Thursday, September 27, 2012

Henry Cleary and Such

Some of my old paleo-art has gotten noticed over at Love in the Time of Chasmosaurs -- check it out!


Henry Cleary is a big, solid guy who lives out at Point Richmond sometime a few years from now. Henry thinks of himself as a sculptor working in biotechnological media, but if you break down the numbers, he's spending money on his art. Mostly, he does odd jobs.

Very odd jobs. So far he's reluctantly used gene therapy to un-pug a pug, helped a teenager whose wireless tattoo had been hijacked, and rescued a rooster who's had a few chromosomes suppressed to make it distinctly saurian.

Henry's world is the San Francisco East Bay, green and gold in the hills and urban sprawl in the flats. Henry likes to feel useful, and he has a lot of friends who are happy to oblige him. His stories are anecdotes rather than dramas. Leave your grim-and-gritty behind, and slip into a low-key good-natured bio-bohemia as comfortable as a well-worn T-shirt.

I can't really tell you any more than that right now, but things are going on with Henry. Let me put it this way. It's not just that I can't say -- it's that I don't even understand it. The whole damned world has gone insane. This could be nothing, it could be big, it could be covered in weeping sores or it could be decked out in a low-cut evening gown.

When I say the whole damned world has gone insane, I include myself, of course. Do you know what I did the other day? Of course not!

I cut a rough preliminary version of a bumper for an upcoming videocast. Since I'm torturing you with the Henry Cleary thing and some other stuff, this I can talk about.

I've decided to take the memoir pieces I've been performing for Lip Service West and do a series of video podcasts or whatever the fuck you call them. They'll be done in sets of seven, each set to be collected on DVD. The collective series is called Bone Chips. When I've mined out all productive veins of horror in my early life, the series ends, and I attempt to take all the individual pieces and rework them into a book. Cool art pal Deborah Kuchar is handling the filming, and I'm doing everything else.

So I'm working out the titles, the bumpers, the bits at the beginning and the end. And this is where everything gets screwy. I'm presenting myself to the public in a sixteen-second clip. It would be nice to say, "I"m just showing myself as I am," but. There's no such thing as that. Every time you present yourself to the public, you are making a statement about how you want to be viewed.

It's nice to think about presenting yourself in a totally unmediated way. But once you realize that you have options, the bloom is off the rose. You can't just 'be yourself' when you're writing a script or storyboarding a video.

So right now, I'm in the process of crafting a public image based on material written to define my self-image. It's like infinity, man, and it's freaking me out.

Or maybe I'm  just getting what everyone needs in this glutinous swamp of media we inhabit, the equalizer that lets us face the icons on their own home turf -- stark acoustic theme music, and a chilling glance at the camera as the last note is plucked.

Hey, the whole damned world's gone insane. I may as well have a little fun with it.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

When In Doubt, Delete


I just erased a very, very sensitive post about my very, very sensitive feelings. (See image above.)

Fuck my sensitive feelings.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Litquake


I've been sitting on this one for a while. I'll be reading for Joe and Justine Clifford's Lip Service West series at this year's Litquake. I'm really looking forward to this. I've been working hard on my piece, and I've had to improve my skills to pull this one off.

It deals with my relationship to violence and how I've alternately internalized and externalized rage, fear, and the need for control. It's forced me to look at myself and my life seriously, and to settle a whole set of internal conflicts that have eaten up a lot of my energy over the years. It also features what the Comics Code used to refer to as an 'injury-to-eye motif.'

What can I say? I write literary memoir, but I'm a pulp character.

A lot of artists who have a dramatic back story like mine wind up returning to their traumas over and over again because that's the material they have. I am not writing about my history and disabilities because that is my subject of choice. I am writing about them because it is one of the ways I'm healing myself. But I'm not going to spend the rest of my life obsessing over my issues. When I'm done with this material, I'm done with it.

So I have to do it right this time around.

If you look it up on the Litquake calendar, this show is called Gritty, Raw, and Real. I don't plan on letting down the team.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Fantasy Of The Future

This illustration is the work of Virgil Finlay from Famous Fantastic Mysteries, August 1950; all rights to the holder.

