journal — yule
On monsters, faith, and seizures.
Dear reader,
It’s dark outside. I feel a little dark inside, too — cornered for quite some time in places I don’t want to be. Maintaining patience and sanity within all that has exhausted the energy I need to get out.
But the longest night of the year has come with winter solstice. Time passes, and light — light that smothers, and cannot be smothered by, darkness — comes. Good things will undoubtedly come, too. Where Samhain some weeks ago was, for me, a time for clearing and the death of things, Yule is time for rebirth. While I’m behind on my clearing still, I’ll spend a little time in the morning reflecting on what I want to do with the next handful of weeks — primarily, I intend to be kinder to myself, and to open new spaces for the light to come through.
In that vein, I’ve moulded this letter into something more forgiving, I hope for both reading & writing: this short hello, three developed thoughts (or: that), a lump of other bits I’ve enjoyed (or: &), then whatever I’ve worked on myself this past season (or: this).
Keep warm,
Daniel
that
one — Frankenstein, the monster.
Mary Shelley was eighteen when she wrote the story of Victor Frankenstein, a visionary young student who discovers the secret to creating life — and becomes immediately horrified once having exercised the knowledge. Inspired by ghosts and gothic literature of the early 1800s, it was meant as a warning of the threats to humanity posed by technological progress.
This was my first time reading the story.
I thought about how sometimes we breathe life into our own monsters.
More so, I thought how sometimes they weren’t monsters at all — but it’s our neglect & cruelty that turns what we create into things that to haunt & destroy us, and those around us, including the absence of self-compassion and the presence of heavy doses of self-criticism. The true monstrosity in Frankenstein was not what was created, but how Victor treated the ‘filthy demon’ he’d himself created.
Here then I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season and still more from the barbarity of man.
two — I know what I saw.
“I think it’s one of the most isolating factors of cases that are potentially paranormal, that people feel unable to talk to other people about [their experience] because they feel their mental health or character will be questioned. It leads to people feeling gaslit, this idea that they’re having these experiences, then being told by the people they’re closest to that they’re wrong.”
It’s not that I’d recommend Uncanny as such. Rarely are its podcast series, book, or television series actually scary — much like Lore, with its relatively thin stories presented as though they were heavy with substance, it’s mainly just very well-produced background noise for people who like spooky things. And that’s fine.
Here’s how it generally works. The haunted present their story. Team Believer (often spearheaded by Evelyn Hollow, as quoted above from Uncanny: S3 E6) offer their explanation — ghosts & aliens & paranormal mischief — in contrast with Team Skeptic, who mostly (but not always) have an explanation related to science of the mind or the event’s surroundings. Simple enough format. What I find touching, though, is what I think keeps me listening.
The experience of the ‘haunted’ person is never questioned.
Many of us go to therapy to give our account of what happened, be heard, and be believed. We can work around the rest, but: here is what happened, and that’s that. Our explanation of why or how certain events happened may, of course, be wrong. The event itself, though? It happened. Let’s start from there.
I thought of the stories I have in my life that I stopped telling people because I was told by one person or more that I must have imagined it, or it can’t have been like that — I was too young or too unwell at the time to know what happened. My teacher threatening me with a shotgun in a closet when I was at infants school because I could never remember which way round my capital D went. That I saw a woman floating outside my first floor window just before I was a teenager. That the son of my mum’s best friend was a bully at school. That my first ever girlfriend pretended to be pregnant so I wouldn’t break up with her. That I hate who I used to be and am disappointed in who I am now.
I’ve started therapy not to find out why I’m wrong, but to see how we got here.
three — I hear you. I see you.
You try to clear your nose, once twice thrice, shake your head. You panic. You try again. You fall to the ground and your eyes roll back. Your spine contorts as you fall to the ground, a short way, and your legs try to run like you can get away from the short circuit in your head. You drool over yourself. Your eyes go blind and your ears deafen and, you are gone, for you and me, and we are both terrified. I throw my hand and / or arm and / or leg between your body and the surfaces of the room you’re throwing yourself against. I let your seizure take over as it needs to, and you scratch and bite and I bleed. You wake. You cry, I know, for me. I sit next to you waiting for your senses to come back, telling you I’m right here, everything else will wait. You cling to me for a while, scared of the absence. More seizures come. Sometimes an hour later, maybe the next day. You scratch scratch scratch until your eyes weep and ears bleed. Seizures from stress and stress from itching but itching from where. What’s doing this to you? I shout at the food producers then apologise, I’m scared but it’s not them. Steroids stop you itching, which stop seizures, and dots align but don’t show themselves. I pay £60 I don’t have to go to the vet. I pay it again, again, again. I borrow a carpet cleaner. I paint the house with mould resistant paint. I change detergent. I change deodorant. I buy an air filter. You seize again. It’s not enough. I’m not doing enough. I’m not enough for you. You seize again. I don’t know what to do and you lay down on your spot, my chest, and look at me to help.
Forehead to forehead, eyes closed, I repeat:
I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you. I hear you. I see you.
I poke your nose with mine and it’s dry. I lick my thumb and help it out a little. We calm down together. You sleep on me and I will not move.
I apologise. I promise I’ll work it out soon.
&
Here are some other notes from the season I’d like to remember.
hearing someone refer to ‘biological & logical families’. the etymology of religion being Middle English (originally in the sense ‘life under monastic vows’): from Old French, or from Latin religio(n- ) ‘obligation, bond, reverence’, perhaps based on Latin religare ‘to bind’ — thinking about what customs I would like to bind myself too as my religion. Werner Herzog was once shot while during an interview with Mark Kermode — and continued about his day. finding Rough Trade’s Albums of the Year 2023 and, so far, thoroughly enjoying the pixelated sunrise that is Follow the Cyborg (and its remixes) from Miss Grit. someone at work suggesting I consider the job as training for the thing I want to be doing, rather than it being the thing itself. everything about The Bear — Season Two. receiving my first bottle of Ffern’s seasonal perfume: Winter 24, the scent of a rose in snow.
this
Can I say I’ve made creative headway this year, which, honestly, is what I want to shout about and promote and celebrate here? No. Though, in a brief moment of clarity, it occurred to me I got through it — that has been more than enough.
My goal remains to write a short story. Beneath that is to move home, to somewhere there is room to shut a door and have peace while I write.
Daniel Kelly is a writer based in Somerset.