Review of Curtis M. Lawson's "Couch Surfing through the 12 Chambers of Hell"

I guess I’m becoming familiar with Curtis M. Lawson’s exquisite work because I can trace the origins of this novella, Couch Surfing through the 12 Chambers of Hell, to two short stories the author previously published: “Through Hell For One Kiss,” in his collection Devil’s Night and “Orphan,” in The Envious Nothing. The novella incorporates elements of the two previous stories into an honest and personal narrative about loss, grief, and guilt that is bound to tear at the heartstrings of any reader. 

The main character, Nathan Pharaoh, is a famous musician who is not there for his family when they need him the most. As a result of his neglect his daughter Cloe becomes estranged and kills her mother Dalia and then herself. Nathan is incapacitated by self-hatred and loss. This book is a metaphysical exploration of grief and its stages of anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These emotions blend into each other and can assault the mourner almost at the same time. What Lawson manages to capture accurately and vividly is that the battle against loss, or the struggle to accept loss, takes place mainly at an unconscious level. At the conscious level, depression weighs heavily and reduces the mourner to a zombielike state. Gravity sags all muscles like a constant underground call to surrender to darkness and oblivion, a call that plagues Nathan Pharaoh throughout his journey. The most minor tasks require herculean force. But while the conscious mind is paralyzed, the unconscious self seeks a key to salvation in a journey through mythological dreamscapes. As we learned from Carl Gustav Jung, dreams are mythological battlefields and realms of magic and sacred alchemy. Pharaoh embarks on a journey to find the pieces of himself left in the wake of a personal apocalypse and try to breathe new life into the ashes.

The part I enjoyed most in the story is when Pharaoh enters a pyramid and the walls of the tomb are covered with reliefs depicting stages in his life. When he touches them they replay the scenes in his mind: his first date with Dalia, going on the first tour, and so on. Pharaoh is on the brink of chaos and oblivion and needs to find the key, just like a musician plays the opening keys to a song to get inspiration for ending it or the way a writer might read the opening chapters of a book to figure out how to move on. The reason why I love this scene is because I see the self as a narrative, in a broad sense. Or, to use a metaphor, I think of how we construct our identities as similar to the way a spider spins its web. Now, in a self fractured by loss, the web is mostly destroyed, and he needs to start the process anew building on the strands of silk that weren’t damaged.  

I wasn’t a fan of some aspects of the book, but they didn’t take away from the immersive read. While I’m no expert in mythology, I felt that the symbolism behind the story was a bit cut and dry. The image of the snake as a symbol of chaos, evil or oblivion was overused. The dichotomies had the starkness of Abrahamic religions rather than pagan myths: good vs. evil, dark vs. light, chaos/entropy vs. order, and creation vs. destruction. Ancient mythology usually comes with a mix of these opposites, with deities that incorporate elements of creation and destruction, order and chaos. For example, let’s take one of Nathan’s lamentations: “I was the void in my daughter’s childhood--a ghost, rarely found outside of records and music videos. I was the degradation of something into nothing and now I am nothing given form.”

As paradoxical as it may sound, this passage paints nothingness in an unfavorable light.

(Puts Dissection hoodie on. Turns up Watain’s Lawless Darkness)

In Sumero-Babylonyan mythology, it is creation that is a degradation of nothingness, as goddess Tiamat was in the slumber of uncreation before before lower gods decided to wake her. As a feminine principle, nothingness contains everything in virtual form, blackness is pregnant with everything, and the birth of something is a degradation of the pristine nothingness. Just like sound may be the degradation of a beautiful silence. Or like form may be the degradation of a wordless revelation.

Now, if I remember Jung correctly, the unconscious itself is feminine while the conscious mind is masculine. The conscious mind is rationality and order whereas the unconscious is irrationality and chaos. Nathan Pharaoh’s journey is a quest through the unconscious mind, through chaos, and the solution or the key to his ascension will come from chaos. So, chaos is good, darkness is good, and blackness holds the answers. Not the light of the conscious, ordered rational mind, but the pregnant darkness of the unconscious. The snake will give Nathan knowledge and wisdom. So, to sum up, pagan thinking features a mix of the opposites which Christian thought sets in stark contrast. And, as a reader, I didn’t get the pagan vibe from this text, but it seemed that the narrative flowed from a Christian matrix.