Here’s a fun game. Let’s take a literary theme – fantasy fiction set in the far future – and follow a line of association and influence that has lasted more than a hundred years. While this is intended to give some of my friends who write inside genre fiction some avenues of exploration, if you get the feeling I’ve got a bug up my ass about the relationship between genre fiction and the larger culture, well. You can’t talk about anything without letting your perspective show. And don't ignore the links -- the earlier works are available for free on-line, so you can give them a taste if you're curious.

And rather than repeatedly qualifying statements of opinion, I state up-front that when I make judgments on the quality or nature of a work? Those would be opinions. And they would be based on my most recent reading of the work in question, and my positions on literature shift rapidly in response to my own writing, and I might actually have different feelings about everything by the time you’re reading this.

Okay?

This branch of fantasy is distinguished by a sense of strangeness beyond that of fantasy based on folklore or its corporate derivatives – in some ways the imaginative effort required overlaps with that of science fiction. No wonder, considering how it started out.

The Time Machine by H.G. Wells was first published in 1895. While Wells wrote the first works that have the shape and flavor of modern science fiction, they were written and published in a time when genre as we know it did not exist. The groundwork had been laid primarily by Edgar Allen Poe (I am so tempted to include The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym in this list – it isn’t set in the future, but it shares much of the spirit of the works I discuss) and other newspaper writers, but Wells was a gifted, mature novelist with serious literary concerns.

This is the most readable book on this list, and in many ways the freshest and most modern. It was written for a general audience rather than people specifically seeking out fantasy. And the others affect an air of antiquity, deliberately and to pleasing effect, but requiring more specific tastes.

The pattern in most of Wells’ science fiction is to take one fantasy element – the ‘gimme’ – and then extrapolate logically and convincingly from there. In this case, an unnamed Traveller builds a machine that allows him to travel through time. (Glad to have nailed that down for you. The uncertainty you’ve suffered all these years must have been crippling.) He lands in a future where mankind has speciated in a fashion informed by Dickens’ social consciousness applied to Darwin’s principals of natural selection.

Semi-Spoiler Alert: So when the Traveler gets it on with Weena, is it bestiality or child abuse? I agree with the Morlock who said, “It’s in extremely poor taste to fuck them.”

Semi-Semi-Spoiler Alert: More puerile sniggers ahead, unfortunately.

While Wells was scientifically literate and employed his knowledge of evolution, geology, and astrology to The Time Machine, His brand of science fiction resides comfortably in the realm of fantasy. He used scientific thought and speculative games to give a modern gloss to the old form of the parable. His straightforward, purposeful storytelling is still lively, entertaining, and thought-provoking.


Illustration by Jason Van Hollander. All Rights to Holder.

At the end of The Time Machine, there are a series of tableaux showing the decay and end of life on Earth. There is a cold, distant, overwhelming pessimism to these scenes that left me shaken as a child. These scenes influenced William Hope Hodgson, first in the final sections of The House on the Borderland, and then the long novel The Night Land.

The Night Land is brutal, romantic, bleak, and above all visionary. And in many ways it’s the first modern fantasy novel. It shows the remnants of mankind dwindling in the night that follows the sun’s death. Monstrosity itself has fixed its eye on the survivors. Here and in the fiction of Algernon Blackwood lie the real roots of the Cthulhu mythos. If you crave visions of beings and places you have never seen before, you must read this book.

But it isn’t easy. It’s written in an affected archaic style that, like its framing sequence, seemed to influence the much-better-written The Worm Ouroboros. And it’s mainly focused on one of the most hilariously cringe-inducing romances in the history of literature.

The basic elements of the Harlequin/Boone & MIlls-style romance evolved fairly early in the primordial soup, and they are all on display here. While the reticence of the author and its times draw a discreet veil, it is pretty obvious that as the two lead characters make their way across the chill landscape, crossing from one volcanic pit to another, that they are obsessed with one another. This allows the reader the fun of figuring out where they are in their physical relationship at any given point in the story – “She’s giving him the tongue. She has to be giving him the tongue.”

