Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 20, 2012, 04:53:55 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 20, 2012, 04:45:17 PM
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 20, 2012, 04:43:33 PM
Nothing to spill really.
Im just picturing the south shore being inhabited by angry dwarves.
It is.
They are positively Hobbsian; Nasty, brutish, and short...The only evidence of which I need offer is EoC.
The thing is, it isn't genetic dwarfism. We bargain sections of our bones away. Every one of us has their own price, but in the end we always pay it. The Marrowman sees to that.
Oh...I like that. Tell me more.
Damn. Waffle iron may have to find himself back in new bedford at some point.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 20, 2012, 04:54:47 PM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 20, 2012, 04:53:55 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 20, 2012, 04:45:17 PM
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 20, 2012, 04:43:33 PM
Nothing to spill really.
Im just picturing the south shore being inhabited by angry dwarves.
It is.
They are positively Hobbsian; Nasty, brutish, and short...The only evidence of which I need offer is EoC.
The thing is, it isn't genetic dwarfism. We bargain sections of our bones away. Every one of us has their own price, but in the end we always pay it. The Marrowman sees to that.
Oh...I like that. Tell me more.
My friend Brian I've known since high school. I met the guy during the first class of the first day, Ms. Piermont's French class. We were close enough in those years, eating shitty fast food and not paying to see movies, going to music shows. In college we were a few hours away from each other and eventually lost touch. One of those deals. Anyway a few weeks ago I drove down to Providence to meet up with Brian for the first time in a few years. Oddly enough, he lives in Richter's neighborhood. We walked down to a cigar bar and I couldn't stop looking at Brian's hands.
Brian's a big guy. He's got some pounds on him, always has, but you can tell just by looking at him that even if he was thin he'd have a large build. But his hands just don't fit that build. And of course I kept staring at them over my glass of Guiness, through the lazily rolling smoke of the old joint. And of course he'd notice. Brian's hands are much, much smaller than any man his size could naturally be. So I look at the friend I knew pretty well when we were younger and I wonder what Brian's price was for The Marrowman. What did Brian buy with the bones in his hand?
The Marrowman doesn't work on wishes. It's not like you can say "I'd give my left pinkie for a doughnut" and there he is with a contract. The south coast would be a land of plenty if that were true, and if you know anything about us you know that it's just not the case. You ever see those old cartoon door to door insurance salesmen? There's something slimey about the way they put that doubt in your head that you aren't protected, that anything could happen and hey, wouldn't it be great if you could give us a few bucks and sign your worries away? He's good at that, finding that lever, never threatening, and being there just when he needs to be.
Now maybe he knew to come to this beleaguered place that used to stand so proudly. We don't talk about him a lot, of course, because how do you tell someone you sold an inch out of your femur. The few folks I know willing to say anything seem to think we're lucky, like we have some guardian angel keeping us from falling off the edge. It's beautiful, really. In life we all stand at this precipice at some point, teetering above a canyon and scared to breathe, pressed desperately to the cold wall behind us and maybe in that moment finding faith. Then comes the salesman with his promises, that the drop won't kill you or that he can tell you where to find the next handhold, whispering his promises and his price. His very reasonable price. Nobody ever wonders why so many of us down here seem to find ourselves in that rocky little place again and again.
A splinter of bone to take the fear away. A shaving to laugh and he picks from where it comes. Brian knows he's lucky with the tiny hands because what's an index finger to a hip joint? We've both seen the guys with those. And, hey, he can still play guitar. Did I mention he moved to Providence a few years back? Moved to Providence and makes the commute back here, back home, to work with troubled kids. Kids who might be more than happy to sign away their shins to the man with the toothy smile. I think he's trying to teach them something about that. Brian learned the price of his bones the hard way.
Holy shit...
New England is a garden of spooky shit.
Its an evil land lmno. That is why the puritans decided to make their last stand against the darkness here. And we all know from how many puritans you see walking around who won that war. The darkness is here now unopposed. It is merely biding its time.