I could wax philosophical for hours about this book, and I’m sure each reader can come up with their own interpretation of this story just like movie lovers have different takes on a David Lynch movie. My point is just this is a work of art that engages the reader both on an emotional and an intellectual level, as all true art should. Go check it out! And check Lawson’s other books while at it!

Interview with author Christopher Zeischegg

Christopher Zeischegg’s Creation: On Art and Unbecoming is a unique, experimental, transgressive book. Zeischegg uses a blend of fiction and non-fiction to describe and convey his deepest hopes and fears as he highlights the role of art as a sacred space for his journey of self-invention and self-discovery. Zeischegg uses different writing formats (essays, memoirs, autofiction, interviews, reviews, and playwriting) and manages to mix them perfectly. The author writes with disarming honesty, making it easy for the reader to identify with the characters and join the intimate dialogue sparked by the text, both on a cerebral and an emotional level. 

Zeischegg has a minimalist yet striking style, elegant yet merciless. The dialogue is witty and incisive. The prose packs so much emotion that, at times, it reads like poetry. Just a couple of my highlights to illustrate: “All my recent life, I’d looked at tasks as pools of quicksand. To dress myself, I dreaded to be drowned beneath my collar,” “My pillow at my cheek, I thought of starting over. But I was weary from the fight I’d lost against my beating heart.”

Although Zeischegg depicts a lot of graphic horror and violence, his message is not reduced to shock value as in some splatterpunk writings, but the gore appears as an external accompaniment to a deep existentialist dread and sense of loss and alienation. In this sense, Zeischegg’s style evokes Thomas Ligotti’s darkest visions. Violence appears like a temporary distraction from an inner, all-consuming agony.

Axl: Hi Chris, thank you for taking the time to answer a few questions. In the book, you mention Dennis Cooper as one of your literary heroes. What other influences do you have? Also, what gave you the idea for the structure of the book, the collage of different writing formats? 

Chris: Of course! I appreciate you reaching out. 

Regarding my influences: In high school, I got into Bret Easton Ellis, probably because of the American Psycho movie and the fact that Ellis is one of the more commercial authors to delve into subject matter that seemed taboo to me at the time--some combination of extreme sex and violence. I think it's pretty common for young people to be interested in that material. I sought out all the most obvious stuff that was available to me at the time, like Gaspar Noe and Takashi Miike films, black metal, etc. 

Then, as you pointed out, I discovered Dennis Cooper in my early twenties. That was exciting to me because he seemed to push those themes beyond anything I'd seen prior. But I think he was also the first writer to make me consciously aware of style. Dennis has this clean, cinematic way of writing that makes me feel like I'm reading an emotional puzzle. I'd never experienced anything that so closely articulated that youthful state of both feeling and being unable to fully express ecstasy, sexual desire, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and so on. 

These days, my influences are more diffuse. At any given time, I have a stack of books I'm reading from authors who inhabit the same small, contemporary press I've become a part of--books published by Amphetamine Sulphate, Apocalypse Party, Rose Books; the list goes on. And I typically have one book I'm reading from a literary juggernaut, like Michel Houellebecq or Laszlo Krasznahorkai, or a lesser-known but equally prolific prose stylist like Dodie Bellamy. 

As for the structure of the book: The stories and essays in the book were written over the course of ten years. Several years ago, I had the idea to throw together a collection of works I had written on themes of art and violence. I'd simply noticed the pattern and thought it would be a fun collection to release between novels. But while compiling the material, I rediscovered a couple of pieces I'd written about my friend, the multidisciplinary artist Luka Fisher. She and I met shortly before the end of my porn career. We went on to do a lot of video work and other strange art projects together. I realized that much of what I'd been putting into the collection was influenced by her in one way or another. In short, she helped to change my life in pretty drastic ways. So, this idea of transformation, of friendship, of some kind of hopeful path forward emerged; I wanted to explore that further. I just put in everything that seemed relevant, and wrote some new material to explain what this was all about; make it more cohesive. 

