Vampires, Clowns, and Zombies Need Not Apply (Squaresville, Daddy-o)
“Jablonski’s fiction could be called existential horror, where you experience the primal strangeness of all things — especially you. … Consistently unnerving!” Cudahy Post
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Everyday life is more terrifying than monsters or ghosts. A narcotic called Routine numbs you from its primordial strangeness. The stories in Some Call It Trypophobia peel away the callus of familiarity, revealing the world in all its raw existential horror.
Read why Jablonski quit mountain climbing. Some events never recede on the horizon of Time. Dismissing them as the past is wishful thinking. That they occurred before other things is a trivial property, incidental and irrelevant to the sovereignty they wield. They say writing about it helps. They’re wrong. “Journal Therapy” made it worse.
Day One: The clouds expand and diminish and the sky sheds a grimy exoskeleton to reveal an orange heart pulsing within a vast creature of which you are a mere cell. The sun pools on the snow like orange juice. The sun, what is it?
In all your meanderings and voyages you’ve never stopped and gawked at the bone-chilling peculiarity of this. Is the existence of Existence humdrum and self-explanatory or do these questions open empty chambers no free samples from Dr. Schlotski can fill? And you, what are you, and where? That mysterious theater behind your eyes and between your ears, what perpetuates its dynamism?
In a world where no consensus exists on its creation, who can say with certainty that guzzling bourbon in a tent is not the greatest accomplishment in life? Return to your kingdom. Mount Silenus will wait.
A Novel of Vengeance, Honor & Bobbleheads
If a hierarchy governs their placement it eludes codification. No obvious criterion separates the bobbleheads on the upper shelves from those below, certainly none based on contributions to civilization. Why is the Terminator next to the Incredible Hulk? What twisted taxonomy consigns Simon and Garfunkel to different shelves?
Look closer. Patterns emerge and vanish, icebergs of data drifting in an ocean of static, foiling assumptions and postulates. Is chaos a type of order or is order a subvariety of chaos? Are they antipodes or kin? If nothing is random then chaos is shorthand for ignorance. Careful. Some people break codes. Some codes break people. The line is slight and you won’t know you’ve crossed it. Others will.
Perhaps the difficulty involved in their acquisition is key. The bobbleheads easiest to obtain reside in the center. The more rarefied spread out in a spiral pattern. Regrettably these subjective elements necessitate the decryption of a medium even more convoluted. To account for a collection we must first understand its collector, forcing us to explain the enigmatic by means of the incomprehensible. The Sweetness of Honey
Petronius Jablonski 