Hey- i request a thread split. I got a couple of ideas brewing and the marrowman deserves to be an op anyway.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 20, 2012, 06:58:43 PM
Hey- i request a thread split. I got a couple of ideas brewing and the marrowman deserves to be an op anyway.
Thanks. I was debating between its own thread with a link in this one and just putting it here (which is why, actually, Guinness is spelled wrong in this one, because I corrected it in the other).
No problem! I like the idea of creepy new england stories. Ill be tackling the idea of what happened to the puritans.
I like this thread alot.
Oh, awesome...
I like this thread. I like spooky stories. A lot.
Thanks, all.
Brian (name changed) is real. I e-mailed him this after I wrote it. He'd mentioned something shitty happening so I wanted to make sure he was cautioned against bargaining away more bones.
That's so creepy and awesome, EoC. I love it!
And I can't wait to read what you write, Twid. I've never been to the New England area, but you guys might be on to something here. After all, a significant portion of Stephen King's fortune was made from writing about the horrors within Maine. :lol:
Have you ever wondered what happened to the Puritans?
You know, the Mayflower, funny hats, buckle shoes, Thanksgiving, scarlet letters, stockades, hanging witches? If you ask a historian they'll tell you that they became Congregationalists, with the United Church of Christ as their most direct descendant. But that's the easy answer. The one that people have to believe. Because I'm pretty sure I know what happened to the Puritans.
I have this cousin, Clement, comes from old Plymouth stock on his daddy's side. Clem and I used to be real close. Even managed to go to war together. Clem used to be a real cheery sort. Not like he is now. Back then he was a bit of a chatterbox, and quite the ladies' man. The war didn't change any of that. It did for a lot of fellas, but not ole' Clem.
When we got back from the war, Clem snagged himself a fine young brunette that I had my eyes set on. I didn't hold it against him though. Women were more naturally drawn to him. Eventually he got around to marrying her and had themselves a son. He's a grandpa now, as am I, but he ended up looking the part well before I did.
These days when Clem walks into the room people go colorblind. That's no exaggeration either- everything takes on a grey cast when he's around, and the sun dims just enough for you to notice. Clem keeps mostly to himself these days, and no one really minds that, because mostly we don't much like having him around. Used to be people always wanted him around. Used to be he'd make those colors seem brighter. That all changed when Clem's daddy died. He became real dour after that.
Clem's the church-going sort these days. Doesn't talk much about it, doesn't much like the company, but shows up for service every Sunday. Doesn't like preachers who talk fire and brimstone at all though. We had one of them once. Clem took exception to his sermons. That pastor didn't take long to request transfer to another parish. Don't know what Clem did to spook him, but the pastor would glance at him kinda fearful until his replacement took over.
You want to know what happened to the Puritans?
The Puritans were the sort of folk who saw the struggle between good and evil everywhere. The land of New England was this place of darkness, an evil wilderness where the Devil lived just outside of town. They made their stand against that darkness and did some dark things themselves.
In time those Puritans realized that they lost their stand against the darkness. They had been powerless against it. It was they who had become the darkness. The more they fought it, the more powerful it became. No one was sure anymore whether the darkness came from New England, or if they brought it with them. Only that it had become them. Sometimes a sin becomes so heavy that a sacrifice must be made in order to atone for it, like the Israelites did with that goat for Azazel. All that darkness has to go somewhere.
Back when Clem's daddy, Enoch, was on his deathbed, he asked to speak to Clem alone. Clem was in there for about ten minutes, and in that ten minutes aged about twenty years. His hands went bony, his eyes sank in, his hair turned grey, and he had this look on his face like he was chained up, and nothing would ever free him. He never smiled again. Never. No one knows what old Enoch said in that room- he was dead when Clem came out, and Clem never said anything about it. No one wanted to ask him either. Clem and I are old men now. Clem's not doing so good healthwise. I'd say it's likely he's not long for this world. His son is a cheery sort, a bit of a chatterbox. Has himself a fine wife and a son. But I expect it won't belong before Clem has a ten minute conversation with him.
