Monday, October 12, 2026

Zombiethon (1986): When Finding a Zombie Movie Was Half the Fun

 

Zombiethon (1986): When Finding a Zombie Movie Was Half the Fun

Halloween Countdown to Two Million — Day 1

By Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Sometime around 1993, when I was attending Rockford College in Rockford, Illinois, there was a video rental store near campus that I remember as Cinema Centre Video. I believe it was on or near Morsay Drive, although thirty-three years later I'm not going to swear to the precise location. What I remember considerably better is the experience of going there, looking through the horror section, and occasionally finding something I had never seen before.

One of those discoveries was a movie called Zombiethon.

Zombiethon 1986

Zombiethon 1986

To appreciate why this mattered, you have to understand that being a zombie movie enthusiast in 1993 was considerably different from being one today. There was no The Walking Dead on AMC. No enormous zombie merchandising industry. No endless streaming catalogues full of films about the living dead. The zombie apocalypse had not yet become a familiar setting for television dramas, video games, comic books, and practically every other form of entertainment.

In fact, people thought it was a little strange that I liked zombie movies so much. They were genuinely curious about what I saw in them. I would try to explain the social commentary in George Romero's films, the consumerism in Dawn of the Dead, the collapse of institutions, the way the living dead represented something uncomfortably familiar about human behavior. Usually, somewhere during this explanation, I could see their eyes beginning to glaze over.

The essential observation about zombies was simple enough: They are us, that's all.

Human appetite stripped of reflection. Creatures moving through the world consuming things without much understanding of why they want them. They have desires but little comprehension of those desires. They are endlessly hungry and never satisfied.

People didn't particularly enjoy hearing that interpretation. In fact, most of them didn't really hear it. They tuned it out.

But Romero understood something important. The zombies weren't necessarily the most frightening things in his movies. The surviving humans, with their territorial disputes, greed, violence, and inability to cooperate, were often considerably worse. The living dead simply made the underlying problem impossible to ignore.

By 1993, I had already been fascinated with the genre for years. But finding new zombie movies wasn't easy.

Every reasonably well-stocked video store had the classics. Night of the Living Dead. Dawn of the Dead. Lucio Fulci's Zombie. Maybe Day of the Dead and a few other familiar titles. But each store might have one or two oddities that nobody else carried. Some obscure Italian production. A cheaply dubbed European horror film. Something with a lurid cover promising unspeakable atrocities that the movie itself could barely afford to deliver.

And occasionally you found something like Zombiethon.

Before the internet, you couldn't simply type the title of a movie into a search engine and locate seventeen places to watch it. If the local video store didn't have it, there wasn't always a practical way to see it. You might encounter a title in a horror magazine, hear someone mention it, or stare at a photograph in a book for years before actually finding a copy.

So the video store became a kind of treasure hunt.

Friday night was the expedition. Get some snacks, pick up some beverages, wander through the aisles, and bring home five or six movies hoping that at least a couple of them would be entertaining. This was a perfectly respectable weekend for a college student. That and coursework, naturally.

There was something wonderful about the uncertainty. You didn't know what you were going to find, and sometimes you didn't even know what you were looking for until you saw the box.

Zombiethon was exactly the sort of movie that rewarded this peculiar method of exploration.

Released in 1986 and directed by Ken Dixon, Zombiethon wasn't really a conventional zombie movie at all. It was a compilation of scenes from other horror films, packaged as a feature-length celebration of the living dead. The project came from the world of Charles Band's Wizard Video, a company that understood the importance of an outrageous title and an even more outrageous VHS box.

The concept was wonderfully economical. Take footage from a collection of existing horror movies, film some new connecting sequences, and sell the resulting compilation as another movie. It was simultaneously entertainment, advertising, and a way to get additional mileage out of films already in the distributor's catalogue.

And somehow, for someone like me, that made perfect sense.

The framing story involves women fleeing assorted monsters and finding themselves inside Los Angeles's El Rey Theatre, where the audience is composed largely of zombies. The undead have apparently decided that the best way to spend an evening is to sit in a movie theater watching other undead creatures terrorize the living.

I have always appreciated this premise. Even after death, people still want to go to the movies.

The featured attractions include substantial excerpts from Fulci's Zombie (1979), Jean Rollin's Zombie Lake (1981), and Jess Franco's Oasis of the Zombies (1982). There are also selections from The Invisible Dead, A Virgin Among the Living Dead, Fear, and Ted V. Mikels's The Astro-Zombies.

If that sounds like a wildly uneven program, it is.

Fulci's Zombie is a genuinely memorable horror film, full of decaying tropical atmosphere, gruesome special effects, and some of the most notorious sequences in Italian horror cinema. Zombiethon includes the famous underwater encounter between a zombie and a shark, as well as the unforgettable scene involving a wooden splinter and a human eyeball.

These are not scenes anyone who has watched them is likely to forget.

Zombie Lake, on the other hand, concerns Nazi zombies emerging from a lake, frequently painted an alarming shade of green. The movie is notorious for its threadbare production and liberal use of nudity. It isn't exactly Citizen Kane, although I suppose Citizen Kane would have been improved considerably by the sudden appearance of several green Nazi zombies.

Oasis of the Zombies offers another variation on the Nazi undead, this time in a desert setting. Its combination of wartime treasure, shambling corpses, and bargain-basement production values is representative of the sort of European exploitation cinema that circulated through American video stores during the 1980s.

And then there's The Astro-Zombies, a 1968 Ted V. Mikels production involving artificial killers and mad science, which stretches the definition of a zombie movie considerably. Other selections are similarly loose in their interpretation of the genre. Evidently, the producers were less interested in establishing a rigorous taxonomy of the living dead than in assembling as much blood, nudity, and general weirdness as possible.

Which, under the circumstances, was probably the correct commercial decision.

The new material connecting the excerpts is just as peculiar as the films themselves. Women wander through strange locations, encounter monsters, and eventually make their way to the theater. At one point, a zombie projectionist has trouble operating the equipment. The undead audience becomes impatient. There is an almost dreamlike quality to the whole production, as though someone had assembled a late-night television horror program after being deprived of sleep for several days.

It isn't particularly coherent. It doesn't need to be.

Modern viewers approaching Zombiethon as a standalone feature might reasonably wonder what the point is. Why watch disconnected excerpts from several movies when you could simply watch the movies themselves?

But that question overlooks the historical circumstances in which something like Zombiethon was useful.

In 1993, I couldn't necessarily watch those movies themselves. Not unless somebody in Rockford happened to have a copy.

A compilation like Zombiethon was a sampler, a catalogue, and a glimpse into a larger world of obscure horror cinema. It introduced viewers to films they might otherwise never encounter. You could see a few minutes of something completely ridiculous and spend the next several years hoping to find the whole movie.

The clips weren't merely substitutes for the original films. They were invitations to go looking for them.

And that was one of the great pleasures of the video store era. The limitations of availability created an entirely different relationship with movies. You couldn't have everything immediately, so finding something felt like an accomplishment. A movie could exist for years as a rumor, a photograph, or a tantalizing title before you finally got to watch it.

Sometimes the movie turned out to be terrible.

That was part of the adventure, too.

I don't want to romanticize every aspect of the old video rental experience. There were plenty of disappointing Friday nights, plenty of movies that couldn't possibly live up to their cover art, and plenty of rental fees spent on productions that probably shouldn't have been made in the first place.

But I miss the treasure hunt.

