If you are interested in reading my manuscript in-progress, you will find it here: A Light No More (PDF).
If you are interested in reading my manuscript in-progress, you will find it here: A Light No More (PDF).
Many thanks to Casey Lynn Roland for creating these incredible blackout texts/paintings from the pages of The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals. It is really moving to see one’s writing transformed into such beautiful and monstrous works.
The following is a brief, artistically unsatisfying essay on identity and dream in some of Lynch’s films, that I wrote during Winter Break 2016 as an attempt at a straightforward essay. I’ve contemplated revising it in a more abrupt, brutal, mysterious, dreamlike style, but with the new Twin Peaks season now concluded, I’ve dug it up and thrown it here.
In David Lynch’s Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks the identity of the self is closely connected to the identity of place—the small towns of Lumberton and Twin Peaks, respectively. At times place and self so vividly mirror each other it is as if the exterior is merely a projection of the interior—and indeed it is, for in Lynch, the world is ever the world of dream. In these towns we wander through the sheen of the apparent world, a world placid and prosperous and good, and here into the fog of the place hidden, yet always there. Once revealed this place seems to be everything, and all things and lives now seem corrupted by rot and murder, when in fact they always were. In both Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks these worlds are sometimes indistinguishable, and sometimes they are quite distinct, as they shimmer about each other, overlapping, intruding, and clouding each other. The interaction of these worlds works to simultaneously reveal and obscure the characters of Jeffrey Beaumont in Blue Velvet and Laura Palmer, Leland Palmer, and Special Agent Dale Cooper in Twin Peaks, often splintering them, or mutating them into persons previously unrecognizable.
We see the connection between the interior of the individual and the exterior projection of place clearly in the opening sequences of Blue Velvet. Here the sleepy town of Lumberton is introduced in slow motion and bursting colors: rose beds and pristine white picket fences and firemen waving from trucks. Bobby Vinton’s “Blue Velvet” plays on the soundtrack while the world drifts past. It is the ideal suburban world; it is also an artificial world, told in exaggerated color and expression, for it is the world of a dream. So it is this world Jeffrey Beaumont carries with him through his opening sequences—his polite, quiet manners, his neat clothes and necktie, as if transported from 1950s television. He has returned from college after his father’s heart attack, and here he will remain while his father recovers, resuming now his old position in his father’s store—for Jeffrey, of course, is upright, responsible, respectful. He is a product of his town and his town is the product of him, for the world is but what we perceive, and until his father’s heart attack Jeffrey is incapable of perceiving any other world.
For it is in Blue Velvet and then Twin Peaks (and more obviously in the later identity films Lost Highway and Mulholland Drive) that the revelation of self is found in the fracturing of worlds, when the veneer of habit, the safe and familiar, is lifted through the shock of the unfamiliar. In Lynch the unfamiliar is often found in images of the grotesque and violent, but then any removal from the ordinary, any shift in the routine and familiar, is a kind of violence. We can then appreciate the precipitating event of Jeffrey’s fracturing is his father’s heart attack, rather than the more obvious incident: the ear in the field Jeffrey discovers shortly after leaving his father’s hospital bedside. Yes, the ear provides a gateway to still greater horrors, but before his father’s illness, before leaving for college, Jeffrey would not have noticed the ear—for Jeffrey the ear would not have existed. The ants that walked about the ear would have seemed to wander the earth. An everyday violence, a father’s illness, provokes a tear in the world, and so then a greater tear follows, just as a dream, once tranquil can soon lead to corridors increasingly malevolent and strange. Now the horror is obvious and the bright world replaced with the world of the night: now blackened lawns, gangsters and seething alleyways hanging with dead bodies, corrupt cops and “men like Frank,” eyes bursting and inhaling gas, are unavoidable.