I think I know pretty well what happened to the Puritans.
Well-done, EOC, Twid!
Very nice, gentlemen. Haunting and melancholy.
Excellent work, guys!
Awesome job, Twid! Remind me never to talk to a New Englander on his deathbed. :lol:
:lulz:
I think I got something. Maybe later today.
I'm looking to make this a fairly long poem and here's the first part:
One cold wint'ry night knocked he at our door,
snow piling high and wind biting our home.
Family huddled by hearth on the floor,
"What manner of guest should at this hour come?"
He stood in the dark, the bluster and chill,
a man, but a man, a strange stranger still.
"Come in you dear creature, come in from this,
sit by our fire, warm yourself to your heart.
You need not suffer February's kiss,
and in the morning once more can you start.
I'm sorry we've little and less to share,
this year has been hard, brought little to bare."
I shivered standing there greeting this man,
and yet he stood still, unbothered at all.
His hair thin wavering gossamer strands,
his smile draped all o'er him like a pall.
"Your need, really, is why I have arrived,"
he spoke like worms crawled around him inside.
"Whatever you offer I'm afraid, no,
I'll not have it please begone from this place."
He said, "But you're hungry and does it show,
your family might starve but for my grace.
My promise that payment is small," he shone.
"But the smallest, sparest, sliver of bone."
"We've nothing for you I've told you, madman,
no meat, no marrow, no bones in this house."
He spoke, "Ah, but sir, you misunderstand.
You all shall eat bread 'til you hitch your plows.
Grant me a bone from your own living form,
and you'll fill your bellies to-morrow morn."
"You devil! You demon! Consort to witch!
I'll not have you haunt my family farm.
Back to your den with your soul black as pitch,
we'll have none of your trickery, your charms.
We'll tighten our belts, we'll ration and live,
and this thing that you ask we'll never give."
Grinning like frost it said only, "Perhaps,"
and to my relief it turned on its way.
Briefly I thought I'd avoided its traps,
until it turned to me once more to say,
"Be it family's health or farm's prosper,
remember the small price of my offer."
Oooh!!!!
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on November 21, 2012, 01:00:23 PM
I think I got something. Maybe later today.
I'm looking forward to it! :)
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 22, 2012, 12:07:14 AM
I'm looking to make this a fairly long poem and here's the first part:
One cold wint'ry night knocked he at our door,
snow piling high and wind biting our home.
Family huddled by hearth on the floor,
"What manner of guest should at this hour come?"
He stood in the dark, the bluster and chill,
a man, but a man, a strange stranger still.
"Come in you dear creature, come in from this,
sit by our fire, warm yourself to your heart.
You need not suffer February's kiss,
and in the morning once more can you start.
I'm sorry we've little and less to share,
this year has been hard, brought little to bare."
I shivered standing there greeting this man,
and yet he stood still, unbothered at all.
His hair thin wavering gossamer strands,
his smile draped all o'er him like a pall.
"Your need, really, is why I have arrived,"
he spoke like worms crawled around him inside.
"Whatever you offer I'm afraid, no,
I'll not have it please begone from this place."
He said, "But you're hungry and does it show,
your family might starve but for my grace.
My promise that payment is small," he shone.
"But the smallest, sparest, sliver of bone."
"We've nothing for you I've told you, madman,
no meat, no marrow, no bones in this house."
He spoke, "Ah, but sir, you misunderstand.
You all shall eat bread 'til you hitch your plows.
Grant me a bone from your own living form,
and you'll fill your bellies to-morrow morn."
"You devil! You demon! Consort to witch!
I'll not have you haunt my family farm.
Back to your den with your soul black as pitch,
we'll have none of your trickery, your charms.
We'll tighten our belts, we'll ration and live,
and this thing that you ask we'll never give."