I miss wandering through an unfamiliar video store and discovering that it had three horror movies I'd never heard of. I miss taking chances on strange titles because there wasn't a website containing thousands of reviews telling me exactly what to expect. I miss the possibility of being genuinely surprised.

Zombiethon was a minor, opportunistic, frequently ridiculous piece of 1980s horror entertainment. It was also precisely the sort of thing that made those Friday nights memorable.

The living dead were never particularly good at explaining their motivations. They just kept wandering around, looking for something that might satisfy them.

Come to think of it, that wasn't so different from me wandering the aisles of Cinema Centre Video on a Friday night in 1993.

Except I usually came home with six movies and a bag of snacks.

And I had to return the movies by Monday.

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Sunday, October 11, 2026

The Dead Won't Stay Dead: Revisiting Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags

 

The Dead Won't Stay Dead: Revisiting Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags

By Thomas L. Vaultonburg

There's something peculiar about returning to a novel you've already written. The characters are still there, doing the same terrible things they were doing when you left them. The dead are still dead, more or less. The guilty are still making excuses. And the people who know what happened are still pretending they don't.

Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags by Thomas L. Vaultonburg, photographed on a vintage YES NO board.

The dead don't stay dead in Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags

Yesterday I spent the better part of the day revising my novel Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags, a supernatural dark comedy set in the fictional city of Rookford, Illinois. The book was already finished and published, so this wasn't an attempt to write another novel. It was an opportunity to revisit the one I'd written, polish the language, strengthen some of the characterizations, and reconsider how I wanted to introduce it to readers.

One of the things I discovered was that I still liked the book. That's not necessarily a foregone conclusion when a writer returns to older work. Sometimes you discover that the person who wrote something you once believed in has become a stranger. Sometimes you find passages that make you wonder what the hell you were thinking. But sometimes you discover that the original impulse was sound, even if the execution could benefit from another round of attention.

Welcome Back to Rookford

Rookford is fictional, although readers familiar with northern Illinois might recognize certain characteristics. It's a city with an active arts community, charitable organizations, cultural institutions, political ambitions, and a remarkable capacity for looking the other way when looking directly at something might prove inconvenient.

At the center of the novel are people who understand how to manipulate the appearance of virtue. Juniper Michaels has mastered the transformation of charitable work into public sainthood. Nancy McConaughey understands that protecting an institution can sometimes mean protecting the people who threaten to destroy its credibility. Kitten Killswitch arrives from Chicago's industrial music scene carrying a past she'd prefer to leave behind.

Meanwhile, Elias Mort and Janelle Montclair move through a city where the official explanations rarely account for what actually happened. Belial has his own ideas about how things ought to proceed, and the dead are considerably less cooperative than anyone would like.

The supernatural elements give me permission to exaggerate certain things, although I've occasionally wondered whether the supernatural aspects of the story are really any more improbable than the ordinary human behavior.

The Silence Is Deafening

One of the themes that became clearer to me during the revision was the peculiar way communities protect themselves from uncomfortable information. Not necessarily through elaborate conspiracies, but through something much more ordinary: silence.

People have jobs to protect. Reputations to maintain. Grants to secure. Friendships to preserve. Institutions to defend. Sometimes everyone involved understands that something is wrong, but acknowledging it would require someone to do something inconvenient.

So nothing happens.

The people responsible continue collecting accolades. The people harmed are encouraged to move on. And eventually the absence of public discussion becomes evidence that there was never anything worth discussing in the first place.

I find that mechanism fascinating, particularly in smaller cities where the boundaries between the arts, philanthropy, business, and local politics can become remarkably porous.

Of course, Rookford isn't Rockford. Fictional cities have the advantage of allowing their creators to rearrange geography, invent institutions, and populate them with characters who serve the needs of the story rather than the demands of documentary accuracy. But fiction also allows writers to explore truths that don't always fit comfortably into a newspaper article.

Necromancy and Other Administrative Problems

Despite all this talk about institutional corruption, I should probably emphasize that Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags is also intended to be funny.

I have always been attracted to the absurdity of supernatural fiction, particularly when the supernatural collides with the dreary machinery of everyday life. There's something inherently comic about imagining that death doesn't necessarily free a person from bureaucracy, petty grievances, professional incompetence, or the consequences of other people's stupidity.

The dead in my fictional universe aren't always wise. The living aren't always particularly alive. And the forces of darkness don't necessarily possess better organizational skills than the local arts council.

I like stories in which horror and comedy coexist because I think that's a reasonably accurate description of the human condition. Terrible things happen, ridiculous things happen, and quite frequently they're the same things.

Returned / Unresolved

The revision gave me an opportunity to make the novel more closely resemble the book I intended to write. I tightened language, reconsidered how characters were presented, and sharpened the relationship between the supernatural plot and the social world in which it unfolds.

What I didn't do was attempt to make the novel respectable.

I have no particular interest in removing its eccentricities, sanding away its unpleasantness, or apologizing for its sense of humor. A novel about necromancers, corruption, death, and institutional hypocrisy probably ought to be a little unruly.

The revised and expanded edition of Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags is now available on Amazon. If you enjoy supernatural mysteries, dark comedy, morally compromised characters, and fictional Midwestern cities with entirely too many secrets, you might find something to appreciate in it.

And if you're wondering whether justice eventually arrives in Rookford, I can only say that justice and resolution aren't necessarily the same thing.

Some things refuse to stay buried.

And sometimes the silence is deafening.

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Saturday, October 10, 2026

The Magic Circle: Occult Symbolism and the Hidden Architecture of Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut

 

The Magic Circle: Occult Symbolism and the Hidden Architecture of Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut

By Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Eyes wide shut | Cartelera de Cine EL PAÍS

Stanley Kubrick's final film, Eyes Wide Shut, may be the most misunderstood occult film ever made. Released in 1999, only months after Kubrick's death, it was marketed largely as an erotic thriller starring Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. Audiences expecting a provocative examination of marital infidelity instead encountered something considerably stranger: a dreamlike journey through a world of masked ceremonies, mysterious passwords, sexual transactions, implied sacrifices, and wealthy people whose identities and activities remain carefully concealed. More than a quarter-century later, the film continues to generate theories about secret societies, Satanic ritual, elite sexual exploitation, and the relationship between wealth and occult power. Some of these interpretations are fanciful. Others identify genuine visual patterns that are difficult to dismiss.

What makes Eyes Wide Shut so fascinating is that Kubrick seems to have constructed a film in which the distinction between coincidence and conspiracy becomes increasingly difficult to maintain. But perhaps the most important question isn't whether Kubrick was exposing an actual secret society. It is why he chose the visual and ceremonial language of occultism to tell a story ostensibly about marriage. Why the masks? Why the circles? Why the reversed religious music? Why does the film's elaborate ritual resemble an initiation ceremony rather than an ordinary gathering of wealthy libertines? And why, in the final scene, does Kubrick return us to a brightly illuminated toy store filled with objects that seem to recall the imagery of the secret ceremony? The answers may lie in the nature of ritual itself.

Ritual as the Theater of Power

The central event in Eyes Wide Shut takes place at Somerton, a secluded mansion where Dr. Bill Harford infiltrates a gathering of wealthy, masked participants. The ceremony begins with a red-robed figure presiding over a circle of women, accompanied by ominous chanting. The participants move with deliberate precision. Every gesture appears rehearsed. Every position seems prescribed. The arrangement recalls the ceremonial magic traditions of Western occultism, in which circles are used to establish a consecrated space separated from the ordinary world. Within that space, the normal rules of everyday existence are suspended and replaced by a different symbolic order. In traditional magical practice, the circle can represent protection, containment, spiritual authority, or the boundary between the mundane and supernatural realms.

