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Perhaps I've made an amalgam of memories
But today, twenty years later, I find
My mind can't move far from the circling
Swirling images of water-bleached-bald
and bloated bodies, like obscene starfish
filling the mud-dark pools under Rusumo falls,
where tourists used to play
on their way to see the Gorillas in the mist.

A thin, sad, and oh-so-tired voice stuttering
in the digital stacatto of the sattelite relay.
Nobody knows anything, no, I can't confirm, but I can tell you...

Twenty years ago, the machetes were falling
falling,
falling,
falling.

And we knew nothing
So we did nothing,
Were worth nothing.




We knew.

20140417 Fading Crocus Petal

Fading crocus petal

Got a nice surprise today. Got a call from the Ontario Conservation Areas authority saying that a photo I entered in last years' contest won first place in the nature is design category. I didn't realize there was a prize. Apparently, I'm going to be sent an iPad, which will come in handy for the Safari App from O'Reilly, for sure. Here's the photo, on the right.

Fungus

I was actually going to start taking photos again for this blog starting today, but I think I'll wait until tomorrow now. The light is finally bright again, and there's all sorts of things coming up at last, after that horrifically long winter that ended... yesterday.

But wait, there's more! Because just a few days ago, I also won one of the two honourable mentions in the Merril Collection Short Story Contest for "The Politics of Bird Flight", which asakiyume will be happy to know.

Gosh, I almost never post here lately. Unfortunately, it's because I don't have much to say, not because I don't want to.

So for want of anything else, here's a website I threw together this week: The Chiaroscuro Reading and Workshop Series, because the free host shut us down for having the word "lesbian" on the front page. It was an auto shutdown, designed to stop porn, but still... took four days to get it back. And we can do better in-house, I think.

Anyway, let me know if you see any problems, please.
Thinking about reviews, it occurs to me that I never posted here about my first pro-magazine review. Here up at Locus, by Lois Tilton, with a "Recommended" next to it. I've recently been told this is kind of a coming-of-age ritual for our tribe, like being published in ASIM is for our Australian cousins, or Tesseracts is for us Canadians.

(Something I'm still trying to do, with three strikes so far. Just got the reject from Tesseracts last week. Maybe I shouldn't have sent them the immortal-gay-viking-autoerotic-asphyxiation-story-that-I-wrote-because-David-Carradine-made-me-wonder-what-this-famous-wankers-dying-in-motels-is-all-about story).

If We Shadows about to be released

I've been waiting to be able to share this. My good friend and writing workshop colleague, D. E. Atwood's YA novel (If We Shadows) is going to be released on an accelerated schedule next week. Atwood has a real understanding for the difficulties of teenage life to begin with, but deals with the particular difficulties of being a transgendered teen with aplomb and verisimilitude that I've not seen often, and handles the genre elements with a minimum of drama and gimmickry.

I'm not a great reader of YA (surprise, surprise), but while this novel was being threshed out, I was impressed by the clean, accessible style, the pace, and the plot development. I kept thinking... this person knows writing, is professional, and has a keen understanding of her genre.... this book is a winner!

So, if this kind of story appeals to you or somebody who knows this situation, I strongly recommend you pop by the website and pick up a copy.

For All Those Born Beneath an Angry Star

I read an article about how the big investment banks were buying locations near the NY Stock exchange in order to have the shortest fibre optic pipe into the trading floor, so that those microseconds of difference pay of in millions in the great horse race that defines the fate of the world's economy, and it seemed obvious to me that big money and big data are an excellent example of how the future is here now, just not distributed evenly. Not quite pissing trickling down, so to speak.

I brought it up as an example during a discussion at last years' Can-Con of real-world horror stories just waiting for the payoff. In the past year, I've seen little to dissuade me that this is a dangerous direction we've chosen to go in.

But what is SF, but a playpen no normalize us for horrors (and occasional triumphs) we have not yet fully grasped. So, without further ado, may I point you (not altruistically) in the direction of the marvellous acwise and brni's Grump's Journal, now doing service as Unlikely Story, the Cryptography Issue, where my attempt to capture some of this horror, braided in with much thinkiness about artificial intelligence and identity.

I hope you enjoy. Better still, I hope you think to make a contribution equivalent to what you would pay for a copy (or better), even though it's being offered online for free in the full spirit of open media.
So after a rash of telephone calls over the past three days where the caller hangs up as soon as I say my name....

