Comfortable Strangeness

I'm working on a new book, a SF novel that I've had in my head for about a year. I suppose "SF" is not quite right -- it probably is more Slipstream than SF, although we'll see. Maybe Literary SF, if not Slipstream. It's unlike anything I've written before, and I'm enjoying the ride. The world is "comfortably strange" -- very familiar and yet laced with unfamiliar and unsettling things I throw out like little bon-bons for the reader.

I started it yesterday, got 2500 words done, about five pages, and it is going just fine. I can't wait to dive into it again, although likely not until tomorrow, owing to scheduling difficulties at home. We'll see. Hopefully I'll get it done this winter and have it ready for revision by spring.

Meantime, the ABNA is closed. Fingers crossed on my submission. I should find out if it made first cut by the end of this month. We'll see.

The CTA service reductions have Chicagoans pissy, crowded on the buses and trains. A lot of pissed-off people, going nowhere fast! Hopefully the city will sort out its transit funding woes, and things'll return to normal.

Scene: Thulsa Doom?

Getting on the bus later than my usual time is like walking into an alternate dimension. Different people, different schedules, different everything. I'm used to a particular demographic wedge when I get on my usual time. Today it was very odd. For one thing, it seems that a lot of brunettes board around 8:00 a.m. CST. At most of the stops, it would be a parade of them, brunette woman after brunette, and no common ethnicity between them, but a mixed bag, with the lone commonality being that they are all brunettes. I need to study that and see how it shakes out at other times. But I've noticed this before. And all of them rather strikingly unattractive -- not even a matter of taste, here -- they were all odd-looking. If it wasn't an unconscionable invasion of privacy, I'd have filmed it, so you could see, but it was true. Older men (some of them possibly drunk), and unattractive young and middle-aged brunette women, bound for jobs. Even the lone blonde on board wasn't attractive, looked like LiLo after a bender. Who were these people? Where were they going? No idea.

A black woman sat across from me, talking quietly in her cell phone. She looked like James Earl Jones. Like she could've been his baby sister. I don't know if he has any relatives, but the resemblance was uncanny. I was riding the bus with Thulsa Doom!



Nothing else fancy happened on the trip, except the driver got lost in Hyde Park, ended up cutting off a large portion of her route, but nothing that would affect me directly (except getting me to work a bit later.)

Salacious Salinger?

I think the absence of sex in Salinger's work was because he was a pedophile.

http://www.slate.com/id/2243564

Something about the character of Seymour always made me think that, although it's been so long since I read any of Salinger's work, I can't fully recall, and am perhaps too lazy to go back and lay it all out, but at the time, I remember reading him and thinking "Huh. WTF?" I think Seymour was a projection of Salinger himself, more than even most characters are with writers, and I think that might account for why Salinger was so reclusive and paranoiac, and why the only interview he granted was to those high school students in the early 70s. I think Salinger liked kids. Maybe REALLY liked'em. His estate is surely keen to control the legacy of his work (whatever that precisely is), so, like Jacko, it'll be something that's camouflaged, explained away, and/or concealed. But still, it makes me wonder.

Wow

A childhood friend of mine read "Aegis," and he offered a very thorough commentary on it, which I had to post, because it was pretty amazing...

I finally got a chance to read your story yesterday, and I'm very glad I did. I'm sure others have gnawed over Aegis' characters, dialogue, plot, etc. the way wolves do with visceral matter still recalicitrantly adhering to a shoulder; so, I'm taking an alternative approach. I really enjoyed the way you described Euryale's home. It encapsulated her.

Many other writers utilize the setting as an enlarged prop which, at times allegorically, queered the lines of subjectivity and objectivity along with the character herself. The semiotic effect between her home and herself seems to oscillate to the point that, in spite of her secrecy, it exposes her personality. From Julian's initial encounter with her home until his final confrontation, you reveal Euryale's character in the same way one tours an historical manor, converted into a museum. Reading it in that perspective, I see her not as a tragic heroine, but a waste of life and an intended blight upon humanity, as she saw herself through her gods' perspective: "'the ... curses they bestow upon us, the less fortunate.'" Her property presents itself as an oxymoron: wild yet conservative, no trespassing yet enter if you must. Both she and it weigh visitors with a scale for earnest sincerity (or ... do you really wanna' go there).

The garden grants Julian a first impression of Euryale's persona. After bypassing the reclusive compound's "impassible" fence, that contradictorily was "not entirely adequate to the task," he observes the "well-tended" wild roses all pink and white, with nary a red one. While Julian recognizes the maintained order, he fails to regard the significance of color. I believe that you reveal that their owner has a strong degree of control without passion, as evident with the absence of red blossoms. The wild variant of roses might imply that she does not inherently align with our laws and culture, a bit more than marching to the beat of her own drummer. From the wild roses wrapped around one of her victims (the statue of a trespasser), I infer that she enthralls her victims, regardless of their entry, until it's too late for them. The flowers (and their stems) ensnare her prisoner, granting no quarter, and obliging a permanent suffering. She even explains that "'no one enters my garden without invitation.'" Euryale knows exactly who walks her grounds, or rather, interacts with her; how intimate they familiarize themselves with her, is entirely up to her. She weighs their desire and determines the degree of wanting.

