Wordy Wednesday - Dreary

We all have our off days. Days where we are grumpy and dragging ourselves through the motions of life. Sometimes we roll out of bed in a bleak and dismal mood and others it creeps in throughout the day until all we want to do is pull the covers over our head and wait for the next day. Have you ever found the peacefulness in disenchantment? Seen the soothing side of sadness? Fallen in love with the forlorn?

It's there, if you look. The glimmer in gloom. Today we celebrate words, but why not embrace emotions as well.

The Word: Dreary

Dull. Dark. And Dismal. The three 'D's.

I find comfort in the fog, in the ominous clouds rolling in to blanket the sky, and the unrelenting rain pounding down on us, trying so desperately to wash our sins away. When I think of the word dreary, it reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe and Edward Gorey, of Tim Burton and Lenore, of the dark and macabre.

Dreary is the smell of the forest after rainfall. The palette of greys throughout the month of October. Not wanting to get out of bed. Sighing wearily. Listening to Nick Cave and Tom Waits. Drinking tea. Reading H.P Lovecraft and Clive Barker. Watching Life Is Beautiful and American Beauty. Falling in love with dilapidated buildings. Walking barefoot in the mud. Not wearing a hood in the rain. Smiling at the sound of thunder. And letting the tears fall without worrying about what they mean.

Dreary is finding the beauty in the darkness.

Master of Macabre

Today is Edgar Allan Poe's birthday. As some of you may know, I believe in celebrating births, especially of creatures so near and dear to my heart.

This writer of the weird. Maker of mystery. Master of the Macabre. Well, he's a special sort of somebody.

In a world where there are two sorts of people, those trying to fit in and those trying to stand out, we often forget the forefathers of going against the grain. Born in 1809, one must admit, this gentleman is truly one of a kind. Though his work is saturated with loss, forlorn hearts, and a darkness not even a floodlight could dissipate, he himself is deeply loved by many. And, despite the attempts of his rival Rufus Wilmot Griswold who worked diligently to ruin Poe's reputation after he died, Edgar remains one of the most shared and celebrated poets of all time.  

Even his signature is a delight:

I could certainly detail out his life here. His stint in the military. His marriage to thirteen year old Virginia, who happened to be his cousin. His interest in cryptography. But you can read all about it in several books. Here, today, I will simply say, he is by far one of my most favourite people to have ever roamed this earth.

Aren't we lucky to be able to indulge in his legacy of poems and stories?

There is beauty in the darkness. Beauty in the oddities. A simple beauty in the macabre. The morbid. The grim. The ghastly.

And those who can show you that beauty, like Poe, are truly artists. Wielders of the Weird. Servants of the Strange.

They inspire me.