The thing is, is that they have the kind of relationship that makes heterosexual monogamy seem like the kinkiest fucking thing in the universe. Her little shoes and his great manly chest and there’s even a part where he hits her because she places his needs ahead of hers. It did not say that when he hits her it feels like a kiss, but this is strongly implied.

EEW!

So I can cringe and giggle through the boring romance crap, but you’ll have to find your own way of filling the gaps between Humped Men and giant slugs and that horrible Face.

It’s important to remember that for a long time, this was the first and only work of its kind. Back in the old days – which extended to my adulthood – there weren’t many real fantasy novels, and if you had a taste for this stuff, you read pretty much all of it. So while The Night Land seems eccentric and obscure now, any fantasy writer working before around 1960 at least tried reading the son of a bitch, and it influenced most of them to some degree. You can’t read the thing and not have your imaginary landscape enlarged…

Illustration by Jason Van Hollander. All Rights to Holder.

Zothique is a super-continent formed in the far future when all the continents have collided into a single landmass. Clarke Asthon Smith’s stories aren’t so much stories as prose poems, sensory impressions laden with just enough narrative to string them together like beads on a necklace. Rather than write series based on characters, he would write multiple stories in a setting such as Zothique, linked more by mood than by geographical details or shared characters.

And the mood of Zothique is decadent. It's worth hunting down the unexpurgated versions of these stories -- like asafetida, a touch of filth can be a fine seasoning.

Smith was originally known as a poet, and was celebrated in literary circles in the early part of the century. However, during the depression his parents fell ill and he turned to fiction to support them.

The first Zothique story, Empire of the Necromancers appeared in Weird Tales magazine in 1932. It is interesting to reflect that the author in this essay with the clearest links to high literature would also be the first published in a genre market.

But despite Smith’s popularity – he was one of the four most popular writers ever appearing in Weird Tales, along with Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft and “Number one in the day, where is he now?” Seabury Quinn – he had difficulty getting a lot of his work published. His prose style is not so much purple as ultraviolet, he had a strong erotic component to his work, and as I said, he was not a big fan of narrative.

The stories of Zothique have the distinct hashish-and-absinthe flavor of a French decadent – Rimbaud LINK, Baudalaire – after a heavy dose of Burton’s Arabian Nights. They glisten, they gleam and in their hearts they are as delectably rotten as Stilton.

Painting by Brom for the Science Fiction Book Club edition of The Complete Dying Earth. All Rights to Holder.

Which is the opposite tone from that of Jack Vance’s The Dying Earth. While set under a dying red sun, these stories mingle their decadence with an oddly light, floral effect. While there is much slyness and cruelty, there are hints of innocence and romance here that are dear and sweet. These are fairy tales, complete in themselves. Beautifully written, like most Vance, these works represent escapism at its best.

The second Dying Earth series features the character Cugel the Clever in two books, The Eyes of the Overworld, and Cugel’s Saga, have an entirely different tone. Cugel is a dirty man in a dirty world, and fuck you all if you don’t like it. It is also some of the best humor in fantasy. If you ever thought Wodehouse might be improved by less morals and more monsters, then step aboard.

The tone of the Rhialto the Marvelous stories, with which Vance finished his tour of the Dying Earth, lies somewhere between. The exchanges of alliance and hostilities between a group of eccentric and semi-inept magicians, it is fluff. But it is delectable fluff.
Let me be honest. Collectively, these are among my favorite stories, period. I've been periodically re-reading them since early childhood, with growing pleasure. So there's that.

Painting by Don Maitz; All rights to holder.

In Gene Wolfe’s The Shadow of the Torturer, there is a scene mentioning The Book of Gold, which lies on a library shelf. And if a child picks it up, they usually put it down. But if a child becomes ensnared by The Book of Gold, it falls into a state of servitude to the contents of the book that is both delightful and unnerving.

Wolfe has stated that The Book of Gold is actually Vance's The Dying Earth.

Now here’s something that I find fascinating. While Wolfe is the author in this list who is the most thoroughly ‘of’ genre – his works have been almost entirely published as genre material, he has studied with and taught genre writers, etc, etc – of the authors I discuss here, his work has the most in common with the current literary mainstream.

