The Melancholies of Baron von Pnaklendorf

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

I created this thread as a place to vent whenever it feels necessary and appropriate.

I feel terrible, at least at this moment. Today is my birthday, but I do not really care about that; I never have. I am happy to have achieved certain personal milestones today. I feel satisfied with myself and with what I have accomplished, if any of it can even be called an achievement, because, truthfully, it does not feel that way to me.

I feel that even the most momentous things are fleeting when set against eternity. At times like this, I cannot help but feel miserable. This misery, which I know is fleeting as well.

When this misery passes, I will once again try to deny life's absurdities with the cheap books I enjoy, with the monsters that terrify me and that I admire in equal measure, like some distorted, Freudian form of Stockholm syndrome within my own mind. People fear death; I do not. Nor do I long for it in the way a suicidal person might. Yet, if there is such a thing as the promise of eternal rest—without resorting to spiritualism—then oblivion would undoubtedly be the best outcome, and at the same time exactly what it is: nothing.

It is exhausting to be human, and even more exhausting to be human in this era.

 

[Mersennus1951]

I created this thread as a place to vent whenever it feels necessary and appropriate.

I feel terrible, at least at this moment. Today is my birthday, but I do not really care about that; I never have. I am happy to have achieved certain personal milestones today. I feel satisfied with myself and with what I have accomplished, if any of it can even be called an achievement, because, truthfully, it does not feel that way to me.

I feel that even the most momentous things are fleeting when set against eternity. At times like this, I cannot help but feel miserable. This misery, which I know is fleeting as well.

When this misery passes, I will once again try to deny life's absurdities with the cheap books I enjoy, with the monsters that terrify me and that I admire in equal measure, like some distorted, Freudian form of Stockholm syndrome within my own mind. People fear death; I do not. Nor do I long for it in the way a suicidal person might. Yet, if there is such a thing as the promise of eternal rest—without resorting to spiritualism—then oblivion would undoubtedly be the best outcome, and at the same time exactly what it is: nothing.

It is exhausting to be human, and even more exhausting to be human in this era.

Happy birthday... if that's even the right thing to say. I understand what you mean quite well, because I've experienced that same vertigo of watching time pass, not only in general terms but minute by minute, and feeling how everything vanishes on a cosmic scale. It's an overwhelming sense of emptiness and meaninglessness. The opening lines of The Clown Puppet are almost identical to what I feel, and that's what struck me the first time I read them. The good thing about the monsters in the books you mention is that they're at least well edited, that they possess a coherence this psychotic carousel of life could only dream of. They are an identifiable threat, something the protagonist can choose to hide from or not. And now that you mention it... I think venting on a forum is the modern equivalent of those letters writers once sent each other to keep from going mad in their isolation or daily rutine.

P.S.: I never celebrate my birthdays either.

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

Happy birthday... if that's even the right thing to say. I understand what you mean quite well, because I've experienced that same vertigo of watching time pass, not only in general terms but minute by minute, and feeling how everything vanishes on a cosmic scale. It's an overwhelming sense of emptiness and meaninglessness. The opening lines of The Clown Puppet are almost identical to what I feel, and that's what struck me the first time I read them. The good thing about the monsters in the books you mention is that they're at least well edited, that they possess a coherence this psychotic carousel of life could only dream of. They are an identifiable threat, something the protagonist can choose to hide from or not. And now that you mention it... I think venting on a forum is the modern equivalent of those letters writers once sent each other to keep from going mad in their isolation or daily routine.

Thank you for the birthday wishes.

As for this venting, yes, I'll probably use it quite often. I was just talking with Dr. Bantham about how I won't be posting anything that could get the forum into trouble; it's mostly a philosophical outlet for me.

In any case, I'm already feeling better. Everything is fleeting, after all.

To be honest, I think I was somewhat overstimulated, though I wouldn't really know how to explain it.

 

[Mersennus1951]

Gracias por las felicitaciones de cumpleaños.

En cuanto a desahogarme así, sí, probablemente lo haré con bastante frecuencia. Justo estaba hablando con el Dr. Bantham sobre cómo no publicaré nada que pueda causar problemas al foro; para mí es principalmente una forma de expresar mis reflexiones filosóficas.

En cualquier caso, ya me siento mejor. Al fin y al cabo, todo es pasajero.

Para ser sincero, creo que estaba un poco sobreestimulado, aunque no sabría muy bien cómo explicarlo.

It's fine, it's a good point overall, whether it stems from overstimulation as you say or not, although in this case the direct experience benefits the writing. I suppose you write frequently, right? Have you published any prose fiction?

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

It's fine, it's a good point overall, whether it stems from overstimulation as you say or not, although in this case the direct experience benefits the writing. I suppose you write frequently, right? Have you published any prose fiction?

I publish short stories in the eZine “Refugio Bizarro”, and I have just shared an e-book here in the “Resources” section containing my earliest stories—quite rough, but they hold emotional value for me.

 

[Mersennus1951]

I publish short stories in the eZine “Refugio Bizarro”, and I have just shared an e-book here in the “Resources” section containing my earliest stories—quite rough, but they hold emotional value for me.