Axl: This question is about the title: Creation On Art and Unbecoming.  In the Preface you claim that Creation doesn’t refer to artists making art, but to the divine creation of the universe. Regarding the subtitle, On Art and Unbecoming,  you suggest that this book is the end of a cycle: “I’ve essentially been writing down the notion that all of these things I see out there, that I desperately want access to, are out of reach. Whether that’s love, or a relationship to God, or even something like financial stability or self-fulfillment. In my writing, and, in my brain, I feel like I’ve been solidifying that I can’t have any of it.” And later on, “I’m trying to find a revised sense of purpose. Maybe transform my writing into a vehicle to hopefully get more of what I want out of life.” So, why don’t you use Becoming instead of Unbecoming? And what is the connection between your desire for meaning and purpose and the act of divine creation?  

Chris: I may not be able to answer this question in a completely direct manner. If for no other reason, I believe there's some danger in "revealing your gold" too soon. In other words, if you stumble upon something spiritually or philosophically profound and you start to see your life transform in certain ways but you don't entirely understand the nature of what you're on to, it would be fucking stupid to proselytize this to the world. 

But I think a lot of this thought process started in early 2021. We'd all just come out of the COVID lockdowns. For the first time in my adult life, I'd had an entire year off from my interaction with the adult industry and sex work adjacent labor. I'd been retired from performing in porn, and from hustling and camming, for a number of years. But I'd still been working on adult films, as a videographer and editor, semi-regularly. For obvious reasons, that all paused during the pandemic. Then, in early 2021, the job offers came back in full swing.

I remember sitting in my office in early 2021, editing a porn scene. All of a sudden, I had this uncontrollable burst of emotion. I was shaking. Tears were pouring down my face. I also felt incredibly angry. For a week thereafter, I was a fucking mess. My wife said to me, "I've never seen you like this. You need to go to therapy."

So, I took her advice and ended up doing a lot of work on myself.

This is relevant because, prior to that specific emotional disruption, I was writing under the premise that the violence in my work was an affectation I picked up from being interested in aggressive music subculture or Dennis Cooper books, or whatever.

For example, I'd finish a short piece of auto-fiction, wherein I was the protagonist, and it had something to do with my experience in sex work, and it might even include a number of real-life experiences. And it would end with some fantastical violent scenario, and I'd say to myself, "This is all a joke. It has nothing to do with me."

As it turns out, I actually do have massive amounts of trauma associated with my experiences in sex work. And I no longer feel the need to pretend that's not true.

I could go on and on about my own bullshit. But to get back to the nature of your question... I'm 38 years old now. I'm interested in what I'm interested in, and I don't think the aesthetic qualities of horror films or 'transgressive' (for lack of a better word) fiction will ever not be what I'm into. At the same time, I'm now invested in the future, in creating a better life for myself and for my family. That has a lot of implications in terms of how I spend my time in relation to my career, wife, friends, and so on. On a personal level, that also has implications in regards to spirituality, to God.

I'm most hesitant talking about my spiritual life in public, because it's still complicated to me. I'm not sure I know how to define this internally.

When I say that Creation is not about artists making work, but rather a reference to divine creation, I mean that as a metaphor for transformation; my inability to comprehend how life can come from nothing. But I'll also go on record to say this is not just a metaphor to me. It's not bullshit. I surely don't have answers or direction for other people. But in my mind, there's no question as to whether or not God is real.

Axl: Your fiction is very personal and speaks of your private dreams and fears. On the other hand, all art, as your friend Luka Fisher points out, is an act of communication that involves an audience. Since the audience is not given, this involves the additional steps of marketing and “selling yourself.” How do you reconcile these two impulses? Do you think that the commercial aspects of art take away from the authenticity of the creative act?

Chris: Personally, I don’t think marketing or selling yourself detracts you from this.

I’m not sure that starting a novel or any piece of art with the audience in mind is going to tell you something interesting. But I’m also not going to sit here and pretend that the feedback loop doesn’t matter.