I started blocking the numbers. They were all from Toronto or Manitoba.

Then the last one came from the Bahamas.

This is not doing my baseline paranoia any good at all.

I know it's very likely all coincidence.

But I've stopped saying my name when I pick up the phone. ;)

Outpouring Cover

Just got word from Dean Francis Alfar that the Yolanda anthology is now available. I'll add more links as they are posted, but for now there is [EDITED]:

And here's the very excellent TOC, which makes this book such a bargain even if it WASN'T for a good cause, which it very much is:

  • “The Wordeaters” by Rochita Loenen-Ruiz
  • “Invisible Empire of Ascending Light” by Ken Scholes
  • “The Photograph” by Veronica Montes
  • “A Moment in Time” by Charie D. La Marr
  • “A Gentlemen's Agreement” by Susan S.Lara
  • “X” by Karissa Chen
  • “Cunning Syncronicity” by Berrien C. Henderson
  • “Godsend” by Joel Pablo Salud
  • “Ondoy” by Laura McPhee-Browne
  • “Rescuing the Rain God” by Kate Osias
  • “The Wish Head” by Jeffrey Ford
  • “Flash Forward” by Jhoanna Lynn B. Cruz
  • “Where Sky and Sea Meet” by Dan Campbell
  • “Arrow” by Barry King
  • “Finding Those Who Are Lost” by Celestine Trinidad
  • “Synchronicity” by Victor Fernando R. Ocampo
  • “We're All Stories in the End” by Matthew J. Rogers
  • “Silverio and the Eidolon” by Vincent Michael Simbulan
  • “Tinkerers” by Jay Wilburn
  • “Finding” by David B. Ramirez
  • “Ikan Berbudi (Wise Fish)” by Jason Erik Lundberg
  • “Pilar Escheverria” by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
  • “Scraps” by Michael Haynes
  • “Freeborn in the City of Fallacies” by Andrew Drilon
  • “Storm Warning” by Lilian Csernica
  • “The Nameless Ones” by Gabriela Lee
  • “Whispers” by Grant J. McMaster
  • “Highway Run” by Alexander Marcos Osias
  • “Black Sun” by Todd Nelsen
  • “Life at the Lake's Shore” by Alex Shvartsman
  • “Aliens” by Fiona Mae Villamor
  • “Little Italy” by Isa Lorenzo
  • “Discipline” by Rebecca McFarland Kyle
  • “Unmaking” by Julie C. Day
  • “Fresh Fruit” by Yvette Tan
  • “The Sparrows of Climaco Avenue” by Kenneth Yu
  • “Gellen's Retirement Plan” by Tim Sullivan
  • “When We Were Witches” by Nikki Alfar
  • “All the Little Gods We Are” by John Grant
  • “Tuba Knight” by Cesar Miguel G. Escaño

Keep Her Up, Both Night and Day

So, after 479 days, Harper Collins Digital got back to me with a form rejection, so my whole self-manufactured drama llama ding dong over that is over. Still, to make it to the last four days out of 4500 submissions isn't bad, and it IS a difficult book to sell for a dozen reasons I could name.

In more important news, Seeger passed away. I'm fortunate to have been able to see him play four years or so ago, when he came through Kingston. He told a story about last time he came through, and had to be smuggled in because he was listed as a subversive communist pinko atheist scum by both the U.S. and Canada. One thing never changes, it seems, is the disproportionate amount of fear the secure and safe have. Perhaps it's a subconscious acknowledgement that the security comes at a price someone else is paying. I'd like to think so. But I'd rather have the lack of fear, if it's all the same to you.

But anyway, back to Seeger. When I think back on songs I still remember from being three or four years old, I can only dredge up "Puff the Magic Dragon" and this:



It was only later that I learned that he wrote "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" and other fixtures the grade-school music class. Which I suppose, are also a thing of the past, thanks to tax-cutting security-fearful political shenanigans.

And drama llama ding dong.

Do not speak ill of the dead

Do not speak ill of the dead

Do not speak ill of the dead

Do not speak ill of the dead

I must remember

Do not speak ill of the dead

It's Everybody's Jump Start

There's something about being "Mr. Jones". You're not a number. You're real, but at the same time, you're average and you're not quite sure if you're unique. In fact, you know you're pretty average. But you look around and know everyone wants to keep up with you. So there's a pride in that. But beyond that... what is there?

