“You are the least sunny person I have ever known.”
-a co-worker’s observation to me, circa 1995
Oh yeah, I’m dark. Less so now, but in extreme measures during my younger, drinking days when my gloom could escalate before blowing up into gargantuan explosions of bleakness.
The problem with my a lifelong proclivity for the Dark is that it has become so natural that I lose sight of the fact that most people, lacking such sensibilities, are very affected by this. My tendency to respond with gallows humor is off-putting and I suspect most normal people shirk away timidly. If you have a bleak sense of humor, you best be expressing it in the right community if it’s appreciation you’re aiming for. Stay away from normies with that all that depressing shit. On this blog, I’ve parceled out that zone with my gallows humor category but dark humor is such an integral part of my personality that it seeps everywhere, throughout all streams of my expression, here and elsewhere.
My obsession with the dark side is consuming and my worldview is so colored by it that I know no other way. I wonder if it’s a Mexican thing. I’ve always felt that Mexican culture tends toward the dark and nihilistic. That grand Aztec tradition of death has left its mark on Mexican culture and is embodied in some of the slasher movie motifs of today’s violent drug cartels.
Mexicans love a good laugh, but don’t ever think that we stop laughing if things turn bleak; we just laugh at the bleak, a rather Mexican idiosyncrasy.
Rather than fight my bleakness, I have learned to express dark humor in less biting or obnoxious doses. “Between the lines,” so to speak. It’s the only way for me to express my nature in the mainstream world.
Occasionally something happens which is like “dark crack” for me; an incident so horribly and darkly wicked-ironic that it’s hard for me to contain myself. The doomed ribbon of the events are too horrid to ignore and too tragic to not derive psychopathic amusement.
I find that I avert embarrassing myself by writing something tepid like this.
Pretty innocuous contribution by yours truly in response to this deadly chain of events that resulted in the death of John Clabburn, an Australian TV director who brought us The Wiggles, among other things.
Clabburn was trimming hedges with a new power saw at his home when he cut his hand. He fell ten feet from his ladder and was soon discovered by his wife. He had just bought the chain saw that day.
His death was attributed to cardiac arrest from the blood loss from his slashed hand.
“When I went out to the back garden, he was crawling on the ground on his stomach, said Clabburn’s wife, Melissa, speaking to the Daily Telegraph. “There was so much blood, he was clutching his torso.
“I kept getting towels to stem the flow, but the blood wouldn’t stop.”
Personally, I am really leery of ladders. Or more specifically, ladders above their 3rd or 4th rungs. Beyond that, you will not find me, especially with a running power saw. For chrissakes.
Melissa Clabburn painted a strangely Lynchian scene where her husband’s death gruesomely unfolded against the idyllic stage of a lush landscape. Typically, the punchline is subtle and possesses your discomfort.
“All he said was, ‘Call an ambulance now,’” she said. “One minute we were admiring how straight the hedge was looking and what a great job he had done — he was so meticulous, he had a great eye for detail — the next, John was in an ambulance. He kept it together for me, but I know he would have been in incredible pain.”
The “pun quotient” is off the charts, so I shall just shut up.
Perhaps people should be more meticulous about self-preservation than stupid hedges.