Grinning like frost it said only, "Perhaps,"
and to my relief it turned on its way.
Briefly I thought I'd avoided its traps,
until it turned to me once more to say,
"Be it family's health or farm's prosper,
remember the small price of my offer."
That's fantastic, EoC! I'm loving the Marrowman. The idea is so creepy.
I swear I thought I'd responded to Twid's piece about four times and I realize I've yet to actually do it.
Twid, that's some serious shit right there. I'd never thought about New England myths being a product of just how evil the whole region seems. It's all the damn forests that used to be here. Even long after being chopped down it's like we still have this pervasive idea of a foreboding wilderness all around.
LMNO, I would fucking love to see what you come up with.
Thanks eoc!
I remember in high school when we read the scarlet letter the teacher made a thing about how the woods represented evil and figured id go with it. Even now popping into the woods near rehoboth and such it gets pretty creepy.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 22, 2012, 02:08:57 AM
Thanks eoc!
I remember in high school when we read the scarlet letter the teacher made a thing about how the woods represented evil and figured id go with it. Even now popping into the woods near rehoboth and such it gets pretty creepy.
Huh...
I find walking in the woods, especially at night, when it's quiet, peaceful and relaxing...
Matter of perspective maybe. I dunno i always found new england to be a fairly dark place. Ireland too but they have different feels to them. Gotta say though where i find new england creepy connemara at night actually scares me.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 22, 2012, 02:18:09 AM
Matter of perspective maybe. I dunno i always found new england to be a fairly dark place. Ireland too but they have different feels to them. Gotta say though where i find new england creepy connemara at night actually scares me.
Background difference, too... Where I grew up, if you got lost in the woods, you were royally fucked if nobody found your ass.
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 22, 2012, 02:05:13 AM
I swear I thought I'd responded to Twid's piece about four times and I realize I've yet to actually do it.
Twid, that's some serious shit right there. I'd never thought about New England myths being a product of just how evil the whole region seems. It's all the damn forests that used to be here. Even long after being chopped down it's like we still have this pervasive idea of a foreboding wilderness all around.
LMNO, I would fucking love to see what you come up with.
Have you ever read "Dogtown"? It's the true story of a sincerely creepy motherfucking place in Massachusetts.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogtown,_Massachusetts
It's much creepier than the Wiki entry would lead you to believe.
Quote from: Luna on November 22, 2012, 02:11:39 AM
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 22, 2012, 02:08:57 AM
Thanks eoc!
I remember in high school when we read the scarlet letter the teacher made a thing about how the woods represented evil and figured id go with it. Even now popping into the woods near rehoboth and such it gets pretty creepy.
Huh...
I find walking in the woods, especially at night, when it's quiet, peaceful and relaxing...
Out here there are some I'm OK with, like Witches Castle, but some that scare the everloving fuck out of me, like Angel's Rest. Or worse, Rocky Butte. That place gives me the screaming willies.
But then for the most part, because of the terrain, there's no "walking in the woods" at night, there's only "falling to your death in the woods".
To tell the truth, all of the buttes give me the jimjams.
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:34:54 AM
Quote from: Luna on November 22, 2012, 02:11:39 AM
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 22, 2012, 02:08:57 AM
Thanks eoc!
I remember in high school when we read the scarlet letter the teacher made a thing about how the woods represented evil and figured id go with it. Even now popping into the woods near rehoboth and such it gets pretty creepy.
Huh...
I find walking in the woods, especially at night, when it's quiet, peaceful and relaxing...
Out here there are some I'm OK with, like Witches Castle, but some that scare the everloving fuck out of me, like Angel's Rest. Or worse, Rocky Butte. That place gives me the screaming willies.
But then for the most part, because of the terrain, there's no "walking in the woods" at night, there's only "falling to your death in the woods".
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridgewater_Triangle
I don't know if Connemara has any supernatural tales that are out of the ordinary for Ireland, so I can't really compare.
