I’m a deeply disturbed person. I don’t think any of my close friends would disagree. In fact, even those who only know me incidentally will tell you that, yes, officer, that is the man who punched my cat and took an unhealthy interest in the cancer patient.
I tend to think about things. Not the state of the world, the morality of people’s actions, the implications of certain political standpoints, etc. Nope, I tend to try and intellectualise stuff that doesn’t matter – how are the actions of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles juxtaposed by the philosophy the espouse; what does it really mean to be a superior being; what are the implicit philosophies of vampires?
This lets me segue into my topic today.
I love the undead.
No, let me state that more emphatically.
I really love the undead.
On a scale of one to ten, undead occupy the ‘special register’ end of the spectrum for me.
I spend days considering the implications of the undead; why they have such cultural importance, who they are supposed to represent. That, and things like ‘ooh, spooky skeletons go arrgh!’
So, what do these ruminations say about me?
When I think of the undead, I tend to picture enormous hordes of brown and grey bone, skeletal fingers clutching rusted swords and mud dripping shields, all shackled to the mind of the necromantic loci of power.
Perhaps I just want to have a shit load of emotionless and subservient slaves?
At the same time, I love monsters, and undead are some of the greatest monsters around. They fill out every stereotype of a villain, right the way through from moustache twirling loon to tragic anti-hero.
The image of a violated and humbled individual, degraded and broken, shackled by the power of undeath, now that’s hawt. I mean cool.
So, I’m a deeply unhappy person who finds contemplating a perversion of a healthy, happy life more palatable than living one? That and I have a serial killer’s innate fascination with viscera and horror.
I’m open to the idea that my interests are actually all part of my Final Boss portfolio, but the nagging question of why still leaves me bewildered. I’ve yet to hit that point where I can say, ‘ah, yes, that’s the crux of it’.
Perhaps it’s because the dead don’t have emotions, and those that do tend to have them warped in such a way as to make them unrecognisable.
Maybe that’s it; the extremes. The blank, robotic skeletons; the wights who’s memories and emotions rage deep within, unexpressed but potent and animating; the nihilism and detached cruelty of the vampires. That’s why I can’t choose which variety I like the best; I love them as a race, a culture and creed, along with all their contradictions and oddities.
I had a chat with my buddy about this and we came to a pretty good conclusion, but I’ll be blowed if i can find the chat logs. Ah well, more bed time thinking for me, I guess.