Wolfe first appeared in association with science fiction’s New Wave of the late sixties and early seventies. The New Wave brought the techniques of the modernists of the thirties and forties and applied them to genre-influenced material and themes, while also maintaining a strong connection to pop culture, especially music and the psychedelic influence. That said, Wolfe gives the impression of being anything but a hippy. Rather, he is a serious literary artist attempting to come to terms with the mixed influences of high and popular culture.

The Book of the New Sun, composed of The Shadow of the Torturer, The Claw of the Conciliator, The Sword of the Lictor, and Citadel of the Autarch, has a reflective, introspective quality, along with a genuine interest in character and mature, graceful prose. Rather than trying to amp up the excitement in the pulp style, this presents its events as regular old events in people’s lives. It also has the speculative thought games that are the real delight of science fiction. In these qualities, it was a conscious model for my own novel. On the other hand, despite being the story of an orphan boy who becomes king, the overall effect is a tad flat in the modernist manner. You nod your head – ‘yeah, life’s like that’ – but you don’t feel as if you actually got anywhere. But who cares when the trip is so nice?

And there we go. If there's any interest in more of this kind of thing, let me know -- I've got loads of this stored in my backbrain.

Monday, September 3, 2012

Taking Stock, Taking Action



I'm still here. Sorry for the break. Here's what's been going on.

It took me nearly ten years, but I finally finished the novel for submission. Then I finished the sixth Swill.

And then I stopped.

After the first few days, it started feeling a little crummy. When I complained to those close to me -- the missus, my dad, my counselor, and so on -- they said I needed the rest. Not to worry about it.

Okay.

But then a week or so ago, I found myself frightened of my emails. "Huh," I said, and took stock of myself and realized I had a fairly serious dose of clinical depression going on.

I went to my counselor, and said, "I've got the clinicals again."

She said, "But you're doing so well," and I reeled off some symptoms, and she said, "Holy smokes, those are the clinicals, all right. Time to take this seriously."

See, I've improved my self-care -- eating, sleeping, getting my way, and so on -- to the point where I'm no longer experiencing the more dramatic phases of my mental illnesses. But it turns out that not quivering with the strain of refraining from self-destruction isn't the same thing as mental health. It's not entirely different, I grant you. But something needs to give.

So. How to bust a depression.

First off, get back into the habit of activity. I did a draft of an essay yesterday and sent it to the Homework Club. First rule is that I have a draft of an essay with each of my writer's groups each week. This isn't a full-time writing load by my standards, but it'll get me a book in less than a year. And these will also be done as podcasts --- there is a chance that I'll be able to do these in video format, fingers crossed.

It's time to get back into blogging, I'm doing this blog post now, and I've got a few ideas for changing things up here. It's time to start trying to do more posts of general interest, something that might grow my audience.

This afternoon or tomorrow morning I'll steel my nerve and start answering my emails. I have begun neatening up the house and my studio -- lack of control over my environment is a symptom, yes, but it is also something that can be corrected.

Then I can start tackling the immediate projects on my plate -- lessons for a friend who wants writing instruction, short fiction for another friend who has a project in the works, marketing the novel, and putting together a portfolio so I can market an art show based on my work for Swill.

I also need to do pro-quality websites for both myself and Swill, and begin presenting Swill to the literary establishment. I mean, we're part of the literary establishment. It's just that hardly anyone knows. I need to apply to some of the classier writing colonies, get a little shine on the resume.

And I need to learn something, and meet new people, so I'm going to either join or start a critique and support group -- like my writer's groups -- for cartooning. I've looked, thought, and consulted, and it's time for me to get to grips with the graphic novel.

Somewhere in there, the depression will either start to lift or cease to matter. Damn, though, this one was sneaky. If my email hadn't suddenly cramped up on me I might have just gone gliding along, going deeper and deeper and never noticing until the pressure finally crushed my skull. Whee!

So next post? Something good, no more of this self-indulgent drivel.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Swill 6 Is Here!