All I know is that when I'm over here, I'm not worried about anything.
Over there, I look for the closest piece of iron.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 22, 2012, 07:04:45 AM
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridgewater_Triangle
UFOs, Bigfoot, Thunderbird, spooklights, mutilations, satanic rituals,
and Indian curses? Man that sucks. It sounds like if that area didn't have bad luck they wouldn't have any luck at all. :lol:
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:30:02 AM
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogtown,_Massachusetts
Wow that's creepy.
Also...
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:34:54 AM
there's only "falling to your death in the woods".
I think that's a little more peaceful and relaxed than you want to be. :lol:
Quote from: Sacerdōs Veneris Mortis on November 22, 2012, 07:18:15 AM
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 22, 2012, 07:04:45 AM
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridgewater_Triangle
UFOs, Bigfoot, Thunderbird, spooklights, mutilations, satanic rituals, and Indian curses? Man that sucks. It sounds like if that area didn't have bad luck they wouldn't have any luck at all. :lol:
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:30:02 AM
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogtown,_Massachusetts
Wow that's creepy.
Also...
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:34:54 AM
there's only "falling to your death in the woods".
I think that's a little more peaceful and relaxed than you want to be. :lol:
New England is an evil fucking place. If you doubt that, consider that the Bridgewater Triangle consists of only a portion of
Massachusetts.This is not even covering the rest of Massachusetts (Boston is not in the Triangle), or the other 5 New England states that happen to not be Massachusetts.
Also, Edgar Allen Poe was a Masshole, and HP Lovecraft was a Rhode Islander.
And yeah, Stephen King, Maine, whatever. I imagine his work includes a lot of puns as a result that make me want to punch a particular poster here that I otherwise have little problem with.
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:30:02 AM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 22, 2012, 02:05:13 AM
I swear I thought I'd responded to Twid's piece about four times and I realize I've yet to actually do it.
Twid, that's some serious shit right there. I'd never thought about New England myths being a product of just how evil the whole region seems. It's all the damn forests that used to be here. Even long after being chopped down it's like we still have this pervasive idea of a foreboding wilderness all around.
LMNO, I would fucking love to see what you come up with.
Have you ever read "Dogtown"? It's the true story of a sincerely creepy motherfucking place in Massachusetts.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogtown,_Massachusetts
It's much creepier than the Wiki entry would lead you to believe.
QuoteIt is in an area not particularly suited to agriculture, due to poor and very rocky soil
LOL Twid's hometown (within Boston city limits) (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brook_Farm)
I have the tab up. I may be a little to inebriated to take it in right now, but the North Shore is wicked interesting for that sort of shit too. Bear in mind that Lovecraft set Innsmouth in this area, and that it's in the same direction as Salem.
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:30:02 AM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 22, 2012, 02:05:13 AM
I swear I thought I'd responded to Twid's piece about four times and I realize I've yet to actually do it.
Twid, that's some serious shit right there. I'd never thought about New England myths being a product of just how evil the whole region seems. It's all the damn forests that used to be here. Even long after being chopped down it's like we still have this pervasive idea of a foreboding wilderness all around.
LMNO, I would fucking love to see what you come up with.
Have you ever read "Dogtown"? It's the true story of a sincerely creepy motherfucking place in Massachusetts.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogtown,_Massachusetts
It's much creepier than the Wiki entry would lead you to believe.
I'll have to find that. :) I sense a road trip in the near future.
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:30:02 AM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 22, 2012, 02:05:13 AM
I swear I thought I'd responded to Twid's piece about four times and I realize I've yet to actually do it.
Twid, that's some serious shit right there. I'd never thought about New England myths being a product of just how evil the whole region seems. It's all the damn forests that used to be here. Even long after being chopped down it's like we still have this pervasive idea of a foreboding wilderness all around.
LMNO, I would fucking love to see what you come up with.