In this way identity in Lynch is linked perception—to be able to perceive Frank Booth one must acknowledge their capacity for Booth within oneself, that is to say, to perceive Frank Booth is to become him. Jeffrey’s introduction to the possibility of Frank comes from the closet of Dorothy Vallens, the lounge singer Frank has made his prisoner. Jeffrey watches as Frank shift between the personality of a child calling Dorothy “mommy” and a man who must be called “Daddy,” while sucking on a piece of blue velvet. He watches as Frank strikes Dorothy repeatedly, and then rapes her. Later that night, Dorothy begs Jeffrey to hit her, and he cannot. After he leaves her apartment, Jeffrey disappears suddenly as he is dissolved into light, subsequently replaced on the screen by images of his father and Frank Booth, distorted grotesquely like the men in Francis Bacon’s portraits, before those images too dissolve into shimmering flame and industrial droning. Now Dorothy Vallens, her red lips and desperate commandment: “Hit me.” Jeffrey wakes in bed after seeing Frank again, snarling; it is if Frank Booth has infiltrated Jeffrey, a virus already spreading. During a later meeting, Dorothy again begs Jeffrey to strike her, and now he does. Immediately he is physically and audibly transformed—his body blurring with Dorothy’s, mirroring the earlier distortions of his father and Frank Booth. Any sound of their sex replaced by industrial droning, inhuman sounds. Later, in such films as Mulholland Drive and Lost Highway, the opposite is true—the inability to accept the evil within results in becoming an entirely new person, wiped completely clean of memory and past and—in Lost Highway—transported into a completely new body.
Yet what is remarkable about Blue Velvet is that Jeffery is allowed to step back from his transformation. By making Frank Booth an exterior evil, an “other,” rather than an explicit extension of himself, Lynch implies that Jeffrey absolves himself when he kills Frank. Perhaps the virus of Frank Booth had not fully integrated itself into Jeffrey’s system. Perhaps he has and that is the point of the conclusion of the film: after killing Frank, Jeffrey wakes on a lawn chair in the midst of the opening world of the placid dream—we have again blue skies, chirping birds, bright red roses. Comically and abruptly Jeffrey’s father calls out from across the yard, “Feeling much better now, “Jeff,” as if not only Frank Booth has been defeated, but all evil, the mortality of fathers included.
This dream is a false dream, of course. It is the moment before some greater horror. The point of Blue Velvet is not that sleepy towns like Lumberton contain darkness and complexity, but that sleepy towns like Lumberton are created and maintained to allow their creators and inhabitants to survive and forget darkness and complexity, to pretend that “men like Frank” are anomalies or completely unlike themselves and the people they know. Such towns then are the manifestation of willful amnesia against strange longings and hidden atrocities. But they do not remove the atrocities once committed nor do they remove our inclination to commit them.
There is no greater example of this than the town of Twin Peaks, where “a yellow light still means slow down not speed up.” We see this town through Special Agent Dale Cooper’s eyes—an FBI agent sent to investigate a brutal murder, as he is charmed by the simplicity of this town, its coffee and pie. It is the kind of town where everybody eats at the same dinner and the police force is so unaccustomed to violent crime that one of the deputies weeps to see a dead body. There is a town doctor and a town psychiatrist and everybody knows who the prom king and queen are. Yet the sleepy town of Twin Peaks is not a town—it is actually, as the opening credits illustrates, a city of 51,000 people—a population at total odds with image represented. Perhaps the town we are shown is not the actual Twin Peaks, but only a dream version of Twin Peaks fallen over the actual city like a fog somehow made substantial. The inhabitants of Twin Peaks know the dream is a false one, but as when we dream, our understanding is slippery—we understand one moment that we inhabit a dream, and the next we wander fully believing the reality we have invented for ourselves.