Well, here's three versions. Three generations. Boomers, X-ers, and millenials. Funny how much nothing has changed.

Pay attention. If you ever wondered what the changes in pop culture are over the past fifty years, well, I seriously can't find a better example.


lyrics to Ballad of a Thin ManCollapse )

Talking Heads take on Mr. JonesCollapse )

Counting Crows Lyrics to Mr. JonesCollapse )

Longer Boats are Coming to Win Us

2013 started with me chasing a woman-girl through a train wreck caused by nobody being at the wheel. We brought the train into station, but ultimately, it's the person who delivers the train to the station is the one that gets blamed for the condition of it. There are some pieces to this engine that should never have been put in them. But persistence and work means eventually, things should wrap up rationally and I can step away from something that at least works, if it isn't ugly and overburdened by unrealized potential. It was too distracting and became far more personal than work should ever become, and it did my health and love of work serious damage. So my resolution in 2014 is no more coddling of woman-girls or man-boys. You have to be this grown-up to ride this train.

However that works out, whether by dropping consulting or partnering with others, my goal is to and get onto a regular schedule with a team of people where some sort of accountability exists, but where at the middle level, not everyone is trying to resumé-hop back and forth between the private and public sector. In the mean time, bills need paying and machines need poking, so I'm diving back into regular work on Tuesday, with a regular schedule to follow. Interviews have been had, and results have STILL not been posted, so I need to do some follow-up.

But there is a difference in the wee days of 2014. After two weeks of enforced avoidance of all things that do not have to do with the personal, I've been having real dreams again. Some silly, some profound, but mostly just personal and unremarkable. I've had a chance to let go of some unnecessary chores in 2013, and the calluses they left behind (both mental and physical) are softening and sloughing off. If you live by the seasons, there is a season of dying, and it's now over. Now comes the lean months before Spring. A time for finishing large projects, for maintaining tools and learning skills.

On queue, the two-year blockage I've had over the novel is clearing up, and the plot is falling back into place. I recognize that was something that was going on, and watching General Orders 9 was brining that to the forefront. It has to do with connecting principles, as Jung would have termed them. Causality being one, and his much-misunderstood (it's a known unknown that remains a known unknown to me, but I know that I know something about causality, and so...) "synchronicity" being another. But being able to put one in one toolbox and the other in another and to recognize them as tools, not as fetters, is an important thing, I think, for everyone to achieve at some time in their life. My personal Mecca, if I may blaspheme with impunity, but I've made the pilgrimage again and will likely do it again some times before I die. And this journey back will have a novel in it.

Perhaps its our nature as symmetric flesh to divide so much into pairs, and so there may be other connecting principles, but there seems to be a cluster of left brain in causality, rationality, linearity, and a right brain in synchronicity, symbolism, association. We can't think much further than three dimensions and time, so we have to reduce process to Einsteinian curvatures/densifications of the field, or to the Dragon and the Unicorn, Solve et Coagulo, the caduceus and the divine couple, or some variation of paper folded on itself. Those are the limits of the mind, and it's good to see its own limits, rather than getting caught up in self-reflective/referential mirror-play that leads to infinity. If there is a split, an ultimate "original sin", I still suspect the chasm of that alienation runs down the middle of the hippocampus. But this is a time in history where if we don't close those infinite loops, those open systems, we are likely to take the planet with us. May have done already, "dead species walking".

So the closing line to General Orders 9, that "in the end only one thing matters" resonates. I think I may go back and re-read James Carse and Julian Jaynes while finishing this novel. It will keep me in mind of the underpinnings.

I Fashion My Future on Films in Space

I remember in Islamabad, back around 1980 or 1981, that Orson Welles' The Man Who Saw Tomorrow, about Nostradamus, was playing in the Nafdec Cinema. It was a favourite: gnawing on paan and hearing about New York being destroyed by nuclear missiles. I suspect aficionados of doomsday claim that particular quatrain has to do with 9/11. But I'm too lazy to google it.

I wonder if Sheikh Mullah Omar saw it there, or in Peshawar, or on VHS somewhere, and started wearing a blue turban, which was the de rigeur headdress for the "third antichrist". It wouldn't surprise me. It's a little like Joseph Ratzinger choosing a name, in a way. Or like Muhamar Ghaddafi being found in a culvert clutching a custom made golden gun.