Have you ever read "Dogtown"? It's the true story of a sincerely creepy motherfucking place in Massachusetts.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogtown,_Massachusetts
It's much creepier than the Wiki entry would lead you to believe.
Very cool, thanks Nigel!
Quote from: Luna on November 22, 2012, 01:47:39 PM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:30:02 AM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 22, 2012, 02:05:13 AM
I swear I thought I'd responded to Twid's piece about four times and I realize I've yet to actually do it.
Twid, that's some serious shit right there. I'd never thought about New England myths being a product of just how evil the whole region seems. It's all the damn forests that used to be here. Even long after being chopped down it's like we still have this pervasive idea of a foreboding wilderness all around.
LMNO, I would fucking love to see what you come up with.
Have you ever read "Dogtown"? It's the true story of a sincerely creepy motherfucking place in Massachusetts.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogtown,_Massachusetts
It's much creepier than the Wiki entry would lead you to believe.
I'll have to find that. :) I sense a road trip in the near future.
Totally worth a visit! But, I recommend reading the book first.
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 04:57:17 PM
Quote from: Luna on November 22, 2012, 01:47:39 PM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 22, 2012, 06:30:02 AM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 22, 2012, 02:05:13 AM
I swear I thought I'd responded to Twid's piece about four times and I realize I've yet to actually do it.
Twid, that's some serious shit right there. I'd never thought about New England myths being a product of just how evil the whole region seems. It's all the damn forests that used to be here. Even long after being chopped down it's like we still have this pervasive idea of a foreboding wilderness all around.
LMNO, I would fucking love to see what you come up with.
Have you ever read "Dogtown"? It's the true story of a sincerely creepy motherfucking place in Massachusetts.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogtown,_Massachusetts
It's much creepier than the Wiki entry would lead you to believe.
I'll have to find that. :) I sense a road trip in the near future.
Totally worth a visit! But, I recommend reading the book first.
WFT, Amazon? $6 for the paperback, $11.99 for the kindle version? Bite me.
I guess as an obsolete technology books will temporarily be cheaper than files. Up until hipsters rediscover them at least.
So part two, which I now believe will be the last. I think I'm drawing the poem out too far and I don't want to kill the concept.
With rumbles in bellies and eyes resigned,
with all our hopes bounding ahead to Spring.
We weathered through March 'til April so fine,
to fields melted, ground yearning for planting.
And still with each tiny seed that was sewn,
each moment suffering a dread unknown.
I spoke with Lancaster, Ruben, and Smith,
and listened them each their similar tales.
The silence from Ruben spread as a rift,
which bone did he sell to cure his boy's ails.
And poor widow Maynard favored a wrist,
tremblingly held to accept Eucharist.
By June we received no friendship from Sun,
already this not a year of bounty.
Scorched angry soil our labors had won,
no plentiful yield across the county.
His grin was there in each ear of dried corn,
the marrow man from the winter forlorn.
Like that I thought of the sinister deal,
wondered if such was a small price to pay.
I shouted in angry desperate zeal,
"Be under the oak at end of the day!"
In the waning light and fading day's heat,
a monster, a cruel collector I meet.
"Such a pleasant spot to view the sunset,"
said that cold slithery voice from nearby.
"I knew my bargain you would not forget,
though I'll warn you the good price has gone by.
Indeed I am helpful but also proud,
you refused me and that shan't be allowed."
"Then take what you must vile creature and go,
with your taint 'pon this land of my father.
I know it was you caused my family's woe,
before starving lose bones I would rather.
On that shard may you choke may you perish,
may your death be the gift my sons cherish."
I fell and I groaned the pain of it great,
I writhed and was sick and clawed at the ground.
"Damn you as I'm damned with you in my fate,
from my very bones with hatred profound."
He said, "You borrow those bones they are mine,
and I shall have them – I'll see you, in time."
Your poem makes me feel chilly, sir.
It is certainly in keeping with the spirit of the season!
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:23:15 AM
It is certainly in keeping with the spirit of the season!
