For the last twenty-four hours or so, I’ve been feeling, for want of a better way to put it, actively happy. Contentment is good. Heck, I’d even call it great. This, however, is different. It’s the sort of happy which propels one forward, a sort of happy which radiates off you like some sort of human analog of Hawking radiation, apparently creating something out of nothing. It’s very much the sort of happy which makes you look forward to the rest of your life and wish you could tack on a bit more at the end if it isn’t too much bother. I’m in a good mood. I’m in a good mood and I can’t think of any, single proximate cause. It’s certainly not work, which, at its best, is something that doesn’t occupy too much of my brainspace. My health hasn’t magically improved; I may have suffered a little setback in that regard. I just feel ridiculously positive about where I am and what the future may look like, assuming my augury tools are properly calibrated. Novelist Matt Haig turned forty on Twitter this week and did the a little of the traditional fretting about it (in fun, I suspect.) I got to thinking about my turning that same age a while back and how remarkably good my forties have been to me. They’ve easily been the best decade, a fact which surprises me a little. Not that I would have listened, but I don’t remember anyone telling me that things got better as one got older. I wonder if it’s to do with mental health I feel like my brain is working very well right now and that I’m equipped to deal with most of what gets tossed my way. You get some chicken-and-egg problems trying to analyze your own happiness, especially when you’re speculating about how your own mental well-being is affecting said happiness, so I’ll just leave it at that. Mind feels clear and sharp. Love my current vector. Love my not-quite-wife-but-we’re-going-to-rectify-that. Love the people around me. Love the people who aren’t nearby, but I know are there anyway. Life is good. I’ll try to enjoy it without clutching. -RK The laptop, now looking properly “mine.”
Category: Journal
In which my body gets it backwards (plus some Coffee Achievers stuff)
I was unwell last evening. Headaches, nausea, and just plain exhaustion put me in bed by 7:30 which is to say, last night might as well not have happened from my standpoint. I was prepared to call in to the office this morning, legitimately ill. Of course, now I’m no longer legitimately ill, and I’m at the office. I need to have a word or two with my body about this. If it isn’t too much bother, I would prefer to be sick during work hours and well during my time off. This sort of arrangements is one of the few perks of having an “exempt” position and I almost never take advantage of it. Bother. On the plus side, while I’m reasonably sure I won’t be able to salvage anything from the story I wrote the other night, browsing through my drafts folder brought my attention to another failed bit which is absolutely perfect for adaptation to the task at hand. There’s probably a French expression for this sort of thing, but I have no clue what it might be. So, back to the task this evening, assuming my body is ok with it. On the double-plus side, pouring my coffee this morning reminded me of one of the most awesome relics of the 80’s: The Coffee Achievers! Remember The Coffee Achievers? No? In the early-mid 80’s, the coffee people decided to run a series of ads to try to get young people interested in their product. Coffee was on the decline while MTV was on the rise, so, they put two and two together and came up with The Coffee Achievers: A series of 30 second spots, set to the music of the incomparable Electric Light Orchestra, featuring: Actress Cicely Tyson Football player Ken Anderson Musician David Bowie Writer Kurt Vonnegut Actress Jane Curtin Musicians Ann and Nancy Wilson (Heart) Read that list carefully and then try to tell me this wouldn’t have been the most awesome crimefighting superhero group ever. And man, you want to talk about reboots? Try casting The Coffee Achievers of the 2010’s. Imagine a crossover. I really want to take a stab at this, but I can’t stop imagining how amazing it would be if this were one of Warren Ellis’ secret projects. *sigh* A man can dream. A man can dream. -RK