Swill 5 came out in December of 2010. Swill 6 is finally done. Why so late? I'm the problem, I've always been the problem, and I'll always be the problem. If you've been following the blog, you know the soap-opera, and if you haven't? My life is a fucking soap opera! For Christ's sake, it's a miracle I'm not dead or locked up. On the other hand, in all modesty, when I was apologizing to Rob the other evening, he said, "Well, it is a fucking work of art."

On the cover, we have a much-beloved and very kind blurb from Joe Loya, and on the back we've got the mandatory Rob Pierce short-short (or 'flash fiction,' as the youngsters call it). This one is a bit more pointed and wistful than his usual mal humor...

Rob put my story Primitive first. It's very much in my Shirley Jackson/Saki/John Collier mode, and it deals with my relationship with my mother in a fairly direct fashion. While I wish I'd written it yesterday instead of two years or so ago, it's still one of my stronger short works. I'll stand by this one.

William J. Fedigan's Catholic Prayers is too short to describe, operating on the boundary between flash fiction and poetry. There are times I worry we publish so many Catholic writers as to give the impression we're at war with the church.

Failure To Commit by Shawna Yang Ryan sets addiction, faith, and sex on an ungodly freeway collision. Ms. Ryan's novel Water Ghosts is a moody look at a slice of California history I should have been taught in school, and what -- really -- is she doing here? Doesn't she know better?

A quick aside. This is the thing that gets to me. When Rob and I started out, we had no idea what we were doing. And now, seven years and six issues later, we manage to attract a lot of 'real' writers, writers that publish professionally. I'm a nut with a bad back, and Rob is a family man who works at a copy store. We are not going to be paying for stories any time soon, much as we wish we could. So how is it we get good stories from good writers?

I think two things come into play. One -- we are fucking old-fashioned. We edit, and we print, and we do so in a way calculated to make the writer feel as if they have been attended to. Or beaten like a government mule, but in a refreshing way. The other is that we operate in a zone that allows us to print things that just wouldn't fit in anywhere else -- and sometimes even the best of families can produce a two-headed baby. We love those two-headed babies.


Still, how does being broke, picky, late, and having an inordinate fondness for the fictional equivalent of two-headed babies lead to something beginning to resemble credibility? I find the process confusing.


Anyway.

The Dog Shit House by Charity Ankrum was a pain in the ass to acquire. Charity is my sister, and she's probably the funniest writer I know of, on a line-by-line basis. "This shit is like Mark Leyner meets Jack Handey!" I'd rave, and she'd swirl her wine, look into the distance. "Yes, I know. So derivative." And she'd never do anything with her writing, and I'd scream. After nagging and nagging and nagging, I finally got this out of her. I wanted funny, and instead I got a harrowing revelation that my family is even more white trash than I'd thought, and it covers the same territory as my story with less artifice. God damn it. Put this story over one eye and Primitive over the other, and you can see a Richmond childhood.

Junior on the Lam by Don Jennings is another short shot, and this bad boy rains on its own parade with a little more media savvy than absolutely needed.

A Long Road by Craig Hartglass stubbornly, persistently refuses to do the obvious thing. Stories within stories and not so much an ending as a drifting downstream into the distance...

Okay, what I said up there about two-headed babies? How about a story concerning a Zoroastrian disco racquetball coach? I, Racquetball Coach by Keith Rutledge and illustrated by Robin Eagleton -- who is the first artist aside from myself to have work in Swill, and I hope he appreciates my giving him two whole pages -- is exactly the kind of thing that Swill exists to publish. It is really good, and completely fucked in the head. It is my special favorite. A twenty-first century Walter Mitty who insists on living his fantasies, protagonist Carl Henshaw's generically-scriptural voice and sincerity provide a dizzy, squirmy, hilarious read, and the illustrations give it the perfect Saturday Evening Post-Punk vibe.

Rob Pierce's As Good A Cop is sparse, brief, and more absent than present -- in the negative space/jazz sense, by which I mean you have to read outside the story if you're going to read the story.