As with Blue Velvet, the tear in the veneer comes through an act of violence—in Twin Peaks, the murdered body of prom queen Laura Palmer is famously discovered dead, wrapped in plastic. The fracture is twofold—there is the murder of a young woman, previously impossible in such a quiet town, and there is the ensuing unraveling of the image of Laura Palmer. It is this unraveling, and the police investigation behind it, that eventually forces each character to admit what must be well known to most members of the community—that the innocence of their town, their neighbors, their own lives, is a facade. As the character of Laura Palmer is revealed—her sins, her wildness, her torment—so too are the sins of the town. No character is untouched by misdeed; no character could have been unaware that Twin Peaks is not a haven from crime and horror, but is actually infested throughout. Their friends sell cocaine, or they have found bloodstains on their husband’s laundry, and now they cannot die it.
Much the same is the character of Laura Palmer herself. Few actually knew her, we are told, and yet the deeper we move into the series the more characters we meet who claim to know the true Laura—a person entirely independent of the false Laura, the pristine image she cultivated for the world. These characters are each in their way dependent upon Laura, although we are told she was “wild,” she was “troubled,” she was “into drugs.” So many versions of Laura, each winding deeper toward the truth, and yet, perhaps each version equally false, equally constructed. These seemingly endless variations on Laura Palmer only further cloud and obscure her identity. Each new revelation becomes a new Laura, a new complication.
Even Laura’s identical cousin Maddy is less a new character than she is another iteration of Laura. Not a doppelganger, but a Laura defined by others as a lesser Laura, a “not Laura” or a Laura that is “Laura’s cousin,” the Laura that is neither vivacious or wild or troubled, but quiet, meek, shy. Maddy quickly submerges into Laura. There is her relationship with Laura’s boyfriend, James, whose attraction to Maddy is less to Maddy herself as it is to the idea of Laura, each then replicating some new version of Laura atop what was once Maddy. Maddy even physically transforms into one of the many versions of Laura, as Laura so often did—taking on her hair, her voice, her pet phrases—to manipulate Dr. Jacoby.
As with the fracturing of Laura Palmer, the evolution of BOB from Season One to Season Two of Twin Peaks marks a radical transition in Lynch’s narratives, preparing the way for his later films of fractured identity: Lost Highway, Mulholland Drive, and Inland Empire. While BOB in Season One is the embodiment of evil, appearing in dreams and hallucinations, creeping across the floor, trembling and seething with malevolence, his role is similar to Frank Booth’s in Blue Velvet—an exterior evil of impossible depravity that obscures and essentially absolves the lesser sins of the other characters. The revelation in Season Two that Leland Palmer is BOB establishes two Leland Palmers in the mind of the audience—the Leland driven mad with grief at the death of his daughter, and the Leland possessed by BOB. The audience must question then where the line between these Leland Palmers falls—to what extent is Leland absolved of the abuse and murder of his daughter, and to what extent is he culpable? Is his grief the profound grief of a loving father, or the grief of a man who on some level knows, and is torn by guilt? We are confronted by a new image of Leland—hooting maniacally, his wild eyes leering, deranged. Somewhere within, perhaps a true Leland cowers in the darkness. Perhaps BOB is both the evil that imprisons him within his own flesh and the amnesia that allows Leland to continue living with his sins. There is no doubt that Leland dies immediately after the possession is lifted and his full memory is returned.
After Twin Peaks we increasingly see the separation between the physical self and identity in Lynch’s work. It is not accidental that the Twin Peaks series concluded with Dale Cooper split into two Coopers—the actual Cooper trapped within the Black Lodge and a second Cooper, BOB guised as Cooper, having taken his place on earth. Again and again in the later films like Mulholland Drive and Lost Highway identity is fogged, broken, lost. Characters retain their physical selves while taking on entirely new personalities, names, memories, and experiences. In this way then the loss of self-identity is a form of doubling and one then becomes his or her own doppelganger. Furthermore, Twin Peaks concludes Lynch’s investment in linear narrative—now Lynch’s films from Fire Walk With Me on assume non-linear and fragmented forms to match the psyches of his protagonists. Finally, his films will also become less concerned with the relationship between character and place—the small town narratives conclude with Twin Peaks—and more and more the works seem less concerned with characters inhabiting an actual world (even a dream representation of one), and instead navigate an interior universe.