Thanks. I'll take a look when I can and give you a more detailed answer. I also keep my early stories; I've rewritten them as much as I could, but many are hard to revise because of the circumstances in which they were written. They also have a special value for me, even though I think they're terrible.

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

The resentments of a dreamer’s soul stem from an inability to confront the reality he may have once envisioned and which, in truth, turned out to be nothing more than a chimera, an illusion… as if he had placed himself inside Plato’s cave. I think about this now not for myself, but for a friend who is going through a difficult emotional situation and who possesses a remarkable artistic sensitivity that has even led him to stand out in his discipline. Even so, he is unable to control his negative impulses when things fail to materialize as he once imagined. I am not speaking about his artistic vision, but about the vision he had of the life that would come with that art.

It is strange for me to feel empathy, yet this empathy comes with a certain form of respect. Even so, I feel it would be contradictory for a dreamer to be someone entirely free of disturbance, since even in dreams there are monsters, cliché as that may sound. In any case, I find it curious how some people, when faced with those monsters, respond with frustration, anger, or sorrow, while others—myself included—feel a kind of attraction and trust that we perhaps do not experience in daily routine or ordinary things.

It is as if, in some way, at least for me, to put it rhetorically… I had been “born in reverse” in the act of birth. I do not fear death, I do not fear darkness, I do not fear the unknown. What I do know—the routine, people, work—that is what disturbs me. I prefer to be alone, only with myself, because I know that being alone I will not expect anything from anyone other than myself, and I will not end up like my artist friend, who expected his life, his surroundings, and everything else to be different simply because he dedicated his art to others instead of to himself.

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

I was playing video games yesterday. It's a sensitive subject for me, as I tend to associate it with something close to a gambling addiction, although I know that's an irrational idea on my part.

I'm glad to see that it was simply a way to disconnect for a while and that I was able to keep it under control, even if that irrational thought still lingers.

I won't be playing today. I don't feel like it. I'd rather spend some time looking into literature-related topics and, while I'm at it, check the forum as well.

I hope you all have a good Friday tomorrow.

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

I went out to buy a beer, like I do every Friday, and ran into two ominous birds the locals call mandaos (roughly, "messengers" or "emissaries" in Spanish). According to people around here, they're said to serve indigenous witches and Satan himself.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't unnerved, especially when one of them twisted its head in such an unnatural way just to stare directly at me before flying off.

I got home, put the beer away, said a prayer (I'm Catholic), and now I'm trying to focus on other things.

These birds are more or less the local equivalent of the whippoorwills where I live.

Anyway, happy Friday.

 

[cannibal cop]

I went out to buy a beer, like I do every Friday, and ran into two ominous birds the locals call mandaos (roughly, "messengers" or "emissaries" in Spanish). According to people around here, they're said to serve indigenous witches and Satan himself.

Make them a small offering of fruit and water every morning and they will soon renounce their blasphemous ways.

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

Make them a small offering of fruit and water every morning and they will soon renounce their blasphemous ways.

I’m not superstitious. I just got scared at the moment I wrote that, and maybe that’s why it sounded dramatic.

 

[cannibal cop]

I’m not superstitious. I just got scared at the moment I wrote that, and maybe that’s why it sounded dramatic.

It’s a fine idea nonetheless.

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

I began my vacation yesterday. It had been a long time since I'd had depressive thoughts, but now I realize that what I took for healing was really just denial. Between waves of anxiety that came and went—quieted only when I was dreaming, whether in daydreams or deep sleep, sometimes even lucid dreams—I finally recognized the sadness I've been carrying.

Looking at my cat and my dog, with tears welling up, I told them, "I'm rotting. I'm rotting while I'm still alive. My heart, though it's still held together, is rotting too."

I walked over to the image of Jesus Christ on my refrigerator and, through tears, begged Him for help. After that, I talked to my mother about my nightmares, my dreams, how I feel now, and how I'd been feeling for such a long time—a feeling that, somehow, I had learned to bury just so I could be around other people without seeming strange.

Now the anhedonia has returned. My voice feels flat, drained of life. I have no desire to pretend to be happy for anyone, not even for myself. But somehow, I'm not sad either. The truth is, I feel only one thing: nothing.

The best way I can describe myself is as a calm ocean. On the surface, everything looks peaceful, but we all know how deep the ocean really is.

 

[cannibal cop]

The truth is, I feel only one thing: nothing.

That sounds like perfect equanimity, an ideal condition of the conscious mind according to some ways of thinking. Many supposedly dedicate much of their lives to its attainment. Not that that means anything, of course.

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

Winter. I've always enjoyed the night. The anhedonia was only a temporary emotional slump. I woke up before dawn and read a few more stories from Grimscribe. I don't feel like reading during the day—it just doesn't appeal to me. I'm eagerly waiting for nightfall so I can immerse myself in Ligotti again. It's honestly one of the few genuine pleasures in life. Long live Thomas Ligotti, so he can keep writing these delicatessen, so unlike those of other horror authors working in a similar vein. Right now I'm sipping a liqueur. Cheers!

