A wedding photographer took this picture from a rooftop to get a bird’s eye view of a wedding in progress. Something seemed odd about the balcony in the top right portion of the photograph.
So the photographer zoomed in...
Sep 10, 2013
WEDDING CRASHERS
Sep 9, 2013
PHINEAS GAGE
On September 13, 1848, Phineas Gage (a railway worker) was packing a hole with gunpowder, adding a fuse and sand, and then packing the charge down with a large tamping iron. The gunpowder ignited and the iron bar shot through his left cheek bone and exited out the top of his head, and was later recovered some 30 yards from the site of the accident. Within minutes he was up and walking. A few days later he had fungus of the brain. A couple of weeks after, 8 fluid ounces of pus from an abscess under his scalp was released. Damage to Gage’s frontal cortex had resulted in a complete loss of social inhibitions, which often led to inappropriate behavior. He was no longer the same Gage that his friend’s and family knew. Today his skull and the iron bar that shot through it are on display at Boston’s Warren Anatomical Museum.
Sep 8, 2013
THE DREAMCATCHER
I would have never known had I not seen it with my own eyes. The dream catcher. Not the things we hang in our windows, those awful summer camp crafts projects made of sticks and ropes and feathers and such. No. The dream catcher whom nobody has dared to see, imagine or come to understand. To call it a person would be an insult to all things real. Then again it is as real as the people it claims. More so the children…
You see I had lost my child many years ago. Lost in the true sense…to the unknown. As he played in the woods behind our cabin in the rural hills of Maine. A place so remote we typically went months during the winter sheltered in our modest log cabin, living off the earnings we had saved throughout the summer on rations and supplies we stocked in fall.
It all happened one cold and crisp autumn day. One of the last few a child his age could go out and play before the winter confined us. He begged me to go outside knowing how once winter sank its teeth into the air he would have little or no chance to run and play. Understanding this I allowed it as we worried not of strangers as there were none to worry about. I was preparing some of the food we would need preserved for the upcoming solitude as he exited the house for the last time. After about an hour or so I failed to hear the distant sounds of childlike imagination being brought to life through stick swords and tree monsters. I looked out the window and saw nothing. My son (no stranger to wandering off) prompted me to grab my coat and go in search. After about five minutes of calling his name…Charlie!…CHARlie!…CHARLIE!!! I began to panic.
Three weeks, five police searches and two helicopter flyovers later the storm hit. Charlie was lost and all efforts to search were called off. I was alone and had nothing to comfort my thoughts but the chance that somehow…some way he was still alive. Out there…somewhere. Chance…like a candle in a hurricane. Then the dreams began.
At first they woke me. Blurry visions of being half awake…not so much the sight but the sounds. Charlie calling for me…daddy…daddy…Only to come to my senses and plunge back into that despair. More than once I thought of ending it all…but that candle…that fucking candle would not go out. I could only think of one worse fate than the loss off my son. That would be to leave this world only to have him return. I could not let that happen…I had to know.
After a few weeks the dreams became more and more lucid. I could now see Charlie but not how I remembered. Almost like a ghost…transparent. But unlike a ghost, all grey and muted, he was golden. Almost like looking at a light bulb through a piece of parchment. He called for me…daddy…daddy…I’m here! I’m here with the dream catcher. I now had a new tormentor…my own mind.
It was now March and the weather finally broke. An entire winter of merciless wind and snow. Piled high well above the edges of the roof was the remnants of the worst winter anyone can recall. I needed to get out. Months of dreaming and pacing and planning. What would I do, where would I go? Nobody to calm my already shaken nerves, no thing to keep me grounded. Was I mad? Perhaps but it would not stop me from trying.
I packed all I could carry knowing I would find my boy, in any state…or die trying. The first days trek carried me deep into the forest. I spent a good week (or what seemed like it) wandering farther into the unknown. I had no sense of direction or care for it anyway. After all I was searching for something that had no location. Each gust of wind brought me in a new direction…a faint whisper of “daddy”, “I’m here”, “daddy”, “I’m here”. Was it real or just the cruel residue of my dreams. At this point I cared not. I had nothing left to lose.