One of the reasons Luka and I get along so well is that she’s constantly scheming up ways to get our work in front of people. We were both interested in the relationship our work has with the public. She’s a producer, but maybe in a way that's been frustrating to a lot of the other people she’s worked with, because I don’t believe she’s inherently interested in the financial ramifications of whatever she’s involved with. Plainly speaking, the films and other projects we’ve done together have cost us a lot of money relative to our incomes; none of it has been primed for commercial success. But without her deliberate ploys to get people involved, these ideals in our heads wouldn’t have made it into the world--at least not with the polish or finesse that requires collaboration with artists who are better than us at whatever we’ve asked them to do.

When I think of my literary output, I feel beholden to the publishers who’ve agreed to release my books. Ben DeVos at Apocalypse Party or Philip Best at Amphetamine Sulphate – they’ve put their time, energy, and money into my work. They’re essentially backing me, telling the world that my ideas are worth indulging. How fucking selfish and shitty of me would it be to then sit on my ass and do nothing once the book(s) comes out.

I see some authors complain about not getting enough recognition or money, or whatever, from publishing. People need to understand that there’s nothing inherently valuable about doing this. We’re not feeding people; we’re not saving lives. I believe it’s a privilege to be published, to have someone care enough to sit down and read your fucking book. It requires other people to believe in what you’re doing and contribute in all sorts of ways. I only think it’s fair that you then go out and do your best to make sure it wasn’t a complete waste of their time. Of course, that all depends on your means. I can’t afford a publicist or book tour; it wouldn’t make sense for a release like this. And at the end of the day, there’s always the likelihood that it won’t connect with anyone. 

Axl: There is a pessimistic or nihilistic outlook that permeates your writing, probably stemming from your struggles with depression. At the end of the story “Spell,” the character Whitney addresses the MC: “If you’re done your spell I would have asked if your dreams come true. And if so, whether they still seemed, somehow, out of reach.” So, I wonder if it’s the morbid lucidity associated with depression that makes us unable to enjoy the realization of our dreams. Do you think that someone can return to the innocent joy of assigning meaning and purpose to the world after going through the wringer of nihilism and depression? Thomas Ligotti speaks of consciousness as a disease and the fact that we need to narrow our consciousness to make life bearable. This is a complicated act of self-deception. Almost like a magick trick. Do you think it can work?

Chris: For most of my adult life I've subscribed to a kind of philosophical pessimism. And the depression you reference has been real, though I might describe my experience and indulgence of depression as similar to that of a binge alcoholic. When it's there, it's all-encompassing. But when I'm free of that depression, it seems as though it belonged to a different person. 

Whether or not Ligotti is right in that we need to narrow our consciousness to make life bearable, I don't think it ultimately matters. My current point of view is that I have two options. I can look at the world and say to myself, "The more I discover, the more I learn that none of this matters. It's all fucking meaningless." Or I can look at the world and say, "The more I discover, the more I find out that I don't know much of anything." These days I'm leaning toward the second option. That means that I'm basically a fucking idiot and still have much to learn. Well, I have to learn from somebody. Should I look to the same people I've been studying all my life, who are depressed and miserable? Should I say Emil Cioran is the pinnacle of human expression? Or should I find someone who seems to be experiencing some joy in life, some success, and get their point of view? In all likelihood, I'll do both. But perhaps these happier people are worth looking into. 

Axl: What’s your next writing project? 

Chris: My last novel, the Magician, is currently out of print. So, Apocalypse Party is publishing a 2nd edition later this year with a foreword by Chris Kelso. I believe Christopher Norris has also agreed to do the cover. I like that it's a bunch of Chrises involved. Makes me feel like we're the indie lit versions of Evans/Hemsworth/Pine. Hah. There's also a German translation coming out through Festa Verlag. I believe it should be out by the end of 2024, but I'm not 100% sure. 

Beyond that, I can't divulge too much, except to say I'm always working on a book. With any luck, I'll have another novel out in the next two-to-three years. 

Check out Chris' website at www.christopherzeischegg.com

And IG: www.instagram.com/chriszeischegg

And subscribe to his channel: www.youtube.com/@ChristopherZeischegg