Just a few short weeks ago, I had returned to my old stomping ground – my fave con! Weekend of Hell in Oberhausen – after years, centuries, eons. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this horror paradise until I saw the inside of the Turbinenhalle again, a river of people in masks and costumes flowing through. Certainly one of the best editions yet, with some of my absolute favourite actors and actresses, plenty of old acquaintances, and, most importantly, daywalking with my best friend whom I hadn’t seen in, again, years.
A month later, and it’s clear that this weekend has changed something in me… profoundly. I’m still mapping the unknown landscape that has opened itself up in front of me, but one thing has become clear: I yearn for this realm. I missed it, and I missed myself in a way. A permanent change of scenery also means a rearrangement of the elements inside, and it wasn’t until I was at Weekend of Hell that I became aware of just how much I need to retain of myself to still be me. From horror and general weirdness to eccentricity and that absurd highlander stubborness and defiance of the Krajina people. Revelations and hitherto hidden, dormant truths are my constant companions now. Melancholy follows me, inspiration is right behind, and I write again. What do I write, you ask? Only a maestro of the arts could ever be privy to it. Gratification delayed until eternity. My verses will be known in the hellafter…
Some visual impressions & mementos from WoH that I will bring to the grave with me…