Rob had sent me two stories -- "One of these is a shoe-in, and one I just want you to read." And one of the stories had been submitted by a friend of mine. Thankfully, Giant Spider In My Garage by George R. Galuschak was the shoe-in. If you have ever spent a lonely Sunday afternoon watching old black-and-white monster movies and gotten that feeling, then this story talks your language. George, by the way, is great. One time when a group of writers was talking about how much they liked George (this seems to happen a lot), I said, "George is like a houseplant or a fish tank," and got looks ranging from puzzlement to irritation. I said, "If he's in a room, it's a nicer room," and everyone nodded, and said, "Oh, yeah, I get it. Yeah. That makes sense."

Like I always say, the trick to making nepotism work is knowing the right people.

Fool Circle by Steve Young hits a particular Swill sweet spot -- the cleverly constructed gutter-level noir, the kind of story that's like riding a Wild Mouse that goes straight down into concrete.

Finally, Max Dunbar's They Walk Among Us.A panoptic view of a very specific, very real British dystopia. Nicely written with a strong local voice, wonderfully flexible viewpoints, and a solid moral underpinning. This is another of my favorites

And the six print series The Wet Season marks a real step forward for my imaginary landscape work. The new technique is producing the most satisfying results I've gotten so far, with an almost painterly quality that I'm quite proud of. Of course, I'm already wondering how I'm going to top it next time... For a second-rate artist, I have a good time.

So.

One of the things I did this last year was to investigate the current literary scene. Well, Swill does not look shabby in comparison. I'm not going to go into it any more than that, but Swill is a legitimate contender, and Rob and I have begun discussing means by which we can further the cause of Swill.

Expect... Well, expect the obvious. Facebook page, new website, T-shirt...

And a surprise or two.

Swill lives, walks, and conquers!

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Seeking Engagement


And this is the last of the illustrations for Swill. I'll be done with the damned thing tonight or tomorrow. I think this is distinctly better-looking than last issue. My experiments with the art bore mixed results -- only two of the pieces, including the cover, are in vector format. It was the size of my computer that was the issue. I could have done it with more RAM. Detailed art got strange when Illustrator autotraced it, and that could have been addressed by using a higher level of resolution and blah blah blah. I'm bushed.

It was cool. I'd finished all the other pieces, and I just told the missus, "I'm heading out to get a composition. I won't be back without it." For some reason, I was convinced that I'd find my shot at the West Oakland BART station. I went there and started looking around, nothing, nothing, nothing, and bam. Problem solved. I saw how the tracks went, the way the energy just sucked right to that one spot in the picture, and I knew how everything went together. After that it was just labor.

I cannot believe how hard it's been to get this job done. Part of it has been the nature of the last stretch of time -- between the last issue and this one my life has been a non-stop fucking drama. The ulcer, the crazy, the hospitals and pills and all that happy crap, the upward rebound... and on top of that, I've written and revised a novel, and, again, blah blah blah. If you read the blog, you know the score. My health and finances are appalling, and everything else is gold.

The real source of the blockage I've been experiencing has been a combination of over-ripe projects finally coming due, a feeling that this is a major turning point in my life, and a lack of engagement with the world. I had to stop attending school due to my financial situation, and listen.

As someone who's disabled and conventionally unemployable, from time to time, I run across people who are jealous of me. People whose idea of a wonderful life is to be divested of their responsibilities. The worst? Family guys. Fathers. They view the idea of settling in on the couch in front of the TV to be absolutely entrancing.

My life would kill them.

Inactivity is a killer. It kills people. Makes them stop breathing, is what I mean.

The couch is a killer. The TV is a killer.

I have chronic pain, PTSD, OCD, fetal alcohol syndrome, and mixed-state bipolar syndrome. And I'm certain that I could get myself a prescription for something that would make TV bearable, especially if I drank as well.

I don't want the couch. I don't want the TV. I lost my back, and I have been sitting in my room for the last decade working like a son of a bitch because I want a job.

I want to have people who expect things from me, and from whom I can expect things. I want contact. I want deadlines and paychecks and a sense that my efforts are having an effect on the world.

I sit in my room and I work. I need that solitude. But connection is the payoff.

The novel is going out into the world. I'll be looking for galleries for the Swill show. Swill itself is due for a boost. The performance work is gathering momentum.

It's just a matter of holding on and staying functional during this in-between time. Staying on the clock and off the couch.

Trying to stay engaged.