The car drove great, but it wouldn’t take me anywhere
Last night, I tried something a little different. I cleared my head, cleared the space around me, and decided to just start working on a story cold. Just sit down, pick a title, and write. Two hours later, I’d knocked out several pages of work that I feel was pretty darned well written…and the story was complete garbage. I felt like I was on a roll in terms of telling it, but the story itself? It just didn’t work. It’s bad enough that I’m not sure there’s anything I can salvage. It’s sitting in the drafts folder, just daring me to delete it. This being for Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenge this week, the title was the name of randomly selected song, and it was a good one, although maybe a little too leading. There was really only one place the story could go, and it was too obvious right from the beginning. (Can you tell I’m working through this as we speak?) Of the top of my head, I can think of two rescue strategies. I can either figure out a way to twist it, to make it take a unexpected fork, or I can go all Treasure of the Sierra Madre on it and make it about foreboding. Or maybe just roll the ol’ random number generator again and see what it gives me. Like I said, I liked everything about the story but the story (which is a very significant “but”). I’d still deem the operation a success. Pity about the patient, though…
June 26, 2015 – A date which will live in the opposite of infamy
In a sense, it’s a little disappointing that the “Land of the Free” took so long to get around to something like marriage equality, but I’m not going to let that get in the way of enjoying something that’s been a long, long time coming. In the end, the Supreme Court just ratified what America as a whole has already determined. That’s not to say it wasn’t a long, difficult, and bitter fight, but in the end, the court didn’t lead so much as just recognize reality. I was raised in a very different time. That being the case, I’m going to have to have to re-learn some nomenclature and un-learn some assumptions. That’s fine by me. Societies changes and language changes to accommodate those changes and older folks like myself have to adapt. These are symptoms of growth and progress. I’m going to get my words wrong sometimes, I’ll mistakenly assume that when a guy gets married that he’ll have a “wife,” and I’ll be embarrassed. I won’t do it on purpose, and I’ll expect to be corrected when I get it wrong. I’ll get there, just bear with me. On the other hand, I don’t expect ever to understand how people can feel bitter and belittled by other people getting the same freedoms that they already enjoy. It strikes me as petty and selfish to think that your rights are less valuable when they’re extended to more people. At that point, you’re not talking about “rights,” you’re talking about “privilege.” Perhaps someone can explain it to me in terms that make sense to me, but to date, no one has managed it. In a roundabout way, today is going to be kind of a watershed for speculative and science fiction writing. From this point forward, any story about a future that doesn’t include same-sex relationships is going to look dated and naive. It’s going to feel implausible. This is a good thing. We as a people have grown a little bit and our stories should reflect this. This isn’t the end of the road by any stretch of the imagination. There are plenty of institutional biases still entrenched in society and in law that need to be swept away. There are certianly many, many more that I’m not even aware of, and there will new ones emerging every generation. There is no final destination on the path to reform. Reform is a process. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing, and it certainly doesn’t mean we shouldn’t celebrate with abandon when we get it right. So, congratulations to the Supreme Court of the United States and everyone living in America: You got this one right. I feel much more excited about getting married now that it’s a more inclusive institution. I’ll close with this: I think today should be a national holiday. Either the 26th of June or the last Friday in June. How does “Freedom Day” sound to you?