Her home's interior allegorically mirrors her mind. Throughout the hallways and front rooms, paintings of landscapes and portraits of those she knew are displayed; "every inch of the walls was taken up with paintings." These paintings show her age and travels - the teleological significances. Yet, they hang dispassionately, with more affection to the frames or imposed prisons containing them. She brings him into the cold living room which presents a culturally modern look to make visitors suppose she's image conscious. But, it's the coldness Julian feels about the room which informs the reader that Euryale cares little for it or the occupants frequenting it. She even frankly admits to Julian that her talent for painting is "adequate" at best. He completely misses her dispassionate take on life, as if it now bores her. Later on in the story, she hints about the artwork in her other rooms, paintings of others that knew her more intimately, but these memories share the same apathetic feel as they hang on her walls and consume space in her immortal memory. Julian recognizes upon his entrance on the grounds that, "the house felt lonely, and he felt sympathy with that." As his interaction with her continues, he fails to understand that Euryale, too, experiences those pangs, and that the house mirrors it.

Only when he arrives at her inner sanctum does he begin to realize Euryale's banality and lack of panache. For her, this room is her inner sanctum - where she conducts her work and where she reveals her identity. It's spartan minimalism denies any interpretation; its blank white walls, mundane track lighting and glass block windows (which eliminate any inspiration from the reality outside) present an uninspiring studio, and Julian calls it like he sees it: "'You're not a sculptor, you're a fraud' ... " She may have relocated some of her work or other memorabilia around to other rooms, like Clive's to her bedroom, but this studio is where the magic (or lack thereof) happens in her existence. Her bland studio explains much about her thoughts and life, along with the mirror - capturing her true being and revealing something as devoid of vivacity as the statues she damns.

"'You're not even an artist, you're a monster.'" Yep, even the house with its snake-like Gothic slate tiles and cold iron gate hint at her nature: taloned hands, snakes for hair, controlled wild garden flowers imply a subtle mythical creature who desires to "'remind people that nightmares still walk the world.'" This self admission confirms what her guest Julian felt all along. Moreover, her distaste for the word monster reinforces her earlier self description as one of the cursed less fortunate. Yet it's the subtlety that I cannot shake. Julian wanted to see her. He repeatedly ignores all the warnings she offers and pays attention to her seductive mystery to the point that he exposes himself as he truly is, through his artwork. She weighs his earnest sincerity and finds it not wanting but appealing. Just like the house, it gauges visitors (desired or undesired) and determines whether its facade keeps people away or grants the more determined access to its interior. Once inside, the walls and rooms subtly show nothing more than the disdain for life and her history, until one reaches her studio and observes the absence of everything - a living being devoid of a soul.

Crush: Ginormica

I watched "Monsters V. Aliens" with the boys last night, and found that I kinda liked Ginormica. She seemed fun. White-haired, lithe giantess? Hmmm. Not bad, not bad. And that's coming from somebody who hates (HATES) the word "ginormous," so that's testament to Ginormica's appeal.

Networking

This is a great scene, and speaks to our future from the past...



Chayefsky's sermonizing in "Network" may be dated in some ways, but when you think about cybernetics marching onward, the concept of "dehumanization" takes on an entirely different context. Depending on where we end up in this century, it could be an upward and evolutionary process, or a downward spiral into final oblivion.

The Mummy

Saw a mummified squirrel on the way to the bus stop this morning. Must've died in a snowbank or something, and when the snow went away, there was the squirrel mummy -- I thought it was a rat at first, because it was black, but then realized it was a squirrel. A ghoulish memento of the winter.

Sort of weird running across that, after watching "Zodiac" on DVD last night. I think it's a good David Fincher movie -- his excesses are reined in by the demands of being rooted in time and place. Anyway, since there is a scene with squirrels in it, seeing that this morning made me shudder anew.

It's weird to think about the Zodiac killings, because so much of it depended on police departments not communicating with each other, over-reliance on particular experts, and other assorted missteps that perhaps might not have been so much of a factor these days. I'm sure investigative botches occur all the time, but theories around serial killing weren't as well-developed in the early 70s as they are now, and plenty of the warning signs of a suspect or two were likely glossed over, whereas today, they would point to particular suspects straightaway.

I'm sleepy today. A bit sleep-indebted from the weekend.

Salinger and LitFic

This piece talks about Salinger being credited with the creation of the literary short story. Perhaps "blame" would be a better word?