It is my pleasure to share Josh Maday’s beautiful Cannibal’s remix: The Radiant Midnight Pallor of Obsidian,A Text Made (Mostly) from the Text of The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals by Robert Kloss
And this gorgeous trio of poems by Danielle Jones-Pruett:
I climb the narrow stairs, legs shaking.
My hands too weak to unbutton my dress,
I tug at the bodice, hear the material rip.
My muslin nightgown shudders down
my body, cool cotton rippling my flesh.
I climb into bed, pull the pearl-knotted
blanket to my chin. Light shines through
the thin white curtains mama made me
as a wedding gift. I’m trying to remember
the last time I was in bed during the day.
I wake to the nurse-lamp. My hair has been shorn.
I pass my hand over the prickle of what’s left
before falling back to dreams of too much sea.
Not enough air. How much time has passed
in the voices of my girls? They’re arguing
over whose turn it is to bake the bread, who
has to dirty her dress carrying in the kindling.
The baby’s fussing. Soon she’ll be wanting her milk.
He wakes to no heat in the bed. Dresses in the dark, not bothering to light the lamp. There’s a red squirrel on the branch outside his window. A sweater she’d almost finished slips off the chair-back, bone needles rattling onto the floor. He walks down the narrow staircase, wondering if it’s his body that’s gone crooked, or the house. Outside he looks for firewood, his boots sinking in the mushy yard. The garden has become a swamp. He hears a chirring whistle, moving in and out of time: it makes him miss the house in summer. Or even in snow, when you can see which way your steps have gone. He wants to tell her what it’s like to be alive like this. He doesn’t know what she’d say, but he knows her voice would rise and fall.
The Cannibal’s Wife
He sees far and straight, always marking
the line I’m to travel. It grows thinner
and thinner. When I complain, he binds
my feet with bones.
He knows when it will rain because insects
drop like stones. Knows the hot springs
are fat with fish. Always looks a wild dog
straight in the eye. He thinks of me
as a wild dog, impossible to tame. One night,
picking the meat from his teeth, he tells me
to get the gold in a man’s belly you must be willing
to build a big fire,
and I know he means he’d roast me
for even a glimmer of birds’ wings in my dreams.
I learn not to dream. Not to notice the glare
of water all around us.
I know everything he touches turns to dust: I live
with the taste of silt on my lips. And while he won’t
drink the wine I boil, believing it laced with sleep,
he will allow my songs.
Once he’s snoring, I bring out the dead bits he leaves
behind. Clavicles, knuckles, wish bones. I bathe them,
wrap them in sheepskin, until they’re almost as soft
as the babies I’ve lost to his hunger.
Danielle Jones-Pruett is assistant director of the Writers House at Merrimack College. Her poems have appeared in Best New Poets, Beloit Poetry Journal, Cider Press Review, Memorious, Southern Poetry Review and elsewhere. She is the recipient of a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writer’s Award and a St. Botolph Club Foundation Emerging Artist Award.
Three and a half years ago I folded a note I had written to myself into my wallet, and there it remained. I told no one about this note. It weathered and wore but it remained. Nearly every day for three and a half years this note proved a reminder to myself. This note read: I will be a writer. A week ago, I removed this note, finally, and burned it.
I had written the note with a certain idea of writer in mind—an official version of writer. I hope now I have finally killed that ambition. I realized, only last week, that I had become a writer, in a very true sense, finally, in my old age.
Writing has never given me greater joy or fulfillment than it does now. Even as a child, what enjoyment I gathered from writing was lost in the sense that a great distance separated my vision and my execution. Now, I feel no anxiety, no pressure, no sense of limitation. I feel no duty to anyone or anything other than to myself, and my desire to create work that is pure.