At Somerton, however, the circle serves another function. It establishes who belongs and who does not. The masked participants possess knowledge, access, and permission. Bill possesses none of these things. Although he has acquired the appropriate costume and password, he remains an intruder because he does not understand the social system that gives the ceremony its authority. This is where Kubrick's treatment of occultism becomes particularly sophisticated. The ceremony does not need to produce a supernatural event to exercise power over its participants. Its architecture, costumes, music, and choreography are sufficient to create an environment in which individuals accept an unfamiliar hierarchy. Ritual transforms a group of ordinary human beings into something that appears ancient, mysterious, and untouchable.

Anton Szandor LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan, understood this theatrical dimension of ritual exceptionally well. Whatever one thinks of LaVey's philosophy, his ceremonies made deliberate use of costumes, symbolism, dramatic gestures, and psychological suggestion. The objective was not necessarily to summon supernatural forces, but to create a transformative experience through controlled spectacle. Kubrick's ceremony operates on similar principles. The participants become powerful partly because everyone agrees to behave as though they are powerful. Their anonymity intensifies that effect. The masks eliminate ordinary identities while simultaneously announcing membership in an exclusive order. The result is a disturbing inversion of conventional religious ceremony. Rather than creating a community through shared spiritual devotion, the Somerton ritual creates a hierarchy through secrecy, submission, and exclusion.

The Reversed Liturgy

How Eyes Wide Shut’s uniquely unsettling score was made | Dazed

One of the most remarkable details in the Somerton sequence is its music. Composer Jocelyn Pook's Masked Ball incorporates a recording of Romanian Orthodox liturgical singing played backward. Pook has explained that she reversed a recording of a Romanian priest without changing its pitch. The result is recognizably ceremonial but linguistically disorienting, a religious sound stripped of its familiar direction and meaning. This is not merely an atmospheric trick. The reversal of sacred language has a long association in popular occult imagination with the inversion of religious authority. The Black Mass, whether encountered in historical accounts, literary representations, or modern occult theater, is commonly imagined as a deliberate reversal of Christian ceremony. Sacred objects and words are repurposed to signify opposition, transgression, or the establishment of an alternative spiritual order.

Cover of Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags By Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags By Thomas L. Vaultonburg delves into the evil being done in plain sight

Kubrick never identifies the Somerton gathering as a Black Mass, and the ceremony does not correspond neatly to a particular established occult tradition. Nevertheless, its visual language invites precisely that association. The red-robed officiant, circular arrangement, ritualized presentation of bodies, and reversed liturgical chanting create an unmistakable impression of religious inversion. The important distinction is that the ceremony appears to borrow from occultism rather than represent a coherent occult doctrine. Kubrick seems less interested in accurately reproducing a magical tradition than in exploring the psychological effect of its imagery. The chanting makes the familiar unfamiliar. Religious music that might ordinarily evoke reverence or consolation becomes threatening. Something recognizable has been turned around, and the audience is forced to reconsider its meaning.

That inversion describes the film itself. Marriage becomes a source of jealousy. Wealth becomes a form of imprisonment. Sexual freedom becomes submission. The respectable doctor discovers that his social standing provides considerably less protection than he imagined. Everything appears normal until it is viewed from the opposite direction.

Masks, Identity, and the Privilege of Anonymity

Masks have occupied an important position in occult and ceremonial traditions for thousands of years. They can represent gods, spirits, ancestors, or alternate identities. In certain contexts, wearing a mask allows the participant to become something other than an ordinary individual. At Somerton, the masks function both symbolically and practically. They conceal identities, but they also remove the ordinary social accountability that accompanies identity. A person who cannot be recognized can engage in behavior that might otherwise threaten a public reputation. The irony is that the masked participants seem to recognize one another's status even without seeing their faces. Their anonymity does not produce equality. It preserves a hierarchy that exists beyond the ceremony.

Bill's mask, by contrast, fails to protect him. He can imitate the appearance of membership, but he cannot acquire the invisible credentials that accompany it. When his disguise is challenged, his identity becomes a liability. This suggests one of the film's central propositions: the real secret is not what the participants are doing, but who is permitted to do it without consequences. The masks also create a strange relationship between the audience and the ceremony. We watch people whose faces are hidden while Bill, whose face we know intimately, becomes increasingly exposed. The spectators enjoy a kind of privileged voyeurism, but we remain almost as ignorant as Bill about the identities and motivations of the people we are observing. Kubrick has made us participants in a ritual of looking without understanding.

Fidelio: The Password That Reveals the Theme

The password Bill uses to enter Somerton is Fidelio, the title of Beethoven's only opera. The choice is especially revealing because the opera concerns a woman who disguises herself as a man to rescue her imprisoned husband. In Arthur Schnitzler's Traumnovelle, the novella upon which Eyes Wide Shut is based, the corresponding password is Denmark. Kubrick's substitution introduces a more explicit association with fidelity, disguise, sacrifice, and rescue. Bill enters the mansion believing he is pursuing an opportunity for sexual adventure. Instead, he finds himself dependent upon a mysterious woman who intervenes to save him from the consequences of his intrusion.

The connection to Beethoven's opera is difficult to overlook. In both narratives, a woman places herself in danger to protect a man. But Kubrick complicates the apparent parallel by refusing to establish precisely what happens to the woman who intervenes. Was she actually sacrificed? Was the ceremony intended merely to frighten Bill? Was her subsequent death an unrelated overdose? Victor Ziegler offers an explanation, but the film provides no compelling reason to regard him as a completely reliable narrator. The password thus becomes an ironic commentary on fidelity itself. Bill has spent much of the film attempting to escape the emotional consequences of his wife's sexual fantasy, yet he gains entrance to the secret ceremony through a word associated with faithfulness. The more he tries to escape the obligations of marriage, the more deeply he becomes entangled in a world where loyalty, secrecy, and sacrifice are enforced by powers he does not understand.

The Rainbow, the Pentagram, and the Occult Geography of New York

Se cumplen 25 años de ‘Eyes Wide Shut’, la obra más polémica y controvertida de Stanley Kubrick - Meristation

Kubrick's New York is not quite the New York of ordinary geography. Although the film is set in Manhattan, much of it was constructed on British soundstages. The streets have a peculiar artificiality, with Christmas lights, storefronts, and recurring colors creating the sensation of wandering through an elaborate dream. One of the film's most conspicuous recurring symbols is the rainbow. Early in the story, two women invite Bill toward an experience described as the place where the rainbow ends. Later, he rents his costume from Rainbow Fashions, a shop that serves as the practical gateway to Somerton. In conventional symbolism, the rainbow can represent promise, transcendence, transformation, or passage between worlds. In Kubrick's film, it becomes associated with temptation and access to experiences concealed from ordinary society. The rainbow promises revelation. What Bill discovers is that revelation carries a price.

Stars, geometric decorations, and patterns resembling pentagrams also recur throughout the film's Christmas environments. Five-pointed stars have numerous meanings, including Christian, mathematical, decorative, and occult associations. The pentagram has been used in Western ceremonial magic, but it is not inherently Satanic. Its interpretation depends upon context, orientation, and tradition. Kubrick exploits that ambiguity. Christmas decorations provide a perfectly ordinary explanation for the recurring stars, while their placement alongside ritual imagery encourages viewers to perceive an additional symbolic pattern. This is an important feature of the film's design. Its occult associations frequently emerge from objects that have entirely conventional explanations. A Christmas star is simply a Christmas star. Unless the filmmaker places it within a larger visual system that encourages us to see something else. Kubrick's genius lies in making both interpretations available simultaneously.