Saw that at Nafdec, too. With all of the kissing edited out by some less prominent mullah.

Not Christopher Lee's best work, in the end.

And So We're Told This Is the Golden Age

I had a strange visitation from the past via film.

New Year's Eve, Cara Sposa and I were trying to decide what to do with the Christmas Leftovers (Note Caps. I'd made enough parsnips, potatoes, carrots, beets, and yams for a dozen, but only seven could make it because of ice and flu). I wanted to do pasta because I was tired, and she suggested beet pasta, which after some deliberation we settled on. The beets had been steam-broiled and tossed in cream and horseradish, but with a bit more cream and horseradish as well as goat cheese and flaked almonds, actually became a rather nice dish, which I plan on making again since...

Well, it was a good year for beets, and our CSA sold us a bushel for a decent price, and they're our main stored vegetable (out of refrigeration, they keep well because they never actually die, but grow a few leaves waiting for spring).

And, err, well, the beets this year are so rich in their basic beetiness that they actually make you pee red. Not "oh my god, my kidneys are melting down" red, but an unmistakable Zinfindel rosé. It's kind of off-putting, really.

Ahem... But I digress. So we were eating this fuscia pasta, and I'd suggested something that I'd come to regret, and we put on the film General Orders 9, which has been waiting around a while for us to get to. Cara Sposa is reading Charles Montgomery's Happy City and I had some notion that the film was about urbanization, which it kinda sorta is....

Sadly, it was a good example of what happens when processes are financially standardized. Because it had to fit a market length of 90 minutes or more, it went on into what can only be called a self-indulgent wreck of an attempt at Koyaanisqatsi with a Southern flair. But the whole point of the film could have been made far more effectively in about 20-30 minutes tops. So to spare you an hour and change of drivel, let me flesh out some of the beauty of the main point.


  1. In the narrator's state of Georgia (which my surname family harks from, or at least back into the 18th century), urbanization grew first organically.

  2. Deer paths became native footpaths became County Roads, and towns sprung up at the crossing points of County Roads.

  3. Towns have a sense of place, of order, with a courthouse in the center, and the town arranged around it, and a weathervane on top.

  4. After the Civil War, there was a die-back, and when growth returned, it came through Interstates.

  5. Interstates are more like the blood vessels of cancerous tumors, not leading to a place, but contributing to a process. Consequently, a city is not a place, it is a machine.

  6. The only response is to flee the place-lessness of the city and return to the ruins of the town, which leads to listlessness, apathy, and depression.

  7. In the vacuum left by the city's wake, similar to the vacuum left by the war, there is the need for a new psychological/symbolic center of place, a new totem for the new era, which arrives like a flood and leaves nothing in its wake.

  8. Religion only turns one away from the wreck, it does not build, and the sense of place cannot impose place on the placelessness.

  9. There is something about the town arranged around the courthouse, marked by the weather vane that is basic, human, and... has to do with that Jungian process of self-actualization.



This is all told through images, repeated, repeated, repeated, repeated themes, and a personal narration. To differentiate the narrator's self before and after the moment of self-actualization, there is a ruined library, a canoe stuck on a stone in the Chatahoochee, and, afterwards, the canoe filled neatly with books.

Now, the visitation. When I first went to live in Georgia, to study Philosophy at the University in Athens, I was deeply obsessed with that process. For me, it was very similar to what was in the film. It has to do with the point and the circle and the square, and the transition from linear to angular motion. It's one of those so-very-fundamental things that operates in the human mind.

The first dream I recall that had me understanding that I might go into philosophy was an end-of-the-world anxiety dream. I was much younger, and when the balloon went up, and the flash of light signalled the bombs had fallen, I was shown a Boschian scene where all the books of the world were set into boats, and I was shown that only one boat had really been lost, and it was the works of Machiavelli, the Prince in particular.

So I found it rather odd to be seeing the alchemical process of squaring the circle narrated concerning the state I had gone through the same process in, end with the image of a boat of books making its way happily to the sea. VITRIOL: visita interiora terrae rectificando invenies occultum lapidem.

But what the adult in me saw was finally an understanding of why Evangelical thought is so prevalent in America today. It's the Interstate and the placelessness, the soul-lessness of the place of our lives. It's an earnest yearning for meaning in a formless void of process and valuation. It's an escape of the machine. There is a reason why Islam has one place to pray to as well: the most abstract, iconoclastic form of the Abrahamic tradition also can't just drop place. It needs place as well, in the same way. The Taliban, American and Afghani, are really one and the same in terms of what they have lost.