Then I saw it…or more so him. My son. Not the boy I had known growing up all those years, running and playing and full of life. No. This was what was left.
Hung between two trees, by hands and feet was the skin of my child…pulled taught and hardened by the cold blustery winter. As I approached, the sun shone from behind creating the warmest glow I have ever seen. Fiery gold piercing through the holes that were his eyes, and nose, and mouth. I stumbled, devoid of all energy to face him. As I wept, knowing he was gone, and in the cruelest way…a gentle breeze blew from the direction of the sun behind him…his hide softened and bowed to the breeze, filling his empty shell with form. The wind whispered through his mouth…daddy…I’m here…I’m here with the dream catcher…
Sep 7, 2013
TEOS RECOMMENDS: THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ROSALIND LEIGH
In a cinematic time in which the masses have lost their patience for nearly everything that doesn’t involve massive amounts of blood or a brand title they recognize from years past, it seems almost incorrect to say that there is still life burning behind the slow-burn movement. Guys like Ti West, and James Wan, or standalone films like Citadel or The Awakening, are keeping the movement going thanks to their contributions of slow-going horror, established on a foundation of tone and atmosphere rather than full-on scare. Those two things are more important to a horror film than anything else. If you can establish a mood that never allows your audience to settle back into their seats, then you’re onto something.
That’s how I felt watching the directorial debut of Rodrigo Gudiño, editor of Rue Morgue Magazine.
The Last Will and Testament of Rosalind Leigh finds Leon (Aaron Poole) coming back to his childhood home following the death of his mother, Rosalind (Vanessa Redgrave, who never appears on-screen in any traditional way). Inside her almost castle-like interior of a house, Leon finds an army of religious relics – angels, Virgin Marys, and crosses. They litter every room – some less than six inches, and some twice as tall as himself. Among this collection of religious iconography, he finds a lone VHS tape labeled as “God’s Messengers.” Its contents feature shaky amateur footage of a religious cult, led by a Nick-Cave-lookin’ fellow who it would seem has the power to beckon stone sculptures to life. This, coupled with the demonic animal that apparently lives in the overgrown brush outback, and you have yourself one haunting night to remember.
If you can appreciate films for anything beyond mindless time-wasters, you’ll be immediately struck by Gudiño’s direction. For a directorial debut, the film is gorgeous. The camera moves incredibly fluidly around Rosalind’s house, accompanied by a haunting voice over seemingly narrating her journal she purposely left behind for Leon to find. Another thing you may notice: though the film’s concept you could argue is a tired one, I’d argue it’s been quite a while since you’ll experience a film that feels like this. Part experimental, part traditional horror, The Last Will and Testament of Rosalind Leigh feels at times like something The Exorcist and Legion author William Peter Blatty would have undertaken as director. His direction on his own novel adaptation The Exorcist 3: Legion as well as The Ninth Configuration feels the same way as it does with here. The images captured are haunting and beautiful and heartbreaking and unnerving all at the same time, though there is nothing obvious or overly horrific on-screen.
Like House of the Devil, or I Am A Ghost, Rosalind Leigh is a one-man show. Except for characters on the phone, or on choppy camcorder footage, or unseen on the other side of the door, it is just Leon, son of Rosalind Leigh, wandering around her old, archaic house, wondering if that one particular statue of the Virgin Mary is moving around from room to room by itself.
At no point does Rosalind Leigh not feel like a dream. Leon’s sparing interaction with who sounds to be an estranged girlfriend over the phone never feels…right. Nor does the strange man who knocks on the door in the middle of the night to express his condolences over Rosalind’s death, and to warn about the strange animal that has allegedly been sighted on the property. This scene, too, doesn’t quite feel right. None of these people act as if they have any semblance of humanity whatsoever, but know enough about it to skate by.