The Red Cloak and the Architecture of the Circle

Color is another essential element of the film's symbolic language. Red appears repeatedly in association with desire, danger, wealth, and authority. Blue often accompanies domestic interiors, vulnerability, and emotional uncertainty. The contrast between these colors helps organize the film's dreamlike progression. At Somerton, red becomes the dominant color of ceremonial authority. The officiant's cloak distinguishes him from the other participants, while the circular arrangement of bodies establishes him as the center of attention. The circle itself is one of the oldest symbols in religious and occult thought. It can signify eternity, perfection, recurrence, protection, or the cyclical structure of existence. In ceremonial magic, it can also define the boundary within which supernatural operations are performed.

At Somerton, the circle seems to function as a mechanism of control. Individuals are arranged according to an order established by someone else. Their movements are prescribed. Their bodies become elements in a larger design. The officiant's gestures transform human beings into ceremonial objects. That transformation is central to the film's treatment of sexual exploitation. The women are presented less as autonomous individuals than as interchangeable figures within a ritualized system. Their masks and choreographed movements diminish their individuality. The ceremony therefore contains two forms of concealment. The wealthy participants conceal their identities, while the women involved are deprived of the ordinary signs of individual identity. The result is not liberation through anonymity, but an unsettling demonstration of how anonymity can serve unequal power.

The Occult Is Not Necessarily Supernatural

One of the most interesting things about Eyes Wide Shut is that nothing definitively supernatural occurs. There are no demons, apparitions, magical transformations, or explicit manifestations of occult power. And yet the film remains profoundly occult in its atmosphere and structure. The word occult derives from the idea of something hidden or concealed. It does not necessarily require supernatural activity. Secret knowledge, restricted access, initiation, and concealed systems of authority all belong to the broader vocabulary of occultism. Kubrick constructs a world in which hidden knowledge determines who possesses power and who remains vulnerable.

This is where the film begins to resemble a detective story. Bill follows clues, questions witnesses, visits locations, and attempts to reconstruct events. But unlike the conventional detective, he never receives a satisfactory explanation. The investigation leads him toward a system whose existence he can glimpse but whose structure remains inaccessible. Anyone who has spent enough time examining the forgotten corners of a city like Rockford may recognize something of this atmosphere. Not necessarily the masked ceremonies or extravagant mansions, but the strange proximity of public respectability and private disorder. The ways people can occupy the same social geography while inhabiting entirely different worlds. The stories that circulate for years without ever becoming part of an official history.

These concerns also inform the fictional landscape of my book Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags, in which the ordinary machinery of a Midwestern city intersects with disappearance, obsession, corruption, and the possibility of forces operating beyond conventional explanation. What interests me about such stories is not simply the revelation that respectable people sometimes behave badly. That is hardly a revelation at all. The more disturbing possibility is that the visible world is only one layer of a much larger arrangement, and that most of us have little reason to suspect the existence of the others. Kubrick understands that a mystery becomes more powerful when solving it does not necessarily make the world safer.

Victor Ziegler and the Management of Reality

Eyes Wide Shut (1999) - Sydney Pollack as Victor Ziegler - IMDb

If the red-robed officiant represents the theatrical face of power, Victor Ziegler represents its everyday administrative form. Ziegler is wealthy, influential, socially connected, and accustomed to having problems handled discreetly. He does not need a ceremonial costume to exercise authority. His comfortable surroundings and conversational manner accomplish much the same purpose. When Bill confronts him about Somerton, Ziegler offers an explanation designed to neutralize the doctor's fears. The threats were staged. The ceremony was theater. The woman who apparently sacrificed herself was not actually sacrificed. Her death was unfortunate but unrelated to anything sinister. Perhaps Ziegler is telling the truth. Perhaps he is telling a carefully constructed lie. Kubrick refuses to settle the matter.

What matters is that Ziegler possesses the ability to define which version of events Bill is expected to accept. His explanation functions almost like a second ritual. There is no chanting or ceremonial circle, but there is a carefully managed performance in which one man establishes authority and another is encouraged to submit. The pool table between them becomes a striking visual element: a bounded playing surface on which the rules are established in advance, and where one participant appears to understand the game considerably better than the other. The contrast between Ziegler's ordinary appearance and the elaborate theatricality of Somerton suggests that the ritual may be only one expression of a much broader system. The ceremony is what power looks like when it wants to impress its participants. Ziegler is what power looks like when it wants to appear perfectly reasonable.

The Mask on the Pillow

Before the film reaches its final scene, Kubrick presents one of its most haunting images: the mask Bill wore at Somerton lying on the pillow beside his sleeping wife. The mask has somehow crossed the boundary between the secret world and the domestic world. Its presence may have a perfectly ordinary explanation. Alice might have discovered it among Bill's belongings and placed it there. But the film withholds the moment of discovery, leaving the audience to confront the possibility that the mask was deliberately returned as a warning. The object is frightening because it belongs to two different realities simultaneously.

At Somerton, it was part of a costume. In the bedroom, it becomes evidence that the night's experiences cannot be safely separated from Bill's ordinary life. This is one of the oldest mechanisms in supernatural storytelling: an object from the forbidden place appears in the familiar world, suggesting that the boundary between them has been breached. Kubrick achieves the effect without confirming that anything supernatural has happened. The mask is simply there. And that is enough.

The Final Toy Store: The Magic Circle Returns

'Eyes Wide Shut' Ending Explained: What That Final Word Really Means | No Film School

The final scene of Eyes Wide Shut takes place in a toy store, where Bill and Alice accompany their daughter Helena on a Christmas shopping trip. After the ominous events at Somerton, the setting appears reassuringly ordinary. There are toys, decorations, bright lights, and the familiar commercial bustle of the holiday season. But a closer examination reveals that Kubrick has populated the store with objects and arrangements that echo the film's earlier imagery. Most conspicuously, the store features a large circular arrangement of red architectural decoration and lighting overhead. Its shape and color recall the circular formation at Somerton, where the red-robed officiant presided over the masked ceremony. The visual connection is not proof that the toy store is another ritual location. But it creates a remarkable compositional rhyme. The film's most frightening environment and its most apparently innocent environment share a common geometric language.

Then there are the boxes marked Magic Circle, visible among the merchandise. These are stage-magic products, not fictional occult artifacts invented for the film. Yet their appearance near the conclusion is especially suggestive because the ceremonial magic circle has already played such an important role in the Somerton sequence. The phrase itself carries multiple meanings. A magic circle can be a ceremonial boundary, a social group with privileged knowledge, or simply the name of a commercial magic product. All three interpretations are relevant to the film. The toy store also contains star-shaped Christmas decorations, some resembling pentagrams, as well as displays of dolls, stuffed animals, and miniature domestic objects. These items can be understood as ordinary merchandise, but they also invite comparison with the film's recurring themes of sexuality, performance, identity, and commodification.