For me, that alchemical process gave me an understanding of faith as separate from belief. Faith is a creative process. It's the placing of hope against reality in order to transform that reality. It's the stuff of nonviolent revolution, the persistence that eventually overcomes all things.

Belief, on the other hand, is a destructive process. It's the cancellation of reality, and a kind of lying. It's the stuff of Santa Claus and Stalin. Ultimately, it's all about accumulating power, not overcoming limitations.

So's Machiavelli.
My friend and colleague, Michael Mattheson, is editing a QUILTBAG-themed antho for Exile Editions. (NOTE: 90% Canadian Content, but still interested in seeing outside stuff). If you have something that matches the submission guidelines, send it over! Reading period begins TOMORROW!

20131226 Pine Needles

Ice on Pine Needles

20131224 Dawn and Moon

Dawn and Moon over Ice

20131223 Ice on Winterberry Vines

Ice on Winterberry Vine

20131222 Ice on Chinese Lanterns

Ice on Chinese Lanterns

Your Finger, You Fool!

When you encounter a daft white anglo man in the wilderness, you can identify his provenance through this simple test: Examine his interactions with wildlife. If he is:

1. Filming it, he is British.
2. Shooting it, he is American.
3. Studying it, he is Canadian.
4. Wrestling it, he is Australian.

See? Simple.
I would have said something about this earlier, but there's a huge fire going on nearby. I don't think we'll be evacuated, but Cara Sposa is listening to the scanner, and they say that the Howard Johnson's across the street from the fire is on fire itself, and there's a truck full of propane tanks in the parking lot.

Otherwise, things seem back under control after forty-foot pillars of flame were much in evidence.

So far....

Originally posted by rgrump at Announcing Unlikely Story #8: The Journal of Unlikely Cryptography

Originally published at Unlikely Story. You can comment here or there.

We’re delighted to announce the ToC (in no particular order) for our next issue, Unlikely Story #8: The Journal of Unlikely Cryptography.



  • Two Things About Thrand Zandy’s TechnoTheque by Gregory Norman Bossert

  • Ink by Mari Ness

  • How My Best Friend Rania Crashed a Party and Saved the World by Ada Hoffmann

  • Chilaquilies Con Code by Mary Alexandra Agner

  • Something in Our Minds Will Always Stay by Barry King


Thank you to everyone who submitted work to this issue. We received a lot of truly excellent stories, and we look forward to sharing these cryptographic delights with you. The issue will be available in late January or early February. Stay tuned!

THAT'S the way to do the varsity drag!

RIP Peter O'Toole, the finest man who ever breathed.

The City Walls are All Pulled Down



I'm glad to say that my story "Arrow" will be reprinted in Dean Francis Alfar's Outpouring: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology in support of the Philippine Red Cross. (Yolanda is the Pinoy name for Hainan—they were the same storm) The Philippines is a big country, and I never went further south than a week in Cebu, so I don't really have a personal connection with the Visayas or Tacloban. But the three years I had in the Philippines changed me very fundamentally, and my outlook on life. It was where I learned that doubt is at the heart of faith, something that doesn't seem to have sunk in for many of my countrymen, and I think it's the reason I still feel a stranger here, and never more so than in my family's home state of Georgia.



I wonder if any of my old school chums will ever read it. A lot of them are in it, in borrowed pieces. I'm not naming names, but if they do, I hope they see where the pieces fit into the puzzle that I'm still trying to piece together. I tried to do that story "right", and be honest with myself and everyone I came to know and the history that walked in ghosts ("little men") around us. But even if it was a failure, I hope it does some good.

I Can Only Dream in Red

I have to go to archery practice. So I'll let another bunch of old farts take you back to my high school years, and the things that mattered then. They still do. Plenty of Madibas still out there, pushing back.



EDIT: And just because...

Mercator's Night

Tonight is Mercator's Night. My wife and I have put the children to sleep, put the dog under the salamander to warm him. Outside, the night is violet and green, flickering merrily.

I hitch the complaining muskeg up to the surrey and rub behind her ears. She snorts, clearing her nostrils, readying for the journey. We roll down the Isenglas windows and pin them, so that none of the gasses leak in. The chambers are full. Forty-eight million pascals of pressure, according to my portable toque-metre. It should be just enough if the weather holds.