And I feel very good about the work I am creating. You will probably not agree with me, reader, but I believe it is a great book. Finally, I tell myself, I am creating a great book. This is all I need. This joy. This sense of creation and fulfillment. This process of slow, difficult labor, and the lovely work that I am slowly revealing. Yes, I believe it is a great book, in the truest sense of great.
The business side, then: I now have enough pre-orders to print 100 copies. Now, I am only focused on finishing my revisions and publishing the book. I will most likely only have 100 copies printed– I can see no demand for more than that—and it no longer matters—The old hopes to sell thousands of copies, be reviewed in major publications, and read to crowds…. no, no longer. Reader, there is nothing like the freedom found in failure, in floundering, in giving up the old ambitions and finding again—finally—the purity of the purpose—and in the old purity discovering again a sense of fearlessness and excitement once believed lost.
A skull appears in her cave. To this skull she wonders, “Who were you? What did you dream?” Chapter 17 brought her here:
As many of you know, I first finished the manuscript for The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals over three years ago. One of my primary concerns when beginning this self-publication process was directly related to this time expanse–how would revising and preparing the manuscript go, when so much time had elapsed? The writer who wrote that manuscript had long since diminished. A new manuscript had been in preparation for nearly three years, with a style and scope in many ways far removed from Cannibals. My initial impulse was to edit Cannibals in the spirit of the original composition–to revise toward the style and ambition and tone that carried me then. Quickly however I realized that my interests and ideas related to prose style and rhythm, “narrative,” “character,” “action” etc had all changed. Time will do that. So too will the natural difference between preparing a manuscript to be shopped to publishers by an agent and preparing a manuscript for self-publication.
I’ve found that no matter by best impulses, in the back of my mind I knew that my former agent would read the manuscript, and he would send that manuscript to publishers, and so there were always limitations, placed by myself, during that composition process. Not to suggest the manuscript was outwardly compromised–but there is no doubt that I have increased freedom now. Little anxiety about what is right or wrong or how it will be received. Now I think only about what pleases me, what I believe is the correct move, and what is best for the book in my mind. I have no editor to please, no agent, no publisher. There is no distributor to please, no bookstores to interest, no reviewers…. There is only this book.
That said, this process has increasingly taught me that self-publication, the way I’m doing it, and for the reasons I am doing it, has its limits.
I am humbled that anyone would pre-order my book. But I am increasingly frustrated by the need for pre-orders, to interest readers in buying my work, just so the work can be born. I’ve been pleased with the early response, but we are still about 20-30 pre-orders from what we will need to print 100 copies, the absolute minimum. We are about 60-70 pre-orders from what we would need to print 200 books. I don’t anticipate printing more than 200 books (I don’t anticipate printing more than 100, honestly), so I have not thought about numbers further than that.
Assuming we earn enough from pre-orders to print the book, that will be the only printing. I can’t imagine needing to continue printing this book, and I certainly do not intend to continue “promoting” the work. I am not sending out copies to reviewers or anyone else, unless they have purchased the book. If physical copies are sold out, I will keep the book in print, digitally.
I’ve learned through this process that I would rather–and going forward this is what I will do–simply prepare my work for electronic publication, with perhaps 1-20 (or so) physical copies, created by hand. (At the moment I would want to create at least one, for myself.) I don’t like e-books–I don’t read them and I have no interest in reading them. But I think that is where this is going. A book created entirely for electronic publication is freed entirely from the need to acquire readers. It exists then in the vapor. In a way, it seems an ideal.
3 Cannibals Haikus by Jason Kirk
quotidian rivulets —
austere and patient
hung their tears from faces young
severe and ancient
of solicitous dread, hiss
The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals, my third novel, is available for pre-order here. All pre-ordered copies will be signed by the author. The novel will be published in November 2017 and will feature cover and interior art by Matt Kish.