Which reminds me, I need to work on my third annual PD Holiday poem.
Wow! That's great, EoC! I couldn't wait until you posted the next part of the poem. The idea of the Marrowman is so creepy. And you certainly delivered!
Bump
I got something brewing for Brook Farm.
There's a neighborhood in Boston called West Roxbury. It doesn't border the neighborhood of Roxbury, but that's because Boston annexed Roxbury piecemeal. Jamaica Plain, Roslindale and Hyde Park were all part of West Roxbury at some point, but all were absorbed into Boston at earlier times. Now a fairly suburban section of the city, mostly made up of middle class and upper middle class Irish- and Italian- Americans, it was once all farmland. Like other places in Boston the old pops up here and there, like the Westerly Buryial Ground, where the youngest interred are Civil War veterans, but dates back to the late 17th century.
Back in the early 19th Century, the same Congregationalists that branched out of the Puritan movement started bouncing these ideas around against the ideas of rationalism, sensualism and strangely enough, the Calvinist idea of predestination, and started drawing inspiration from Hinduism and Idealism. This eventually evolved coherently into the Transcendental Movement, which pretty much meant that hippies showed up 130 years late to the party. Transcendentalism was a New Englander philosophy, that lead to well intentioned but perhaps misguided attempts to get back to nature, like Henry David Thoreau building his cabin by Walden Pond in the name of withdrawing from society and becoming self-sufficient, all the while getting his mom to do his laundry whilst snarfing down her apple pie.
Against this backdrop of well intentioned ideas was an attempt in 1840 at creating a utopian socialist community in West Roxbury called Brook Farm. The idea behind Brook Farm was simple, everyone balanced out labor with leisure, so that everyone contributed to the commune. People could choose whatever labor they liked best, and all were given equal pay—including the women. Indeed, the well meaning George Ripley hoped that it would serve as an example to the rest of the world and eventually transform society, as is typical of a utopian. And typical of a utopian project, it was doomed.
Ripley became increasingly interested in the ideas of Charles Fourier, which revolved around creating specific structures, as well as assigning organized roles for the members of a commune. Ripley came up with a new constitution for Brook Farm in 1844, and the Brook Farmers set themselves to the task of creating this ideal Fourier community called a Phalanx, and the erection of their Phalanstery. One member went so far as to toast Fourier as the Second Coming of Christ. Interestingly, Brook Farm took over two newsletters associated with their ideas- The Phalanx and The Social Reformer, and combined them into one. Renaming the combined publication turned out to be a difficult task, with one member going so far as throwing out a series of possible names, two of which were Beelzebub and The Devil. Ultimately, one of his suggestions, The Harbinger, was chosen. It was, around this time, that some of the Brook Farmers began to leave the community.
After the restructuring, Brook Farm went into rapid decline. Upon his visit, Orestes Brownson stated, "The atmosphere of the place is horrible." He later renounced Transcendentalism, and became a Catholic, and a rather zealous one at that. He quite earnestly attacked Transcendentalism, and warned his former colleagues that they risked eternal damnation. In 1845, there was an outbreak of smallpox, but interestingly, no one died from it. Construction on the Phalanstery continued at a steady pace until it was completely destroyed by fire in 1846. A faulty chimney was blamed. It was also in 1846 that Brownson convinced Sophia Ripley, George's wife, to convert to Catholicism, eventually leading her to becoming a nun. One Brook Farmer complained, "We are beginning to see wooden crosses around and pictures of saints... and I suspect that rosaries are rattling under aprons." One must wonder what Brownson and Sophia Ripley saw to spook them so bad.
Posting here cause the sticky on the notify is suspect, and I'm gonna make darn sure to find this thread again. Intoxicatingly oracular.