We move swiftly through the night, up to the land where blackfly meets ice, and the chickadees are both boreal and common. From this vantage, the nozzle is just a silhouette against the stars. To the south, there is a vague sodium-yellow haze of 44-40, 401. But to the North—an untrammelled landscape, like an empty canvas.

It's the largest nation on earth. You could bury all of Australia in its armpit, and in Australia's armpit, Texas, and in Texas' armpit, Germany, and in Germany's Armpit, Lichtenstein, and in Lichtenstein's arpit, Monaco.

But that doesn't mean that Mercator has overlooked us.

We hook up the nozzle.

Longtitude by longtitude, like a Crappy-Tire air mattress, the nation fills with gas. Moose-muck gas, shit-disturber gas, Gas like a thousand million Coleman stoves.

And there she is. A nation so huge, so Mercator-ly projected that even Mars could cuddle up like an infant at a Terran breast, gurgling CO2 flatulence and lullabies. Cooing.

We smile as the DEWS rolls over the tundra. Alight and alive to the invasion of space, but not a space invader in sight.
I have a family. No, I know what you're thinking. Not hostages. Not chained up in the cellar. No, a family that extends homeogenetically via marriage and procreation and so on. Not my own nuclear family, no, but a family.

What I hear from them when they read my stories is a kind of silence, and a "why are all of your stories so sad?"

Sad? Sad? I think. Well, sure, Arrow is sad. It's meant to be a gut-punch. But aside from that, I thought they were kind of... affirming. Pythia has sad elements in it, but it's essentially about a young woman who discovers a god living inside her and manages to assimilate it into herself. "Bookbound" is about a girl discovering an alternate reality and diving into it... and losing touch with her own reality and family, true, but, isn't that what you do when you grow up anyway?

Sad? Well, unfair things happen, and people die, and there's pain...

....but... Life IS unfairness, and loss, and death, and pain, because it's also triumph and success, and rewards, and joy.

I guess I think my stories are about growing. Up, or out, or into the world. Shedding a skin is painful, but necessary, and that's what life's about, isn't it?

Well, OK. This is not sad: Halfway through November now, and I guess it's time I pointed people to that story I was talking about back in February. The one that turned into my first pro sale, and then turned into my first interview as an author.

But is it sad as well? The protagonists are people with special obsessions, people who are other-than-normal. But they find each other, in a way, and isn't that romantic? Isn't that cause for celebration?

I'm looking over the pile that hasn't been published. They're some odd ones. A society of women trying to live with parthenogenisis, an immortal Viking who is damned by the means of his immortality, and the magnum opus where a pair of girls take on the juggernaut of holy history without really intending to (Sisters of the Sundering).

Maybe the issue is that these are stories that don't fit well into formulae, and maybe it's because they move to the alchemical centre of life, which doesn't really have a "good" and a "bad" side to it, but it does have all those elements that make us human. And I think a sense of humour is an essential part of being human.

If you haven't been following Crossed Genres, I'd recommend it. It has a lot of that kind of story. I think they're one of a handful of magazines that are bringing this human stuff out of the slush pile. I think they have a lot of taste, and a sense of the unusual, and, yes, a sense of humour about it. I know that after years and years of working with human-rights and humanitarian organizations, I'm a little tired of hand-wringeryness. I want to hear about people overcoming their limitations, inborn or imposed. Crossed Genres is one of a few that are doing that.

So, read some. And then consider subscribing. Seriously. SFF is a more serious world now that the Starship Trooper types are shuffling off their mortal coils. We're tired of formula, we have long since washed the ashes of the Motherhood statement from our clothes. It's time that the big pubs were joined by the odd ones, and Crossed Genres is one of a handful bringing the real stuff to the community. They could use some support.

I don't find their stuff very sad at all, either.
sovay has a great list of videos under: Icy pictures of the water are captured in his ring

When I like a music video, it's both for the song and the imagery, but if I'm going to watch a video, it needs to be something other than shots of the band playing. Lurid is good. But mostly it needs to be fun, kind of like Dog Days are Over by Florence + The Machine.

But everyone's seen florence and Peter Gabriel, and so on. so I think I'll share a few of the more obscure favourites she hasn't listed, in no particular order, at the risk of dating myself:


  • Nemesis by Shriekback—Probably the most tongue-in-cheek video from the most tongue-in-cheek of 80s bands.

