink the entire film, but miraculously did not—perhaps the truest evidence of the endless war between good and evil in the film.

There were two natural places in the third-to-last scene of the film where it could have ended on near-Wagnerian note, but populist American Christianity is to art what a hidden vine stretched across the forest path is to joggers: if there's a way to trip and fall flat on their faces, they'll find it.

But at the end of the night, even that couldn't ruin Nefarious, a film which I recommend highly, particularly for anyone with a basic grounding in religious thinking, mythology, or imagery. It adds to the film's punch, but is in no way a requirement.

I'm reminded of the difference between the way The Exorcist affected Catholic friends of mine vs. how it affected Protestants, Jews, or atheist friends. The Catholics took the film personally. And that's powerful.

As I said: while it will doubtless give religious fundamentalists a tingle in their trousers in the same way Mel Gibson's gory Renaissance pietà The Passion of the Christ (2004) did, a more sophisticated horror viewer will see a masterclass in mortal relativism, supernatural suspense, and psychological sadism, and they may even occasionally jump, as I did more than once.