 

[Mersennus1951]

Winter. I've always enjoyed the night. The anhedonia was only a temporary emotional slump. I woke up before dawn and read a few more stories from Grimscribe. I don't feel like reading during the day—it just doesn't appeal to me. I'm eagerly waiting for nightfall so I can immerse myself in Ligotti again. It's honestly one of the few genuine pleasures in life. Long live Thomas Ligotti, so he can keep writing these delicatessen, so unlike those of other horror authors working in a similar vein. Right now I'm sipping a liqueur. Cheers!

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Honestly, I don't read until nightfall either. I find it difficult to read during the day. The sun and the brightness of Spain are unbearable to me, and whenever I look at the clear sky, my spirits sink and all my strength seems to drain away. I'm not anhedonic per se, but I do go through episodes of emotional numbness, especially when work piles up and I begin to dissociate. Night, on the other hand, fills me with energy and seems to awaken me emotionally. That's when I feel capable of anything, and when I begin my literary work, my drawings, and everything else.

 

[Mersennus1951]

Winter. I've always enjoyed the night. The anhedonia was only a temporary emotional slump. I woke up before dawn and read a few more stories from Grimscribe. I don't feel like reading during the day—it just doesn't appeal to me. I'm eagerly waiting for nightfall so I can immerse myself in Ligotti again. It's honestly one of the few genuine pleasures in life. Long live Thomas Ligotti, so he can keep writing these delicatessen, so unlike those of other horror authors working in a similar vein. Right now I'm sipping a liqueur. Cheers!

View attachment 3211

Ligotti is a source of comfort for us. Last summer, when I was rereading him, he became a full-blown obsession. I haven't been this devoted to an author since Lovecraft. I've never spent so many hours studying someone's work or filling notebooks with annotations. So yes, long live Tom!
As for Bavaria, the weather there sounds rather appealing, doesn't it? At least it would be an ideal place for me. Here in Spain we're being scorched by the heat. I hate the oppressive stickiness of summer and the explosion of insects, of organic life. My ideal would be to live in a perpetual winter, somewhere far from the city and its noise.

 

[R. von Pnaklendorf]

As for Bavaria, the weather there sounds rather appealing, doesn't it? At least it would be an ideal place for me. Here in Spain we're being scorched by the heat. I hate the oppressive stickiness of summer and the explosion of insects, of organic life. My ideal would be to live in a perpetual winter, somewhere far from the city and its noise.

I am from the South of Chile.

 

[Knygathin]

I don't know if I have much comfort or effective wisdom to offer in this matter. I think all life suffers from existential angst, not just humans. For some individuals it is undeniably harder, in ways others cannot assimilate. You Pnaklendorf don't seem too bad off, in fact you seem to handle your situation fairly well, transcending past suffering.

I think life is just energy. That creeps through the molecules. And in the complex chemical and biological processes, and cycles, there are snags that cause suffering. But even if there was a catastrophy that extinguished us all, life will gradually crawl back over time.

I don't think we can accuse our parents, for letting us be born. Most parents try to do their best, from what capacity they have. I find parenthood touching and tragic, for all its struggles. And the creation of new life is something that just happens. We are all in this biology together; no reason to put blame on each other. And in our souls, it has really been our own choice to be (re-)born.

I don't think suicide is a good solution either, because on a subtle (spiritual) level, suicide doesn't really end anything, but instead causes further complication and suffering, in others left behind, and through possible reincarnation repeating itself. I think the greatest Illusion and tragedy, is the sense of isolation of the ego, when suffering is really the same, and shared experience in us all. And after we die, erroneously thinking this will free us, the sense of "I", confined and looking out, will continue. Although, as I said before, for some individuals the suffering and mental imprisonment is so great, others cannot comprehend. Some unfortunate ones are not meant to live long. (Some lucky happy ones, are snatched away early too.) But there may, for most of us, be ways to alleviate pain in less drastic measures. I think, essentially the path of spiritual and mental transcendence, throughout life, is the one to strive for and follow.

I saw the following comment on an astronomy forum: "It would not be hard to get stuck in a rut of nihilism or absurdism in life, so I think some sort of aesthetic experience that has resonance for you is a good thing. For me, that might as well include observing what amateur astronomy has to offer."

I understand that in Chile you have some fantastic dark nightskies, in Atacama and elsewhere. With beautiful celestial objects not visible from the northern hemisphere. Outside of the cities, of course. So, besides literature, and art, music, and meditation, getting a telescope might be a good diversion from angst.

 

[cannibal cop]

And in our souls, it has really been our own choice to be (re-)born.

What gives you that idea?

And after we die, erroneously thinking this will free us, the sense of "I", confined and looking out, will continue.

It might, in some form, after an indefinable period of oblivion, although what form that might take is as impossible for us to conceive of as the state of nothingness itself, so it’s not a particularly helpful thought.

I do broadly agree with the view that viewing death as freeing in some way is likely to be an optimistic misconception except for those enduring such extremes of suffering that rational thought is rendered impossible.

My thoughts on the subject are basically summed up by Nabokov’s line that the afterlife might be a state of “excruciating insanity”—i.e., no matter how skeptical one’s attitude toward such things might be, eternity is not a subject to be treated lightly.