  • God is God by Juno Reactor—Byzantine Iconography in all senses of the word.

  • This, Too, Shall Pass by OK Go—Who can't love a Rube Goldberg machine. And the TIMING!

  • Ç'est la Ouatte by Caroline Loeb—You can't get any campier, and I love her off-kilter, ironic face.

  • Bum Bum by Trio—Deadpan delivery, then inexplicable game-show falderal at the end.

  • Love Marriage by Wilbur Sargunaraj—I'm not sure just how brilliant this is. Your results may vary.

  • Tunak Tunak Tun by Daler Mehndi—Oh, my.



So what are yours?
Been in a reminiscently mood. Been thinking about the Internet and politics and how it all fits together, on a writing prompt of "Media and Democracy". Thinky thoughts in draft formCollapse ).

We are Ugly, But We Have the Music

Finally, finally, finally was able to finish a story. A real story. And for a venue I was trying to write a story for for a VERY long time. It was started under the tutelage of John Langan of Carnivorous Sky fame, and I've been trying to get back to finishing it for months.

I started it in mid-July, kept bringing it up to work on and not feeling where it was going at all. Then it metastasized, and got all complicated and political. Then it made me go over Libertarian thought (a contradiction in terms on the best of days), and then it ran head into the CZP website rewrite where it took a back seat to getting all das blinkenlights to flash properly.

So, all October, I told myself NO. NO posting, no photos, nothing until this damn story gets written. Even then, it was a three week slog trying to make it gel in my head. And some photos DEMANDED taking.

Of course, when it was done, it was a kind of pan forte monkey bread kind of affair. Thick and nutty and dense, and created out of dis con ect ed elements of thought, memory, and feeling. A little like arrow with the linearity of feeling brought through non-linear time.

So what have I been doing in the mean time?

Apples! The tree was laden with about ten bushels, and we've been making pies and tartes tatins like mad fools ever since harvest time. Work has been spotty, and not paying well, and several invoices have not been paid, in some cases for three months, so it's getting a little difficult paying for things on time, but we're coping so far.

Job search! (Crickets chirping in the darkness). Not getting ANY responses. I think everyone's still busy and under-budgeted, because I'm not getting rejections either.

Went to Can-Con. Read a piece of Arrow very badly for the ChiZine Book Launch Party, and met some of the other Imaginarium contributors, which was really nice to do. I was surprised at how well the story was received and how many people read it. It's not a pleasant piece, by far.

The hotel did not seem aware what it meant to host a SF Con, so all the parties got closed down by security just as they were starting to take off. I was able to talk to people and meet new friends much more then ReaderCon. Mostly, though, I played Bilbo and sat in the reading room, listening to people read their novels which ran from the sublime to the self-published (and it shows).

One surprisingly interesting and thoughtful panel, though, on multiculturalism in SFF with a very Canadian mix of multicultural elements (Metis, Francophone, First Nations, Anglo, and, inexplicably, David Hartwell, looking very sedate in kakis and a golf shirt, and making rather salient points that complemented all the others and which looked both forward and back.

I didn't hang around for Sunday and the Auroras, though. Family affairs called, and the following week we went to Ottawa again for my niece's wedding. I had forgotten just how difficult loud music makes it for talking. Or anything else.

And then back to the story....

Which is done.

And will be sent in, soon.

Perhaps I can get back to my real work again? I keep feeling something is brewing, like the prickly time before a storm.

We shall see.

20131011 (Outhouse flower)

Outhouse Flower

20131010 Kale

Dew on Kale

20131009 (Globe Thistle Blown)

Globe Thistle

20130925 (Outhouse Flowers)

Outhouse Flowers against the Sun

Swiss Chard

So I've got piles of very nice, very fresh chard, picked yesterday from our plot. Rather than blanching and freezing, I'd like to do something with it today or tomorrow.



Any favourite recipes out there?
No photos today. Cara Sposa and I took a few hours today and closed down our plot, taking in the remaining tomatoes and chard, and found a couple of turnips and some seed beens as well. It's the end of the season, and probably the end of our attempts to keep a plot here. By bicycle, it's just that little bit too far away to maintain properly, and we were not doing it justice. But for five years, it was great to have access to a plot of land.