“This is more ritual than fiction, a subtle and astounding and careful manipulation of language that is nonetheless deeply felt, even deeply wounding. Incantatory and revelatory, Kloss’s is the kind of writing that is so vivid as to make you believe your own life is a dream.” Brian Evenson, A Collapse of Horses
“Robert Kloss’s The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals manages to be a little Rabelais, a little Lynch, a little Melville, and a lot wholly original and delightful Kloss. It’s an adventure story, a love story, a dream story, a language story, and a mystery – and it’s also very funny. Welcome to the weird, generous world of Robert Kloss’s fiction: keep an open mind and you’ll always be greatly rewarded.”
Amber Sparks, The Unfinished World: And Other Stories
“Robert Kloss’ The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals manages to be at once hypnotically poetic and deeply suspenseful. This is a novel that demands the reader’s attention and earns that attention with every sentence. A utterly unforgettable work of wild and lyric ambition.” Laura van den Berg, Find Me
“I’d be hard pressed to think of a young novelist I admire more than Robert Kloss, and The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals is his finest book yet. An heir of Melville, Faulkner, and McCarthy, Kloss stands unflinching before conventional history, rich with ambition and aesthetic daring. To read one of his books is to be thrilled anew with the possibilities of contemporary fiction.” Matt Bell, A Tree or a Person or a Wall: Stories
“Epic, enigmatic, and aboriginal, the seamless landscape of Robert Kloss’s imagination is filled with irretrievable, unfathomable, primordial beauty and ripe with elegant repulsion and horror. Perhaps it will be the dull sun or the promiscuous sea that pulls you into Robert Kloss’s den of monumental chronicle of manicured anti-heroism. Perhaps you seek banality that converts itself into fanaticism and perhaps you seek things that come to full circle and old things that are made new. If so, seek nothing but Kloss. The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals will lull you into a quiet hypnotism, where everything happens nonchalantly like a Victorian-like marriage that unravels from evisceration and where cannibalistic people duel theatrical spaces in land and sea like ecstasy. Kloss’s literary creation is designed to carve a seamless arrow through language’s mind with its instinctual wild purity and fugacious immortality. You will either feel Herculean afterward or a log that has slept through a thousand years of human fable, legendary deaths with some lascivious torture, and romance for a literary language you cannot speak or memorize or eroticize. Let Kloss’s bold, inventive, lionhearted hands guide and enrapture you towards the epicenter of his narrative ecstasy.” Vi Khi Nao, Fish in Exile
Words Found in The Woman Who Lived Amongst the Cannibals by Robert Kloss
Poem Crafted by Samantha Vakiener
Turn by the echoing sound of her name—
least consider that there is a lady—
classmen bearing candies and flowers, play,
‘sembling the former mistress of these lands,
bladders sloshing with paint, brushes of bone
to motion by the spirits of the dead.
Only white tailed deer springing through wild dead,
the banks, weeping the alligator’s name,
watering holes now burdened with the bleached bone
sags, but to look upon you the lady
yer king decrees it time to seek new lands
commanded by unseen hands, shadow play.
Sleeping and garments to wear while at play
nights he will speak of a woman once dead
pale light called forth across a vacant lands
see me, if you wish. No one comes. Your name,
reverence, call you “Ma’am” and “My Lady,”
seen a light seem to kindle. Here the bone—
Tocks, and the grim wings of her shoulder bone
orite of your people and resumes play
your departure, a prominent lady,
living and into the dust fall the dead.
One nuzzles his hand when he speaks her name,
delivers a speech on the western lands.
I journeyed through those grim and fleshless lands,
deranged, and here scorched anonymous bone
talking about. And now you say the name,
Band. Fumes, “I don’t know what game you are play—
eems this meal to your mouth, a thing long dead—
ious benefactor to shocked lady,
Which he claims to require some lady—
wind, and perhaps she strayed far into lands,
stumps of trees, and even a freshly dead
‘ber the bird, suck the skin and gnaw the bone.
tent for performance, while a kind of play…
Ally, now you wonder of his true name.
Sage, the lady of the house grasps her bone
across the western lands they travel, play-
es, wounded or dead. Now you call the name.