A short post about Patrick McNee (1922-2015)
As far as I was concerned, there was only one man who personified the “English secret agent” and his name was “Steed.” Bond was too clumsy and full of himself, Templar was too derivative, Smiley was too realistic, Cornelius was, well, at the other end of the spectrum from Smiley, and I was too young to really “get” Number 6. Patrick McNee’s John Steed struck just the right note. He had fun with the character (playing off of Diana Rigg, who wouldn’t?), his timing was spot on, and while he didn’t bring a great deal of physicality to the role, his bearing more than made up for it. I won’t lie: I’m not nearly as familiar with his other work (aside from The New Avengers, which was still loads of fun). Every time I’d see him in another film or show, my first thought was “oh, John Steed!”, but he was always at the very least good, and frequently excellent, in everything I saw him do. I hope he was happy up till the end, and even I know him primarily from one television show almost a half century ago, I absolutely loved him for it. James Bond wasn’t fit to carry his umbrella. Steed and Peel, because you have to look that good to catch bad guys
Doing Slightly More Than Nothing About The Hugo Awards
If you’re at all interested in science fiction, you’re likely aware that this year’s Hugo Awards have been the subject of altogether too much silliness. I’ve been keeping tabs from a distance, weighing in from time to time, but not really getting involved. I’ve followed the daily updates on Mike Glyer’s File770.com with increasing disbelief at just how overheated the whole situation has become. For the first time in my life, I’ll be voting on the Hugo Awards this year. I’ve been reading science fiction for several decades now, but this is the first time I’ve felt strongly enough about the awards to get involved. One vote isn’t much, but I feel like it’s important to do what little bit I can. I’ll share my ballot after I submit it. -RK
Somewhere, at the distant edges of vision, it moves…
Have you ever had the vague feeling that you’ve awakened something very bad and it is no longer within your power to prevent it? I’ll be perfectly honest with you: I’m not a big fan of horror, be it in books, television, or movies. I just don’t find it particularly scary. I’m a past-master at suspending disbelief, but there’s something about frightening stories that I just don’t find very frightening. Perhaps it’s due to my being plenty scared by my life as it is. That’s a question for the therapist, I suppose. There is one aspect of the scary story which I do find evokes fear in me. It’s the moment at which the protagonist realizes that that which they’ve called may well have answered their call. The moment of realization that dread Cthulhu’s gaze is slowly falling upon you, or that the Candyman has heard that recognized that final syllable and smiled, or whatever. You’ve done your bit and there’s no undoing it. Your shadow has stepped away from your feet. You’ve started it, but you can no longer stop it. For some, that moment comes as a relief. They’ve passed the baton and whatever horror awaits is sure to be less painful than the task of summoning one’s own doom. For most though, it’s the recognition that their reckless disregard for the warnings scratched into the old spell book has obligated them to pay a price they weren’t prepared to pay. Which is to say, I’ve had better days. I’m staring intently at the tea leaves at the bottom of the cup and they appear to be saying “We are coming. Thank you for the invitation.” I’m sure it’s just a trick of the light and nothing more. Nothing to be worried about at all. -RK
Another rainy Sunday
It seems appropriate, in an area prone to brief spasms of wild, destructive weather, that the broader, decades-long patterns would mimic the day-to-day weather like some sort of meteorological fractal. The skies have decided to erase this drought we’ve been experiencing for the entire Obama administration over the course of a single Spring. We’ve had plagues of frogs, which I suspect are a normal result of abnormal rain as opposed to any sort of mystical harbinger, but I’ll leave my dreamcatchers out just in case. (Speaking of magic, I’ve discovered that my thin mustache not only does not give me John Steinbeck powers when it comes to writing, it also draws disapproving looks from the one person whose opinion of my appearance matters to me. Back to the drawing board.) For some reason, when there’s rain falling and the windows fog up just a little, a warm beverage tastes better than anything, regardless of the temperature. I’ve gone through more coffee today than I do on most weekdays, and that is an absurdly large amount best measured in pots rather than cups. I can just sit here, watch the rains, sip my coffee, and the world seems about as perfect as a world can be. Pro-tip: Do not open any browsers to any social media or news sites when you’re attempting to replicate this. The novel I’m currently reading during my commutes is Thomas Pynchon’s Against The Day. Going forward, I may abstain from largish hardcover volumes for reading on the train as my arms are neither as strong nor as supple as they once were. Anyway, even though this is Pynchon at his most accessible, this is Literature-with-a-capital-“L.” I know from many, many failures how difficult it is to make writing