We'll concentrate on the plot in our backyard instead. Although it only seems to be able to grown Good King Henry, Rhubarb, and Kale.

T'will do. Now off to Sir John A.'s pub for some brews and wings. Enjoy, all.

20130924 (Hungry Bumblebee)

Hungry Bumblebee

20130923 (Tomato Stems)

Tomato Stems

20130922 (Black Eyed Susan)

Black Eyed Susan

I've Seen Your Face Before, My Friend

Yesterday, I was so glad to discover that I didn't NEED to do anything (other than stop by the market to pick up our CSA) for work, or the Archery Club, or any of the other things that I've been involved in, that I sighed with relief. The sigh went on into the night and I slept in for the first time in a month. I got up, showered, and put on the kettle.

Dreams were, as always, of travel. Of schedules and being someplace at the right time. Strange places to stay and sleep, people I only half-know, and conversations and stories being told. Negotiations that required several people being consulted.

This time, we were going through some valley in Mexico, all covered in small steads. The colour of the small fields of crops were so intense that the landscape looked like a mosaic of coloured paper. I took photos and was swung on a high swing mounted on a crane to take them. Then we attended a convention on the top of a tall mountain in central Italy, where the roads and the walls were all made of red brick, and these roads were so steep we had to get out of the car and push until the car no longer existed and we went into the mountain that was hollow like a shopping-mall.

This places it at the high point of the dream-city, at the top of the main street, and facing away from the gorge that runs parallel to it. I recognize the steep section. But the multicoloured valley is new, superimposed on the valley that used to run outside Baguio. It's no longer impassible gorge or sea, but there are no roads across it, either.

The new entrance to the hollow mountain is definitely out of Crêche. So fiction and fact are blending even more in the old noggin.
So... one thing I'm doing in decompression mode is going through my vast inbox (OK, I'm one of those obsessive inbox-emptyers. There's rarely more than 30 things in there normally. I'm back down to 30 and feel much better, now, but for much of Aug/Sep, there was well over 200 untended-to things in there).

A colleague from the other world I inhabit sent me a video. Now... madshutterbug will probably appreciate this. One of my favourite Warren Zevon songs (and probably the one that sold him on me... oh, I am such a IO nerd), was "The Envoy", which until just about three minutes ago, I had always believed, but never confirmed, was about Phil Habib. If you remember that far back, you know of whom I speak.

Anyway, here's the confirmation:



"Haven't heard from the man," indeed.

I never thought it could be topped. Well, maybe it has or it hasn't... but this is at least a close second:



Enjoy. Despite the off-colour metrosexuality refs.
So, yeah. First pro Sale. Crossed Genres. Author Spotlight.

Wow.

Off to the Outdoor Range with the Archery Club. Have an AGM to chair. After a mock tournament.


Last time I had this wine, I decided on the spur of the moment to spend an hour or two with my dad. I'd just started my own business and had some spare change. I stopped by Bell's Liquor store on L St. NW, on my way to my parent's apartment on 26th St. NW. I picked up a bottle of it (1994 vintage) and we drank it, watching the sun go down over the unfinished Georgetown Overpass. The overpass is still not finished, but everything else is.

Sometime in the conversation, I said, (flush with wine and undeserved pride) "And we did it without compromising."

I was talking about myself and my sister. This bottle was a gift from her this last Christmas. I swore to wait until this particular occasion to open it up.

The Knotted Cords Untying...

Three days away from all that bauds or beeps:

1. "You do realize that we are a rolling advertisement for the versatility of the Fiat 500, don't you"



2. Came in late, with the sun at our backs, down Mitchell Creek.



3. While Cara Sposa did her trick of swallowing very large books whole (in this case sartorias' Banner of the Damned), I had a little paddle around by myself, investigating around the campsite, places I'd not been before.



4. And that evening, a very striking sunset with crescent moon.



That night was a tremendous thunderstorm for hours. When we came out the next morning, there were two inches of water in our coffee-cups.

5. No pictures of the final day, which was misty. We were alone that night in the campsite. In the wee hours, we heard a raccoon startle and capture what we think was a grouse. Sad, high, piping calls as it was dragged away to be eaten.

And now I'm sore all over. The paddle back was against the wind in high waves, so it was an hour and a half of hard slog.

Now back to civilization and work. Think I'll launch a website today.

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The God That Marks The Fall Of Every Sap
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