Dream: Bundy? No, Danson

I woke up too early, then went back to sleep, had a bad dream/nightmare for my troubles! Thanks, Brain! I dreamed I was in a house I used to own, and was talking to my folks on the phone, when I became aware of this presence, this sense of somebody in the house who ought not to be. This while I was in the basement. So, I'm hunting around for something to use as a weapon, and keep finding useless toy weapons -- green Colt .45 squirtgun? No good. Black Smith & Wesson .45 Peacemaker cap gun? No good. A starter pistol? No good. Colt Navy replica revolver? No good. I peek at the stairs and see this guy's feet, moving very quietly, realllll sneaky-like. So, I hang up on my folks (not wanting them to worry and/or give away my position) and I draw back the hammer on the replica pistol, which makes a nice authentic-seeming click, even though I'm desperate to find an actual weapon. The guy doesn't hear it, keeps going down the steps. He has a rifle. He's a middle-aged guy with a kind of hair helmet ala Ted Danson. He doesn't see me, as I'm crouched behind some boxes. I find a machete. Finally! A weapon. I have the cap pistol in one hand, and the machete in the other, am bracing for this psycho to find me.

He sees me at last, once he's down in the room, and I brandish the cap pistol and blaze away at him, which startles him, and he ducks, firing his rifle, which thankfully misses me. Then I throw the pistol at him, and charge him with the machete. I go to swing at him but the rifle deflects the blow, and the guy runs back upstairs, leaving me in the basement.

Then I woke up.

J. D. Salinger. Seymour or Less?

I just saw that Salinger died. He influenced me a lot in the mid-90s, when I went on a Salinger reading binge. I read most of his books back then, liked his writing style, even though the world he conjured didn't really speak to me, I liked his writing style.

I have a few bones to pick with Salinger, but will revisit that another time, since he just died. I always thought that he was his enigmatic character, Seymour. Or that he projected much of himself onto Seymour, for perhaps various reasons he wanted to keep hidden from the world.

http://www.nybooks.com/articles/13773

State of the Union?

Obama and the Democrats have really dug themselves into a hole. It's amazing. They need to realize that, unlike the Republican base, who by and large will stay by their leaders so long as they keep goose-stepping to their agenda, with the Democratic base, it is built entirely in progress -- forward momentum, building a better, brighter future for all Americans. And when there is no progress, there is immediate risk of backlash. The GOP understands that if they can prevent the Democrats from getting anything done, they magically get on equal footing with the Democrats, despite their absence of an actual mandate. They keep people believing that government is good for nothing (except when it helps), and that it's the problem, not the solution. Weirdly, it creates the idea that the government is this unaccountable and alien entity, apart from "real" Americans (which embody stalwart Republican values like mandatory prayer in schools, warrantless wiretapping, endless militarism, gutting environmental protections, privatization of public assets, secret wars and sabotaging the Bill of Rights, etc.) The GOP, in their bid to demonize government, work paradoxically to make government as evil as they can -- civil rights fly out the window in favor of a centralized police state where corporate wealth is the only thing to be protected, where the rich are free to enjoy their wealth without the rest of the country having much say about it.

That's been their agenda since about 1964, and it hasn't changed. The Democrats continue to fail to realize this. Movement conservatism isn't going to work with "the enemy" (e.g., anybody that isn't them); it's why movement conservatives excel at forming Marxian blocs that don't budge an inch, forcing the Democrats to give and give and give again.

The Democrats need to do an end run around the Republicans, and grab the unacted-upon social mandate that is there, if only they had the political courage to risk going for it.

They won't do it; if they could have, they would have decades ago. They'll only pretend to do so. It's very frustrating.

Quote: George R. R. Martin

“Henry James and Robert Louis Stevenson’s quarrel divided us into realism and romanticism, and, in a way, fantasy writers are all children of Stevenson, and literary fiction writers are all like James. But now you’ve got writers like Michael Chabon and Junot Diaz who are accepted in literary fiction despite their clear groundings in fantasy. There’s no real distinction between fantasy and literary fiction.”

Ouch

I made the mistake of getting too many groceries at the Fullerton El stop last night, after work, ended up doing a kind of Bataan Death March with the groceries, hauling them homeward about 1.3 miles. Now, that isn't a tough distance ordinarily; I'm used to walking through the city and all, but encumbered with many pounds of groceries entrusted to my carpal-tunnel-damaged wrists, it was a bit of a slog. And with the CTA apparently getting a head start on their whole service cutbacks plan for February, not a bus in sight, so I trekked it home, my wrists aching, shoulders sore. Next time I do that, I'm totally bringing a hauler for the groceries, so I won't be lumbering about. In the snow and wind, it was comically horrible. I felt like stopping into a bar on the way for some refreshment, leaving groceries on the curb.

Seems like college students these days are so much bigger than they were in my day. Just taller. I'm 6'3", and routinely college guys and girls are taller than me! Maybe DePaul attracts amazonian people, I'm not sure. But walking through the Dominick's there, I was amazed to see that.

I've got a new story idea I'm toying with, for a book. I'm going to bang it out, see what comes of it.