Eyes Wide Shut (1999)

Helena examines a toy baby carriage, recalling the stroller seen near Domino's apartment. She encounters stuffed animals, including feline toys that resemble objects associated with Domino's bedroom. She also handles a doll dressed in an angelic or fairy-like costume, recalling the innocent theatricality of her own appearance earlier in the film. These connections have been noted by other close readers of the film, although their significance remains disputed. The toys seem to offer miniature, commercialized versions of the adult identities and experiences encountered throughout the story. A doll is a representation of a person. A costume permits someone to become another character. A magic trick produces the appearance of an impossible event through concealed mechanisms. A toy carriage imitates adult responsibility and domestic life. The entire store is devoted to the manufacture and sale of fantasies. And in that sense, it may be the perfect location for the conclusion of a film about people whose lives are governed by fantasies they barely understand.

The Two Men and Helena's Disappearance from the Frame

Perhaps the most unsettling detail in the toy store sequence involves two older men visible in the background as Helena moves through the store. Some viewers have identified these men as resembling background figures from Ziegler's earlier Christmas party. Their proximity to Helena, combined with the film's earlier threats against Bill and his family, has produced an interpretation in which the girl is being drawn away by representatives of the same secretive social world that Bill encountered at Somerton. In this reading, the final scene is not a reconciliation but an act of terrible misdirection. While Bill and Alice concentrate on their marriage, the threat has extended to their child.

It is an arresting theory, but it is important to distinguish visual suggestion from established narrative fact. In a 2026 investigation published by Vulture, the actress who played Helena, Madison Eginton (credited as Madison Eick), said Kubrick had never instructed her to walk away with the men or suggested any secret meaning of that kind. Producer Jan Harlan acknowledged that background performers came from the same pool of extras but rejected the claim that their apparent recurrence represented a deliberate coded message. This testimony is significant. It makes the literal abduction theory considerably less persuasive. Nevertheless, the composition remains available for interpretation. Helena moves through a commercial environment crowded with adult strangers while her parents become absorbed in their own conversation.

Whether Kubrick intended a specific threat or simply allowed the image to retain its ambiguity, the effect can be disturbing once the viewer has experienced the events at Somerton. The important point may not be that Helena is being abducted, but that Bill and Alice are no longer capable of seeing an entirely innocent world. Their knowledge has altered the meaning of ordinary objects. A circle is no longer simply a circle. A mask is no longer simply a mask. Two men standing in a toy store become possible agents of an unseen system. The film has taught its audience to perceive hidden patterns, then placed us in an environment where those patterns may or may not exist. That is a remarkably effective way to end a story about secrecy.

The Ceiling, the Circle, and the World We Return To

Analyse du scénario d’Eyes Wide Shut : art et dramaturgie | by Baptiste Rambaud | Comment c’est raconté ? | Medium

The overhead circular decoration deserves particular attention because it suggests that the geometry of Somerton has followed Bill into ordinary life. At the mansion, the circle was explicit, ceremonial, and intimidating. In the toy store, it is decorative, commercial, and apparently harmless. Yet the visual resemblance encourages us to understand the two spaces as related. The same shape has changed its costume. This is the film's most compelling occult idea: the possibility that ritual does not end when the participants remove their robes. The ceremony may simply be a concentrated expression of structures already operating throughout society.

Wealth, sexuality, commerce, secrecy, hierarchy, and performance do not exist only in isolated mansions. They permeate ordinary social life. The difference is that outside the ceremony, their arrangements are less visible. The toy store's magic products make this point almost playfully. Stage magic depends upon controlling attention. The audience looks where the magician wants it to look while the mechanism of the illusion remains concealed. Kubrick has spent the entire film doing something similar. He directs our attention toward an extravagant masked ceremony, then concludes with a scene in which the same visual vocabulary appears amid ordinary consumer goods. Perhaps the real magic circle was never confined to Somerton. Perhaps Bill has spent the entire film inside it.

This interpretation also provides a more interesting alternative to the idea that Eyes Wide Shut is simply a disguised exposé of an identifiable conspiracy. The film does not need to reveal the membership of a secret society to explore the ways hidden structures shape public life. Nor does it need to prove the existence of supernatural forces to suggest that the world contains mysteries beyond our ability to explain. The unsettling quality of Kubrick's ending comes from the possibility that both things may be true: the ceremony may have been theater, and the power behind it may have been entirely real.

I have always been more interested in mysteries that remain open than in those that collapse into the explanation that people are merely cruel, greedy, or sexually depraved. Those things are ordinary enough. They hardly require elaborate symbolism. What interests me is the possibility that the familiar world contains arrangements we have not learned to recognize. That the architecture of a room, the placement of an object, or the behavior of people who seem perfectly ordinary might occasionally suggest a larger story. It is a sensibility that has followed me through years of writing about Rockford, its overlooked histories, and the stranger fictional territory of Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags. The city we believe we know is never quite identical to the city that exists. There are always other stories unfolding behind the visible ones.

Kubrick offers no final revelation. Instead, he returns his characters to the ordinary world, surrounds them with echoes of the extraordinary one, and allows the audience to decide whether anything has really changed. Alice's final declaration suggests that physical intimacy may provide a way for the couple to recover their connection. Perhaps it will. But the store around them remains filled with circles, stars, theatrical illusions, and strangers whose significance cannot be established.

The ceiling still hangs above them.

The magic circle is still there.

And the title of the film, Eyes Wide Shut, has never seemed more appropriate.

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Wednesday, October 7, 2026

Wild Cogs: Haiku by Thomas L. Vaultonburg and Tré

 

Wild Cogs: Haiku by Thomas L. Vaultonburg and Tré

Wild Cogs is a small book that came out of SECOND NATURE, our October 2026 Fall ArtScene exhibition at Rockford Art Deli.

Wild Cogs by Thomas L. Vaultonburg and Tré


For SECOND NATURE, Rockford artist Michael Zant created sculptures of animals and other forms from salvaged metal—the discarded mechanical stuff of human life reassembled into birds, bears, frogs, turtles, insects, and other creatures.

Tré and I wrote haiku to accompany Michael’s sculptures.

We approached the poems the same way we approached our earlier book Moonscape: Haiku Phase I: two poets looking at the same world from slightly different places. The haiku alternate between us, sometimes answering one another, sometimes wandering off in different directions.

Those poems became Wild Cogs, a 40-page pocket-sized collection published by Wolf Twin Books.

Here are a few of the conversations from the book.

Pawpaw

pawpaw season—
the road home
sweet on our hands

Thomas L. Vaultonburg

our mouths travel
over wild custard—
picaresque

Tré

pairings

Metal sculpture by Michael Zant for Second Nature

Frog, turtle, salamander


Plum Blossom

first plum blossom—
I almost tell you
everything again

Thomas L. Vaultonburg

not letting go
ice over
plum petals

Tré

Metal sculptures from Michael Zant for Second Nature

Bear claw, lotus flower, dragonfly


The idea behind SECOND NATURE was simple: take what we've discarded and return it to the living world.

Michael did that with metal. Tré and I tried to do it with words.

The result is Wild Cogs—a little handmade record of the strange intersection between machinery, animals, poetry, friendship, and the natural world.

Wild Cogs
Thomas L. Vaultonburg & Tré
Wolf Twin Books, 2026
40 pages
$10


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Monday, October 5, 2026

Why Did America Stop Being Weird?

 

Why Did America Stop Being Weird?

There was a time when every American city seemed to contain at least one store that made no economic sense. It might sell used records, military surplus, incense, old magazines, model trains, taxidermy, comic books, pornography, fishing equipment and three objects nobody could identify. The owner was usually behind the counter, and the owner was also usually the reason you went there. There were local television personalities who were famous within a radius of perhaps forty miles, radio DJs who chose their own records, restaurants decorated by somebody who had apparently never encountered the concept of interior design, and newspapers that ran columns written by genuine eccentrics. Every town had buildings modified so many times that nobody could remember what they originally looked like. You could encounter a hand-painted sign advertising a business whose purpose remained mysterious even after you had read it.