Fair warning, Rosalind Leigh’s pace is not for every one. In fact, once the one-hour mark comes and goes, and it doesn’t appear the film is laying down any real, concrete development or revelations, it might cause some viewers to tune out. With this kind of approach to filmmaking, that’s inevitable.
Nor, either, will those people enjoy the film’s conclusion. Because there really isn’t one – not in the traditional sense where Leon finds his mother’s bones, or her lost prized necklace, or some other lame icon that has prevented her from resting in peace. Like the Polanski films that defined slow-burn horror, it’s not so much about the conclusion as it is about the journey. It’s about sticking with this one solitary character as he wanders around a dark house in the middle of the night clutching a lit candle. It’s not just a night of death but of rebirth.
I’ve corresponded with Rod Gudiño several times over the years and I can say without hesitation he is a fine fellow and quite personable. Beyond that, I can’t say I know much about the man from a personal standpoint. Beyond reading the last paragraph of every review for this film (which is my style—people give away too much shit these days), I haven’t done any kind of research behind the film’s origins and inspirations. Having said that, The Last Will and Testament of Rosalind Leigh feels intensely personal. It feels like a film made by a person who wanted to do more than just marry together a bunch of elements caused by nothing by budget restrictions.
In a way, it feels less like a film and more like an exorcism.
That’s how I felt watching the directorial debut of Rodrigo Gudiño, editor of Rue Morgue Magazine.
The Last Will and Testament of Rosalind Leigh finds Leon (Aaron Poole) coming back to his childhood home following the death of his mother, Rosalind (Vanessa Redgrave, who never appears on-screen in any traditional way). Inside her almost castle-like interior of a house, Leon finds an army of religious relics – angels, Virgin Marys, and crosses. They litter every room – some less than six inches, and some twice as tall as himself. Among this collection of religious iconography, he finds a lone VHS tape labeled as “God’s Messengers.” Its contents feature shaky amateur footage of a religious cult, led by a Nick-Cave-lookin’ fellow who it would seem has the power to beckon stone sculptures to life. This, coupled with the demonic animal that apparently lives in the overgrown brush outback, and you have yourself one haunting night to remember.
If you can appreciate films for anything beyond mindless time-wasters, you’ll be immediately struck by Gudiño’s direction. For a directorial debut, the film is gorgeous. The camera moves incredibly fluidly around Rosalind’s house, accompanied by a haunting voice over seemingly narrating her journal she purposely left behind for Leon to find. Another thing you may notice: though the film’s concept you could argue is a tired one, I’d argue it’s been quite a while since you’ll experience a film that feels like this. Part experimental, part traditional horror, The Last Will and Testament of Rosalind Leigh feels at times like something The Exorcist and Legion author William Peter Blatty would have undertaken as director. His direction on his own novel adaptation The Exorcist 3: Legion as well as The Ninth Configuration feels the same way as it does with here. The images captured are haunting and beautiful and heartbreaking and unnerving all at the same time, though there is nothing obvious or overly horrific on-screen.
Like House of the Devil, or I Am A Ghost, Rosalind Leigh is a one-man show. Except for characters on the phone, or on choppy camcorder footage, or unseen on the other side of the door, it is just Leon, son of Rosalind Leigh, wandering around her old, archaic house, wondering if that one particular statue of the Virgin Mary is moving around from room to room by itself.
At no point does Rosalind Leigh not feel like a dream. Leon’s sparing interaction with who sounds to be an estranged girlfriend over the phone never feels…right. Nor does the strange man who knocks on the door in the middle of the night to express his condolences over Rosalind’s death, and to warn about the strange animal that has allegedly been sighted on the property. This scene, too, doesn’t quite feel right. None of these people act as if they have any semblance of humanity whatsoever, but know enough about it to skate by.