Quote from: Ållnephew Tvýðleþøn on May 21, 2014, 04:48:11 PM
There's a neighborhood in Boston called West Roxbury. It doesn't border the neighborhood of Roxbury, but that's because Boston annexed Roxbury piecemeal. Jamaica Plain, Roslindale and Hyde Park were all part of West Roxbury at some point, but all were absorbed into Boston at earlier times. Now a fairly suburban section of the city, mostly made up of middle class and upper middle class Irish- and Italian- Americans, it was once all farmland. Like other places in Boston the old pops up here and there, like the Westerly Buryial Ground, where the youngest interred are Civil War veterans, but dates back to the late 17th century.
Back in the early 19th Century, the same Congregationalists that branched out of the Puritan movement started bouncing these ideas around against the ideas of rationalism, sensualism and strangely enough, the Calvinist idea of predestination, and started drawing inspiration from Hinduism and Idealism. This eventually evolved coherently into the Transcendental Movement, which pretty much meant that hippies showed up 130 years late to the party. Transcendentalism was a New Englander philosophy, that lead to well intentioned but perhaps misguided attempts to get back to nature, like Henry David Thoreau building his cabin by Walden Pond in the name of withdrawing from society and becoming self-sufficient, all the while getting his mom to do his laundry whilst snarfing down her apple pie.
Against this backdrop of well intentioned ideas was an attempt in 1840 at creating a utopian socialist community in West Roxbury called Brook Farm. The idea behind Brook Farm was simple, everyone balanced out labor with leisure, so that everyone contributed to the commune. People could choose whatever labor they liked best, and all were given equal pay—including the women. Indeed, the well meaning George Ripley hoped that it would serve as an example to the rest of the world and eventually transform society, as is typical of a utopian. And typical of a utopian project, it was doomed.
Ripley became increasingly interested in the ideas of Charles Fourier, which revolved around creating specific structures, as well as assigning organized roles for the members of a commune. Ripley came up with a new constitution for Brook Farm in 1844, and the Brook Farmers set themselves to the task of creating this ideal Fourier community called a Phalanx, and the erection of their Phalanstery. One member went so far as to toast Fourier as the Second Coming of Christ. Interestingly, Brook Farm took over two newsletters associated with their ideas- The Phalanx and The Social Reformer, and combined them into one. Renaming the combined publication turned out to be a difficult task, with one member going so far as throwing out a series of possible names, two of which were Beelzebub and The Devil. Ultimately, one of his suggestions, The Harbinger, was chosen. It was, around this time, that some of the Brook Farmers began to leave the community.
After the restructuring, Brook Farm went into rapid decline. Upon his visit, Orestes Brownson stated, "The atmosphere of the place is horrible." He later renounced Transcendentalism, and became a Catholic, and a rather zealous one at that. He quite earnestly attacked Transcendentalism, and warned his former colleagues that they risked eternal damnation. In 1845, there was an outbreak of smallpox, but interestingly, no one died from it. Construction on the Phalanstery continued at a steady pace until it was completely destroyed by fire in 1846. A faulty chimney was blamed. It was also in 1846 that Brownson convinced Sophia Ripley, George's wife, to convert to Catholicism, eventually leading her to becoming a nun. One Brook Farmer complained, "We are beginning to see wooden crosses around and pictures of saints... and I suspect that rosaries are rattling under aprons." One must wonder what Brownson and Sophia Ripley saw to spook them so bad.
I felt iffy about it too. I grew up in West Roxbury, and wanted to include it in this, but it's a bit tricky on account of West Roxbury.
I probably could do better if I dig deeper.
Interesting. I only had time to skim that the first time. The architecture must have been solid because I was unaware of how I may have mistakenly posted in your drawing thread to have been lead back here again :)
On a second meta level, I also feel as though you could dig deeper round that... Thing is the collateral. (beyond the ha-ha's). I feel as though what one may come up with will damage those in need more than the parties primarily responsible, to whom they are per force indentured It's like a trap. If you dig, you end up displacing the beholden so that the real perps can move in. I think that's what they want and it explains all veils.
But I don't know. It also seems like it could just be a con?