Uncle Don's Terror Theater Rockford, Illinois

Uncle Don's Terror Theater Rockford, Illinois

America was weird, and I don't mean that nostalgically in the usual sense. Plenty of things were worse. Downtowns could be filthy. Local newspapers could be terrible. Weird little stores often smelled weird for perfectly good reasons. Television offered three channels, two of which might be showing golf. If you wanted a particular book or record and nobody in town carried it, you might simply never find it. But American life once possessed an enormous amount of unintentional regional variation. Rockford didn't quite look like Milwaukee. Milwaukee didn't quite look like Madison. Madison didn't quite look like Des Moines. The differences weren't planned by tourism bureaus. Nobody had hired a consultant to develop an "authentic local identity." They happened because places were partially isolated from one another, and strange things flourish in isolation.

The Great Flattening

The obvious suspect is the internet, but blaming the internet is too easy. The flattening had begun long before most of us got online. Interstate highways moved commercial life toward exits. Shopping malls pulled stores away from downtown. National chains learned how to reproduce exactly the same environment hundreds and eventually thousands of times. Consolidation transformed radio. Local newspapers weakened. Walmart and other giant retailers replaced thousands of peculiar little stores with extremely efficient enormous ones. The internet finished a job already underway.

TNT network 100 Percent Weird 1980's

In the 1980's TNT had a night of TV called 100% weird

That is one of the great ironies of the digital age, because the internet was supposed to produce exactly the opposite result. Suddenly everyone could publish. Everyone could broadcast. Everyone could find everyone else. A kid in Rockford interested in an obscure Japanese noise band no longer had to hope that one battered cassette somehow reached northern Illinois. The entire history of recorded music was becoming available to everybody. This should have caused an explosion of weirdness. Instead, we eventually built a handful of enormous machines that became remarkably good at showing millions of people the same things. The old gatekeepers disappeared, and then we discovered algorithms.

Part of the old weirdness came from inefficiency. Consider local television. Stations needed hours of inexpensive programming, so somebody might be hired to host old horror movies on Saturday night. The budget was approximately eleven dollars. The set looked like something constructed backstage during a high-school play. The host invented a character, told jokes, interviewed a local wrestler, showed a terrible movie and became a celebrity in three counties. Nobody in New York had approved this, and that was important. The same thing happened in radio. A DJ could decide that some peculiar song deserved to be played. A record-store employee could put something unfamiliar near the register because he liked it. An alternative newspaper could devote 1,500 words to a local performance artist because the editor happened to think the person was interesting.

Most of these decisions went nowhere. That's the part nostalgia edits out. For every strange local institution people still remember fondly, there were dozens of lousy ideas, incompetent businesses and boring programs. But failure was inexpensive enough that weird things could survive. Modern culture is much better at measuring attention. That sounds like progress until you consider what measurement does to behavior. If every article, photograph, song and video immediately produces numbers telling you whether people liked it, the temptation to make the next thing resemble the thing that produced the best numbers becomes enormous. Eventually the audience isn't merely consuming culture. It is training it.

When Weirdness Becomes a Format

The algorithm doesn't hate weirdness. That's almost worse. It loves weirdness that performs. A genuinely strange person can become enormously successful online. An obscure hobby can suddenly acquire millions of viewers. Something made in a basement in Rockford can reach Tokyo before dinner. None of that was possible in the world I am describing. But once something succeeds, the machinery surrounding it immediately begins manufacturing versions of it. One person restores an abandoned cabin and soon there are ten thousand abandoned-cabin channels. Somebody films himself silently cooking beside a river and suddenly half the internet is silently cooking beside rivers. A peculiar visual style catches people's attention and within weeks it has become an aesthetic category.

The strange thing becomes a format, and formats are the natural enemy of weirdness because real weirdness doesn't know what category it belongs in yet. I miss stores that operated on this principle, particularly stores that appeared to have no business model. You could walk into one and immediately wonder how the rent was being paid. There might be six customers all afternoon. The inventory looked as though it had accumulated geologically. Nothing matched. Prices were written in pencil. Somewhere in the back was an object that had probably been there since the Carter administration.

Amazon is infinitely better at selling you the thing you already know you want. The weird store was better at showing you something you didn't know existed. That difference is larger than it appears. Recommendation systems are extraordinarily sophisticated, but they are still recommendations. They begin with information about you: what you searched for, what you watched, what people similar to you bought. The dusty store had no idea who you were. Neither did the garage sale. Neither did the library shelf. Neither did the box of records somebody put on the curb. Discovery used to involve more collision. You went looking for one thing and came home with another.

The Geography of Weirdness

Walking around Rockford for years has made me increasingly interested in the physical remnants of this older America, and not necessarily the grand buildings. The small evidence is often better: a faded sign painted on brick, a storefront whose shape reveals the business that occupied it forty years ago, a staircase leading to an apartment that no longer exists, a little building sitting at an angle because it predates everything surrounding it, an abandoned chair beside the road, a bicycle pulled from the river. It is the accumulated archaeology of people improvising their lives.

These things interest me partly because they haven't been optimized. Nobody placed the chair there to improve my experience. It is simply there. That may be why walking has become one of my favorite ways of encountering a city. A car turns geography into destinations. The internet does something similar to information. You announce where you want to go, and a machine efficiently takes you there. Walking is inefficient because you have to pass everything in between, and the in-between is where the weird stuff lives.

Something else changed when everybody acquired a camera and an audience: we became more aware of how things look from outside. Restaurants now know customers will photograph the food. Businesses know their interiors will appear online. Artists know the opening will be documented. People know almost any public moment can become content. Even places trying to look weird frequently possess the same professionally designed version of weirdness: mural here, exposed brick there, Edison bulbs overhead, ironic object attached to wall. We have become extraordinarily good at signaling authenticity.

Actual authenticity was usually less photogenic. The old neighborhood tavern wasn't trying to resemble an old neighborhood tavern. It just hadn't been remodeled since 1974. The eccentric shopkeeper wasn't cultivating a personal brand. He was a man who wanted to talk about Civil War bayonets for forty-five minutes even though you had clearly indicated several times that you needed to leave. Nobody called him a creator. He was just Bob.

Maybe America Is Still Weird

There is a danger in arguments like this. Every generation eventually decides the world of its youth was richer, stranger and more authentic than the world that replaced it. The people who grew up before television probably thought television destroyed something. They were right about some things and wrong about others. America has not actually stopped being weird. I've walked enough streets to know better. People are still making inexplicable things in garages. They're still painting strange signs, collecting objects nobody else values, opening businesses everyone tells them will fail, writing poems nobody requested, playing music nobody knows how to categorize and constructing elaborate private worlds that may never attract more than twelve participants.

Maybe weirdness hasn't disappeared. Maybe it has become harder to see because the normal world has become so much louder. The strange little store now competes visually with a thousand corporate signs. The local musician competes with every musician who ever recorded anything. The neighborhood eccentric competes with professional eccentrics whose job is being eccentric for millions of followers. And yet the real thing persists.

This may be another reason I keep returning to the same streets. Online, somebody is always trying to show me something. Outside, most things don't care whether I notice them. A weed comes through a crack in the sidewalk without developing a content strategy. Somebody leaves a freezer in an alley. A blackbird pulls something from the mud. An old industrial building loses another window. A hand-painted sign fades one summer further toward illegibility. None of it has been selected for me, and that increasingly feels luxurious.