appear this effortless and to teach so well, to embed the lesson so seamlessly into the story, that you could miss the meanings entirely and still enjoy the book. Finally, speaking of books, dropped by my favorite bookstore yesterday and picked up a copy of John Scalzi’s Redshirts, which will be my next commuter book. I understand there was an attempt to boycott Mr. Scalzi’s publisher, Tor, yesterday. I’ve looked into the reasons behind the boycott and the imperatives issued by the parties who called the boycott and I am not impressed with either the causes nor the methods of those involved, so I made a small, symbolic purchase to counter their actions. It appears as though the boycott went beyond failure and landed well into “backfired” territory, so it seems I wasn’t the only person who chose to defy it. If you’re looking for something new to read, please consider taking a look at Tor’s lineup. They publish many excellent books by some terrific authors and, while the boycott seems to have failed to have its desired effect, they can always use the business. -RK
In a sentimental mood
Back in ye olden tymes (the 1970’s), I used to sit for hours in our living room, poking through our encyclopedias. I’d look something up and the article would mention some other interesting tidbit. This being the pre-hypertext era, I’d have to pull out the appropriate volume and look up the new item, and so on. Invariably, the end result was a skinny kid surrounded by a pile of brown and white World Books. In this marvelous world of The Future, of course, you can lose yourself in this activity so much more conveniently. Wikipedia is, for me, where productivity goes to die, but productivity’s nemesis, curiousity, takes over. This is always fun, but it’s especially delightful when you find connections between things you never suspected would ever intersect. That’s a long way of saying that I’ve always been a big fan of Enya’s first couple of album. For years (decades!), I’ve dreamed of a post-wedding dance to Caribbean Blue*. I put the video on and I was reminded of what a beautiful bit of work the visuals are. So, I popped over the the Wikipedia page and read up on it. It turns out that the look of the video was heavily influenced by the work of Maxfield Parrish. In hindsight, this should have been immediately obvious to me as I’ve always adored the works of Mr. Parrish. I’m not sure I can explain exactly what draws me to Parrish’s art but, if I were pressed, I’d say it looks like I’d imagine “magical realism” to look if it existed in our mundane world. That, and there’s the fact that I love his blues. Blue is my favorite color and no artist has ever made blue look as beautiful. So, reading about Parrish on his Wikipeida page**, I discovered that he illustrated Frank Baum’s Mother Goose in Prose and Eugene Field‘s*** Poems of Childhood. I had both of these books on my shelf when I was very, very young. I’ve remarked to anyone within earshot that I used to love the illustrations in children’s books and I’m thrilled when I come across a modern example of a book for children which pays proper attention to the art. I had no idea that one of my favorite artists was one I’d been exposed to as a toddler and who had left such a strong impression on me. The thread here, as if the title didn’t give it away, is that I can be as sentimental as they come and I have a lifelong love of art which pushes that button. I know “sentimental” is normally deployed as an insult to a work and/or the artist, but a song or a painting which evokes melancholy or longing or maybe even a little nostalgia strikes me as a beautiful thing. RK * I’d probably have to learn to waltz first, but dreams don’t concern themselves with such trifling details. ** Seriously, check this one out. Parrish’s technique is amazing just to read about, let alone imagine duplicating. *** Field’s father represented Dredd Scott in that case. I had no idea. Again, Wikipedia.
Firing on two cylinders
My brain is only just starting to get back to something approaching normal functionality. It’s been a rough week. A party, a fire fifty feet from my home, and a simple lack-of-tiredness kept me from getting my ever-so-needed beauty sleep last week. Thirty years ago, four hours of sleep before a full day of work was no big deal. These days, it has a severe impact on my ability to do anything but drool on myself and compulsively check the football transfer news. The good news is that the part of my brain which has remained engaged is chugging along nicely. Reading begets writing, and vice-versa. I’ve managed to get my workspace fully in order now, I’ve carved out some time for Important Projects About Which I Shall Not Yet Speak. It’s a start. There remains work to be done. My body’s still a bit of a mess. My skin remains resistant to treatment. Currently, it’s not getting worse, but it’s not completely healed. I need to sort that. Plus, the downside of having steroids pumped into your carcass is that, unless you work out a great deal, you’ll put on weight in a hurry. I do not work out a great deal. Additionally, I have some weekly commitments which are increasingly less worth the time I’m putting in to them. I’m going to have to re-arrange that schedule or, maybe, make the tough decision to pull the plug on something I’ve invested ten years of my life into. “Sunk cost” is the phrase that comes to mind. -RK