Category: Personal

blog

The Meander

I’m a bit tipsy as I write this. A nice bourbon, at an inappropriate time of the day. But my mind is bouncing from topic to topic, so I thought I’d let folks know what’s going on.

Is the next Granger novel going well? Well. Depends. I have a bit over forty thousand words done on the first draft. I ran into a wall, called the Osage, and have been semi-diligently researching this rather impressive tribe of Native Americans in order to say things about them that will not make me look stupid. They had an intricate if inconsistent relationship with first the French and then the Spanish, at at least two geographical points—the Arkansas River and St. Louis—that made things complicated for the Europeans at the time. While researching, I’m writing nothing. I stopped at the pivotal scene where some negotiation is required, and later in the story they will again be pivotal. So.

We’re planning a road trip down to Kaskaskia, just to get a feel for the place. Virtually nothing remains today of what was there at the time (1785) but it would still be useful to walk the ground. And then there is Fort de Chartres, which is pretty much on the same spot, but completely rebuilt.

Consequently, I have been brought face to face with one of my internal contradictions, which is bound up in the rush of writing new material but having to stop till I know more. I do not do the degree of research some writers do. I do enough to write semi-confidently. Others will learn a period or place down to its DNA. I do not, though I generally end up knowing more than I realize. Then someone asks a question and voila! there’s this font of data I didn’t even know I had. But really, I meander through the material, picking up bits here and there, searching for the threads that bind the times together. In time, I meander over quite a lot, just not in a rigidly organized way.

Since turning 69, I’ve been doing these periodic reassessments. Another meander. How much of what do I have the stuff to do? I have no concrete answer. I get tired more easily, but that may just be that I haven’t yet slowed down or taken on less.

I’m in a bit of a slump. I’ve been trying to push the book more, and I’ve tried a couple of new things, but I have no way of gaging what is or is not working. It would be nice to see a few more reviews in the various places where such things appear (and appear to matter). There is about a year and a half till my better half retires and we have some negotiations to do for the after time. It’s easy to fall into habits that may not work well when the situation changes. I’ve been fortunate in that I have a wonderful partner who has allowed me to pursue dreams that have not exactly produced the desired results. We’re still indulging our read-alouds and right now we’re reading Nicola Griffith’s Hild, which is superb, to be followed by her new one, Menewood.

Speaking of whom, last month we attended the World Fantasy Convention in Kansas City. Mainly because friends said they’d be there and it would be great to see us. It was good to be there, with them, but it led me to the conclusion that except for connecting with good friends, there really seems to be no reason to continue attending conventions. I’m not a Name. Again, I don’t know how to gage this, but in a 35 year career I’ve been a GoH only once.  Hmm.

But these people, these connections, these friends…how did this happen? I have been so lucky to have met and connected with such marvelous people from so many places! That is its own kind of success and I feel I’ve been gifted with a dream-come-true aspect to life I never thought to have,

Now, then, where was I? Oh. All future things depend on all present things. For those of you interested in the Granger story, I have ideas for several novels. (More meandering, from one book to next, with other things in between.) It could well be a long series. I’m finding considerable pleasure just now revisiting the territory, so to speak. As to whether those future stories appear, that is, of course, dependent on market forces over which I have little say. Christmas is coming up, If you know readers, then Granger’s Crossing would be a great gift. I have no budget, word of mouth is the best I can manage, so brag about me. Get those numbers up., Make my publisher happy and then the next one may appear. (I think you’ll like the next one, I really do; at least I’m having a good time writing it.)

As for the science fiction, well, soon I’ll have an announcement concerning my Secantis Sequence. I’m pretty excited about it. Stay tuned. There are more short stories in the works.

It would be helpful to have an agent, but after my last one dropped out of the field, I’ve been just a bit despairing of that. Too many places are unwilling to look at unagented work, and I can understand that, I can, but it makes it more difficult to shop work around. (Several years ago, in my new position as consignment book buyer, I had a conversation with a young writer whose novel I had rejected. He was trying to convince me to change my mind and then said the wrong, or possibly the right, thing: “You have no idea how hard it is breaking in.” In one of my rare moments of “I don’t give a shit candor” in that job, I explained who I was, what I had done, how many years I had been doing it, and what my track record was to date, ending with “So, yes, I do know how hard it is and I’m telling you, your book is not ready for prime time. Go somewhere and learn how to write.” Which to my pleasant surprise did not get an angry hang-up, but a long pause and a heartfelt, “What would you suggest?” We then had a long conversation about workshops and how long and why and so forth and I hung up feeling that he just might pursue my advice to good result. No, I do not remember his name, nor would I tell you if I did. Point being, this is not an endeavor for those unwilling to stay the course and put up with a lot of obstruction.)

Changing the subject, I am still working out, trying to stave off the erosion of age as best I can, and fortunately the only negative effect has been a need for more sleep. But I am trying to assemble a regular discussion group again. We had belonged to one that last many years, sometimes based on a pure philosophical discussion, then at others times around a book (Dante, Joyce, Melville), but always in as deep a dive as possible, with sharp people among whom I always felt like the dullard. Some died, some moved away. I’d like to start that again, but there’s an organic aspect to that which cannot be planned for. I do feel a bit slower, mentally. Until I get involved in a deep conversation and then al the cylinders seem still to fire as they should.

