The stars turn again, echoing forward 313 days to that most urgent of festivals. And so the madness slips back into slumber, withdrawing back to the precincts of its cult. I speak of course of Valentine’s Day adverts.
For those who do not celebrate Valentine’s Day – or celebrate with gifts sought truly outwith the norm – adverts for beheaded flowers, shaped chocolates, and seasonal jewellery spatter the two non-Christmas months with aural graffiti; an irritant to be ignored. But for the scholar of the Mythos, the impact is worse.
Rising up in pastels and pins, the targeted advertising of LoveCraft handmade necklaces, Lovecraft sex guides, and other homonyms of Yog Sothoth’s prophet weave and surge across the results of automated keyword alerts. Already assailed by obscure porn, enclaves of the Mythos sink beneath the tide.
And worse, these micro-stores and relationship suggestions oft lack coherent metadata; so appear not as what they are, but as a shadowy label, easy to mistake for a scholarly snippet until a click strips away doubt to reveal them in their true inappropriateness.
But now the madness ebbs, and sanity returns to searches leaving only the horror of the endless churning at the heart of reality: can one enjoy a book without agreeing with the author’s politics?