Perhaps America didn't stop being weird. Perhaps we built systems that became extremely efficient at directing our attention toward whatever everybody else was already looking at. The weird America is still underneath that layer: in alleys, basements, garages, small presses, old buildings, flea markets, independent stores, forgotten websites and conversations with people who have never considered whether what they're saying might perform well. You can still find it. The trick may be to stop asking the machine where to look.

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Tuesday, September 29, 2026

Is It Time to Start Considering Thomas L. Vaultonburg One of the Greatest Haiku Poets Ever?

 

Is It Time to Start Considering Thomas L. Vaultonburg One of the Greatest Haiku Poets Ever?

By Haruki Nishimura
Seishin Institute for Literary Studies, Kyoto

The title of this essay embarrasses me, which is perhaps a useful place to begin. Anyone who has spent a life reading haiku learns to distrust greatness. Haiku itself distrusts greatness. The form has traditionally been hospitable to frogs, crows, cicadas, weeds, cold rain, worn sandals, summer grasses, old ponds. It possesses very little natural sympathy for the monumental. Even Bashō, whom we have made monumental, repeatedly directs our attention away from himself and toward something small. So when I am asked whether Thomas L. Vaultonburg should be considered one of the great haiku poets, my first response is resistance. Then I read the poems again, and the question becomes less ridiculous.

Haiku poet Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Haiku poet Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Consider first a poem of almost unreasonable economy:

fog
borrows
the bridge

Three words. There is scarcely a poem here in the conventional sense. Yet the poem performs an operation fundamental to haiku: it changes the ownership of the visible world. A bridge belongs to human beings. We design it, engineer it, name it, maintain it. It is one of our declarations of permanence. Fog possesses nothing. It has no architecture and leaves no monument. For several minutes, however, fog takes the bridge. The verb “borrows” is crucial. “Covers” would merely report weather. “Hides” would impose a little drama. “Swallows” would impose too much. “Borrows” establishes an unexpectedly gentle relationship between the permanent and impermanent. The bridge will be returned. This is very close to the deepest temporal intelligence of haiku: everything we believe we possess is merely on loan. Vaultonburg accomplishes this without announcing the thought. The philosophy exists because the image exists; remove the image and there is no philosophy.

That distinction is important because many contemporary short poems are aphorisms wearing the clothing of haiku. Vaultonburg’s strongest poems behave differently. They allow perception to generate thought. Consider another:

night pasture—
a horse shifting weight
thins the silence

Here we encounter one of Vaultonburg’s characteristic techniques. He makes an abstract condition behave as though it were physical matter. Silence can be broken. This is familiar language and therefore nearly dead language. But silence being thinned is different. Suddenly silence possesses density. The almost imperceptible movement of a horse does not destroy the night; it changes its viscosity. This is extraordinarily difficult to do well, and the poem also understands scale. Nothing “happens.” A horse does not gallop. It does not whinny. It merely shifts its weight. The poet notices the smallest possible disturbance and discovers that the entire acoustic architecture of the pasture has changed. A lesser poet would make the horse more dramatic. Vaultonburg makes the horse less dramatic, and the world consequently becomes more mysterious.

This ability appears repeatedly in his work:

marsh fog—
a heron
assembled from gray

Again, the poem depends upon a verb. The heron does not emerge from the fog. It is “assembled” from it. We watch matter organize itself into life. The poem therefore occupies a strange border between observation and creation myth. Anyone who has watched a great blue heron become visible through marsh fog recognizes the accuracy of the perception. Yet the poem also suggests, very quietly, that perhaps this is how a heron actually comes into existence: the morning collects sufficient grayness and constructs a bird. This is one of Vaultonburg’s most distinctive gifts. His surrealism frequently arrives through literal observation. The world becomes strange because he has looked at it long enough.

There is another excellent example:

blackwater creek—
a turtle sinks
until air forgets it

What does it mean for air to forget a turtle? Logically, nothing. Poetically, almost everything. The turtle passes from one medium into another. At first it remains conceptually attached to the surface. Then it descends farther. Eventually the world above closes. “Air forgets it” transforms disappearance into a relationship between elements. Air and water momentarily become two territories of consciousness. Notice also the patience of the poem. The important word may actually be “until.” We are required to remain beside the creek and watch the turtle continue downward. The poem takes perhaps three seconds to read and considerably longer to finish happening. That is one measure of successful haiku: the best examples possess an unusual ratio between textual size and experiential duration. A few words may continue unfolding in consciousness for minutes, years, sometimes decades.

Vaultonburg’s strongest poems also demonstrate another characteristic worth examining: the final line does not explain the first two lines but destabilizes them.

mud puddle—
the crow leaves behind
less sky

The first line gives us something almost contemptibly small: a mud puddle. The final line gives us the sky. Between them stands a crow. The optical event is simple. Sky is reflected in water, and the movement of the crow changes what is visible. But Vaultonburg converts this tiny phenomenon into a problem of subtraction. Can a crow remove sky? For the duration of the poem, yes. This movement between the immense and insignificant is deeply congenial to haiku. A puddle contains the heavens; a bird alters them. Vaultonburg returns to this vertical relationship elsewhere:

noon sun—
the stars
somewhere inside blue

The stars have not disappeared merely because daylight prevents us from seeing them. Everyone knows this. Almost nobody experiences the knowledge. The haiku restores the experience. That distinction—between knowing something and suddenly perceiving what one already knows—is central to the form. Haiku at its best does not necessarily provide information. It produces recognition.

One feels this even more strongly in another poem:

power outage
the stars resume
their old jobs

This poem could easily have become sentimental. Instead, its humor saves it. The stars have apparently been unemployed by electricity; when human illumination fails, they return to work. The joke contains an ecological criticism, but the poem wisely refuses to state it. The hierarchy between human civilization and the natural world is reversed through eight ordinary words. Vaultonburg’s humor deserves greater attention because it protects his poetry from solemnity, and the most obvious example may be:

the undertaker
waves from his bicycle—
mulberry season

I admire this poem enormously. The undertaker carries the unavoidable association of death. The bicycle introduces almost comic lightness. Mulberry season introduces abundance, sweetness and summer. Death rides through ripeness and waves. Nothing is resolved, and that refusal to resolve the contradiction is precisely what gives the poem life. The undertaker is not transformed into a symbol; he remains an undertaker riding a bicycle. Mulberries remain mulberries. Yet the juxtaposition generates something larger than either fact.

This is classical haiku machinery operating in a distinctly American landscape, and the distinction matters. Vaultonburg does not attempt to write Japanese haiku in English. He does something more difficult: he accepts the perceptual discipline of haiku while allowing his actual world to enter the form. Quarries appear. Underpasses appear. Estate auctions appear. Canadian wildfire smoke enters an American city. Abandoned infrastructure exists beside birds and weather.

underpass puddle—
the city skyline
shaken by sparrows

This could not have been written by Bashō, nor should it have been. Its world is infrastructural, urban, damaged and ordinary. Yet its mechanism would be immediately recognizable to an older haiku consciousness: large and small encounter one another, permanence is exposed as temporary, and the human world is altered by creatures that do not acknowledge its importance. The skyline appears monumental until sparrows shake it. There is something almost democratic about Vaultonburg’s imagination. Nothing remains safely above anything else.

