When Lovecraft Met Fandom - BDE Announcement
Sunday, July 17th, 2011 08:05 pmWest of Arkham, the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut. There are dark narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where thin brooklets trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight. On the gentle slopes there are farms, ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding eternally over old New England secrets in the lee of great ledges; but these are all vacant now, the wide chimneys crumbling and the shingled sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrel roofs.
The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there. French-Canadians have tried it, Italians have tried it, and the Poles have come and departed. It is not because of anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined. The place is not good for imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at night.
There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys, that ran straight where the blasted heath was; but people have ceased to use it and a new road was lain curving far toward the south. Traces of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a returning wilderness, even after half the hollows were flooded for the new reservoir.
Now the dark woods have been cut down and the blasted heath slumbers far below blue waters whose surface mirrors the sky and ripples in the sun. The secrets of the strange days are one with the deep's secrets; one with the hidden lore of old ocean, and all the mystery of primal earth.
But beneath the waters, what was, remains -- and no secret stays untold forever.
( Something BDE this way comes... )
The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there. French-Canadians have tried it, Italians have tried it, and the Poles have come and departed. It is not because of anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined. The place is not good for imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at night.
There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys, that ran straight where the blasted heath was; but people have ceased to use it and a new road was lain curving far toward the south. Traces of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a returning wilderness, even after half the hollows were flooded for the new reservoir.
Now the dark woods have been cut down and the blasted heath slumbers far below blue waters whose surface mirrors the sky and ripples in the sun. The secrets of the strange days are one with the deep's secrets; one with the hidden lore of old ocean, and all the mystery of primal earth.
But beneath the waters, what was, remains -- and no secret stays untold forever.
( Something BDE this way comes... )