Fair warning, Rosalind Leigh’s pace is not for every one. In fact, once the one-hour mark comes and goes, and it doesn’t appear the film is laying down any real, concrete development or revelations, it might cause some viewers to tune out. With this kind of approach to filmmaking, that’s inevitable.
Nor, either, will those people enjoy the film’s conclusion. Because there really isn’t one – not in the traditional sense where Leon finds his mother’s bones, or her lost prized necklace, or some other lame icon that has prevented her from resting in peace. Like the Polanski films that defined slow-burn horror, it’s not so much about the conclusion as it is about the journey. It’s about sticking with this one solitary character as he wanders around a dark house in the middle of the night clutching a lit candle. It’s not just a night of death but of rebirth.
I’ve corresponded with Rod Gudiño several times over the years and I can say without hesitation he is a fine fellow and quite personable. Beyond that, I can’t say I know much about the man from a personal standpoint. Beyond reading the last paragraph of every review for this film (which is my style—people give away too much shit these days), I haven’t done any kind of research behind the film’s origins and inspirations. Having said that, The Last Will and Testament of Rosalind Leigh feels intensely personal. It feels like a film made by a person who wanted to do more than just marry together a bunch of elements caused by nothing by budget restrictions.
In a way, it feels less like a film and more like an exorcism.
Sep 6, 2013
THE MOMENT OF DEATH
The Moment Of Death:
1. The heart stops.
2. The skin gets tight and ashen in color.
3. All the muscles relax.
4. The bladder and bowels empty.
5. The body temperature begins to drop 1 1/2 degrees Fahrenheit per hour.
After 30 Minutes:
6. The skin gets purple and waxy.
7. The lips, fingernails, and toenails fade to a pale color.
8. Blood pools at the bottom of the body.
9. The hands and feet turn blue.
10. The eyes sink into the skull.
After 4 Hours:
11. Rigor mortis has set in.
12. The purpling of the skin and the pooling of the blood continue.
13. Rigor continues to tighten muscles for another 24 hours or so.
After 12 Hours:
14. The body is in full rigor mortis.
After 24 Hours:
15. The body is now the temperature of the surrounding environment.
16. In males, the semen dies.
17. The head and neck are now a greenish-blue color.
18. The greenish-blue color spreads to the rest of the body.
19. There is a pervasive smell of rotting meat.
After 3 Days:
20. The gas in the body tissues forms large blisters on the skin.
21. The whole body begins to bloat and swell grotesquely.
22. Fluids leak from the mouth, nose, ears, and rectum.
After 3 Weeks:
1. The heart stops.
2. The skin gets tight and ashen in color.
3. All the muscles relax.
4. The bladder and bowels empty.
5. The body temperature begins to drop 1 1/2 degrees Fahrenheit per hour.
After 30 Minutes:
6. The skin gets purple and waxy.
7. The lips, fingernails, and toenails fade to a pale color.
8. Blood pools at the bottom of the body.
9. The hands and feet turn blue.
10. The eyes sink into the skull.
After 4 Hours:
11. Rigor mortis has set in.
12. The purpling of the skin and the pooling of the blood continue.
13. Rigor continues to tighten muscles for another 24 hours or so.
After 12 Hours:
14. The body is in full rigor mortis.
After 24 Hours:
15. The body is now the temperature of the surrounding environment.
16. In males, the semen dies.
17. The head and neck are now a greenish-blue color.
18. The greenish-blue color spreads to the rest of the body.
19. There is a pervasive smell of rotting meat.
After 3 Days:
20. The gas in the body tissues forms large blisters on the skin.
21. The whole body begins to bloat and swell grotesquely.
22. Fluids leak from the mouth, nose, ears, and rectum.
After 3 Weeks:
23. The skin, hair, and nails are so loose they can easily be pulled off the corpse.
24. The skin bursts open on many places on the body.
25. Decomposition will continue until the body is nothing but skeletal remains, a process that can take a month or so in hot climates, and two months or more in cold climates.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 4, 2013
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