Dear Reader,
I just need a quick moment of your time. Since you’re here, I assume you would appreciate this insight into my artistry. I promise it’ll be worth it. Thanks in advance.
If you haven’t noticed, I am deliberate in my word choice. Sometimes I describe my narrative work as “cosmic horror”. Confide for instance, that film I’ve been chipping away at for the last three years now, will be a cosmic horror film. But Echo, that piece I just published, is specifically Lovecraftian. And here is where I have a confession to make: The concept you know as “Lovecraftian” is Black. Just like jazz and rap and rock and soul. And to get more specific about it - I created it.
It took a while to figure that out, even though some part of me always knew somehow. I realize now I was waiting for my timeline to catch up to his, to reach the moment where our timelines finally crossed. I’m not sure what his method was to traverse time, space, and the known reaches of our measurable mind. For me, I had to dive deep to touch that golden river of shared consciousness. I had to be both too low and too high for too long; it’s the kind of place you can only reach after staring at the void for so long that you don’t bother to blink anymore. It is the direct result of living this Black American Woman absurdist existence. I have no idea how Howard’s punk ass could have reached such a portal of truth. I assume there is some inverse access point only cowardly, protected, invulnerable white men like him can reach.
Regardless, he saw me that day I stepped through the river and saw the portal to this nothing land. This Beyond is a chaos pit of screams and cackles; a dim iridescent sky that stretches over a bright, breathing landscape. The hounds of Tindalos barked and snared all around us. Cthulhu, Azathoth, all your favorites were there. And so was Howard’s pasty nervous ass.
An artist rendering of the Hound of Tindalos by Manzanedo (image is linked back to the artist)
Now I’m not trying to suggest I was some badass in the face of such elder gods and unknowables creatures. But when the murder of an innocent woman in her sleep can become a national debate, there really isn’t anything left for such monstrous absurdities to frighten in me.
If anything, I was kinda bored.
So there he was, in his time peaking through his side of his portal and there I was, in my time peaking through mine. I saw him before he saw me (to be fair, there was A LOT to look at) and suddenly knew exactly what was coming next. I mean I was standing there a little bored, a little amused, and a little high, Black skinned with large white vitiligo patches on my legs and arms, with big titties, big glasses, and big bright pink textured hair.
I scared him more than any other creature he saw that day.
And look, y’all know me. All his fear did was make me laugh. Hard. The kind of bellowing, cackling, free sound that drips with cynicism and strength. And I can’t even lie. His impotent fear kinda turned me on. Which only made me laugh harder.
I have no idea how long we were there in this pocket dimension. The echoes of my laughter and his screams were already bouncing around in this world before we had arrived and I’m sure they continue to echo there right now. I know I left first. I already knew what was up by the time I locked eyes with him. This place beyond the portal was The Source where he found all his inspiration for all his eventual works. And in this timeless, wordless, space of surreal existence he saw me, free and Black and laughing at him from his future. Out of all the monstrous things he saw that day, he hated me the most. His screams dripped with the kind of rage that ties human beings to the back of pickup trucks. And he could do nothing but lock eyes and scream about it.
So you see, he was writing about me this whole time. Therefore, the term “lovecraftian” is actually mine. And now that I have this confirmation, I intend to use it as Blackily as possible, the ultimate checkmate. For as long as I live, I will do everything in my power to reclaim this word. I will appropriate it like so much abandoned slang. He merely adopted the term but I? I was born into it, molded by it. Those barking hounds are mine and they will sit at my feet if I will them to.
Howie is a Christopher Columbus of the surreal at best. Let’s leave such exploration of the Beyond to the professionals and originators.
Thanks for reading,
Jasmine A. Golphin
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