A similar transformation occurs in one of his most ambitious poems:

old mineshaft—
a wheel of bats
rebuilds the darkness

The verb “rebuilds” is audacious. Darkness is normally understood as absence, and one does not build absence. But the circling bats appear to manufacture darkness through motion. The abandoned mine—the remnant of human extraction—has been repossessed by animal life. Yet “rebuilds” complicates the easy ecological reading. The bats are not merely inhabitants. They have become laborers of darkness. A human industrial site has acquired a new industry. The poem contains history without discussing history.

That ability becomes even clearer in:

estate auction—
the quilts
open to another winter

Here the human story is almost entirely missing, and because it is missing we feel it more strongly. Whose quilts? Whose house? Why are they being auctioned? Death, debt, relocation, the dissolution of a family? Vaultonburg refuses to tell us. Instead the quilts open. “Another winter” may belong to another household, another generation, another life. The physical object continues after the circumstances that gathered it into one particular home have disappeared. This is an exceptionally mature haiku because its emotion resides largely in what the poet declines to say.

There are places where Vaultonburg approaches lyricism more directly:

early lilacs—
grief caught
without its coat

Here the personification is unmistakable. Grief has become a figure surprised by spring. Normally I would distrust such a maneuver in haiku because it risks converting the observed world into a vehicle for the poet’s feelings. But “without its coat” rescues the poem. The phrase is slightly comic, slightly domestic and physically imaginable. Grief has dressed for winter and suddenly discovers lilacs. The season has changed before sorrow was prepared for it. This is not the claim that spring cures grief. Something more convincing happens: grief finds itself temporarily overdressed.

Vaultonburg is particularly effective when his poems hover at precisely this boundary between sincerity and play. “berry thicket— / my hands / stained with wanting” begins with the literal stain of fruit and becomes desire without ceasing to be berry juice. In “ripe figs— / my mouth learns / another prayer,” taste becomes devotion without the poem ever specifying a deity. And in “deer at dusk— / her stillness / rearranges mine,” the animal does not become an emblem for some preexisting human idea. Instead, attention to the animal changes the observer’s physical state.

This last point may be the key to understanding Vaultonburg. His best haiku are not descriptions of nature so much as records of recalibration. Something enters perception—a horse, heron, turtle, crow, spider, deer—and the human observer’s relationship to the world changes by several degrees. Sometimes the transformation is almost microscopic:

fog drift—
a spider tests the air
with one leg

There is almost no metaphor here, and none is necessary. The spider becomes nearly scientific in its delicacy. “Tests” is exactly the right verb because the extended leg appears simultaneously tentative and knowledgeable. The creature knows something about the air that the human observer does not. The hierarchy of perception reverses again: the poet watches the spider, but the spider reads the world. This humility before nonhuman intelligence connects Vaultonburg to an important current running through the history of haiku. Nature is not scenery surrounding the human subject. Human consciousness is only one local event occurring among many others.

This is why one of his simplest poems may ultimately be among his most revealing:

empty basket—
carrying home
the birdsong

Nothing has been gathered, and everything has been gathered. The basket is empty according to one economy and full according to another. It would be easy to dismiss this as charming, but one should resist doing so. The poem quietly asks what constitutes possession, harvest and value, and more importantly, it answers without argument. The person simply walks home.

There is also a regional dimension to Vaultonburg’s work that I suspect will become increasingly important. Haiku has always depended upon particularity of place. Yet American practitioners sometimes inherit the vocabulary of Japanese haiku without sufficiently transforming it, resulting in an imported landscape of moons, ponds, blossoms and temple bells. Vaultonburg’s landscape feels inhabited rather than inherited. Prairie, quarry, underpass, mulberry, pawpaw, smoke, mine, bicycle and estate auction coexist naturally with herons, spiders and plum blossoms because they belong to the same perceptual world.

Perhaps the most beautiful expression of this regional sensibility is:

across the prairie—
rain arriving
on horseback

The image risks extravagance, yet anyone who has stood beneath a Midwestern sky and watched a storm advance across open land understands its physical accuracy. Rain possesses distance, speed and a visible front. “On horseback” activates the historical imagination of the prairie without turning the poem into historical reenactment. Weather becomes rider; landscape becomes duration. The same rootedness appears more quietly in:

pawpaw season—
the road home
sweet on our hands

This poem has almost nothing to prove, which may be why I trust it. The sweetness is literal before it becomes emotional. Fruit remains on the hands. The road becomes associated with the taste. Home is therefore not defined geographically but sensually. The poem understands memory before memory has happened.

I have deliberately avoided one question until now: What would it actually mean to call someone “one of the greatest haiku poets ever”? There can be no objective measurement. Bashō transformed the form. Buson brought extraordinary visual precision. Issa expanded its emotional and creaturely universe. Shiki altered its modern conception. The twentieth and twenty-first centuries have produced many extraordinary Japanese and international practitioners working under radically different linguistic conditions. To place an American poet casually among such figures would be unserious.

But there is another way to understand the question. Greatness in poetry is sometimes recognized not through historical rank but through the accumulation of individual poems that become difficult to imagine having been written any other way. That is the test I would apply to Vaultonburg. Could another poet have written “fog / borrows / the bridge”? Perhaps. But after reading it, “borrows” begins to feel inevitable. Could another poet have written of a heron “assembled from gray”? Perhaps. But afterward it becomes difficult to watch a heron emerge from fog without remembering the phrase. Could another poet have discovered that a horse shifting its weight “thins the silence”? Perhaps. But the language alters the experience it describes. And could another poet have watched a turtle descend until “air forgets it”? Perhaps. But once the poem exists, the world contains a possibility it did not quite contain before.

This is the severe test. A successful haiku records perception. A very good haiku changes perception. A great haiku permanently contaminates perception: after encountering it, one can no longer see the original phenomenon innocently. Fog may borrow things. Herons may assemble themselves. Silence may possess thickness. Sparrows may shake cities. Bats may manufacture darkness. A crow may leave behind less sky. This is not merely a collection of attractive metaphors. Across the poems, we encounter a coherent imaginative system. The supposedly solid becomes temporary. The supposedly empty becomes substantial. Human structures become fragile. Animals become agents. Weather becomes animate. The enormous enters the tiny. The dead remain beside the living without requiring explanation.

Most importantly, the poet himself repeatedly diminishes. The greatest danger in asking whether someone is a great poet is that the poet becomes larger than the poems, while haiku demands almost precisely the opposite. The poet should become smaller. In Vaultonburg’s strongest work he does. He becomes the person standing beside the puddle, watching the horse, carrying the basket, noticing the spider, tasting the fruit. The world does the rest.

So, is it time to begin considering Thomas L. Vaultonburg one of the greatest haiku poets? I would phrase the conclusion more carefully. It is time to take the possibility seriously. Not because he has written hundreds or thousands of haiku; quantity proves nothing. Not because he is American, contemporary, prolific or unusual. None of these establishes artistic importance. It is because within this body of work there are already individual poems possessing the compression, perceptual originality, linguistic inevitability and afterlife that we associate with lasting haiku. Others demonstrate the same power through radical brevity, humor, ecological perception and the transformation of ordinary American places into sites of revelation.

There is finally one poem I keep returning to:

pond surface—
a fish rises
through two worlds

The fish knows nothing of our argument. It rises through the surface and for an instant occupies two elements before the water closes again. Perhaps this is what the finest haiku have always done. They discover the almost invisible boundary between worlds and permit us, very briefly, to see something passing through it. Thomas L. Vaultonburg has learned how to stand beside that boundary and, more importantly, has learned when not to speak. In haiku, this may be where greatness begins.

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