Lost in Halloweenland

I'm pretty sure there's a werewolf on the top floor of my apartment.

When I stepped into the building last Sunday I heard an unnatural baying coming from upstairs. It could just be that the new neighbors have an especially large and terrifying sounding dog, but with a full moon last Friday and Halloween at the end of the month, I decided to play it safe and buy a case of silver bullets on eBay. I got them in the mail today and have since fashioned a casing for them which I wear like a sash underneath my sport coat. It's a reassuring feeling, if a bit cumbersome.

Aside from this incident, I'm not sure I'm really feeling Halloween this year. Things seem scary enough as it is. Just last weekend there were three shootings within a mile of my place. And there's a lot of other things to worry about as well: Strange people roaming the streets at night, yelling obscenities at unseen (imaginary?) companions. People driving their cars like idiots. Past-due bill notices. Werewolves in my apartment.

Maybe that's why most adults don't get into Halloween as much as their kids. They've come to realize that real life is much scarier than any Halloween-themed folk tale.

On the other hand, Halloween imagery can be a powerful throwback to childhood, which is exactly what today's post is all about. In September 2001, while living in a former Nervenklinik converted into student apartments in Bad Godesberg, Germany, I experienced what was probably the most intense fever of my life. I handled it the way I handle most crises -- by writing my way through it. The result was a curiously childish foray into my childhood associations with the holiday. I whittled the largely incoherent writing into a ballad called "The Cabin of Eternal Halloween," which you can read here.

Apologies to those of you who have seen this before, but even you might find something new in the director's commentary following the poem. Thanks for reading, and Happy Devil's Night.