2024 is coming up. I’m more than a little concerned for next November. I’m actually a bit anxious about my fellow citizens. It is difficult to feel confident in a community that once sent a berserker into office and may have the potential to do so again. I fear for my friends, some of whom would be sorely put upon under more of that kind of dysfunction. For the first time in my life, I really do not know what will happen.

But I’ll comment on that in more detail later.

In my own little pocket of life, things are not bad. I have great friends, a wonderful partner, health, a bit of optimism, and the ability to appreciate it all. So, onward.

This update has been brought to you by my optimism. I’m going to meander off now.

Community

Imperial Theology

I made an off-hand reply last week on FaceBook to a question that has become so common as to almost be meaningless. How can so many people who claim to be christian follow an exemplar who is the exact antithesis of everything Jesus stood for? The usual response—well, they aren’t really christians—will not serve. Because it overlooks too much of what is going on and what has preceded it. My response was that they are Imperial Christians, adhering to what the religion became after 313 C.E. Prior to that date, it was pretty much just one of dozens of religions, having no better claim to relevance than any other. After that, it became the state religion of Rome, thanks to Emperor Constantine’s mandate.

That changed everything. What Jesus said (may have said, the other inconvenient fact being that we really do not know, even if he existed*) played less and less a part of what then unfolded, because it became then an arm of the government, and governments are never pacific. At best, governments are pragmatic. In this case—and it can be argued—Constantine was a pragmatist with an eye toward posterity. (Also there was this little thing called the Battle of  Milvian Bridge, which Constantine won and took the throne under the sign of the cross, which he then parlayed in his justification for being emperor; right there Christianity was inextricably tied to military victory and an imperial mandate) The constant tumult that had emerged with the advent of a faith that had the temerity to declare that it was the One True religion and had an obligation to convert (Judaism had a similar claim, but it was never an evangelical doctrine and kept pretty much out of politics, except in the question of a homeland, so they actually caused little trouble for Rome) had created a degree of civil unrest that made governing difficult. Time to settle things. Constantine’s mother may have had something to do with it. In either instance, Constantine decided it would be best for there to be a single state religion and decree that the others should get in line.

The details comprise several bookshelves of historical research. We can try to analyze the whys and wherefores, what was he thinking, and so forth, but the fact is christianity ceased being what it had been and became an imperial tool, which meant conversion with the backing of the Law. Not Yahweh’s law, but Roman law. That aspect—that character—of what has come down to us has pretty much corrupted the whole thing. When people refer to the New Testamant and the red letter sections to try to point out the hypocrisy of certain people, they unfortunately overlook the real world aspect of christianity, which is that is a colonial movement, an occupier, a set of principles designed to privilege a single worldview even to the destruction of all others. It is a Roman artifact. So when a Leader steps forth who holds up the sceptor of that movement and declares that it will triumph, whatever Jesus might have said is utterly irrelevant to those who follow. They adhere to a conquering religion. (That’s one reason right wing christians almost never refer to the Beatitudes. What a lot of weak-chinned, namby pamby pacifist nonsense! You have to force people to believe and all that tolerance and empathy will gain you nothing!)

All religions that become aspects of government end up evolving into something other than their presumed intents (or almost all, since some religions are designed from the start to be governments). What we’re seeing in the screeling irrationality of so-called fundamentalists (so-called because if they truly were “fundamentalists” they would adhere to what Jesus presumably said—indeed, they would first know what he said, instead of regurgiting updated takes on Old Testamant Angry God theology—but instead they are soldiers in the march to be religious imperialists always with an eye on the “reward”) is a revelation of what christianity has become for them. They are christians, but they are Constantine’s not Yeshua’s.

Personal aggrandisement, either of wealth or reputation, and a need to silence detractors are the hallmarks of this brand. Naturally they will follow a leader who promises both. We should stop trying to shame them into reason and get some explanation from them as to why they aren’t christians. They are. But they belong to an 1800-year-long tradition of an imperial theology that doesn’t really take Jesus very seriously.

__________________________________________________________________________

*No, we actually do not. Not concretely. This is the fly in the ointment in all this. We have no “original” documents, only copies of copies, and none of them agree with each other. It’s a morass of supposition. But. My own personal view is that Yeshua bar Joseph did exist. Someone said some things that have come down to us as his words and whoever that someone was, he was a serious philosopher. There are some radical things in those attributions, and if taken seriously would have posed a threat to the status quo at the time. Whether we call that man Jesus or Sam, it doesn’t matter. Ideas came down to us that still have resonance. The pity is that such a large number of people won’t really look at those words in any but metaphorical and ritual terms.

blog

Recognitions

I have long understood that I am not a competitive person. Not in the sense of besting others, striving to be better than, more than, ahead of. Somewhere along the way over the last 60 + years, what might have become a competitive drive morphed into something, to my mind, more benign. Self-betterment is not, in my opinion, competitive in the way most people apprehend the term.

That said, I like awards. I have favorites. It seems important to acknowledge quality, impact, set goals, and shine a spotlight on that which is most laudable (for the moment) in order to validate the work done. Recognition is meaningful.

So we went to the World Fantasy Convention last weekend to see friends and I found myself hoping for a win for my friend Nicola Griffith. Her novel, Spear, was up for a best novel award. I was there when it went to someone else.

Now, I’ve been through a similar experience. I was shortlisted long ago for the Philip K. Dick Award for Compass Reach. We spent the money, went to Seattle, attended the ceremony…and I didn’t win. It was a peculiar sensation, sitting there muffled in disappointment which I knew to be, in some broader context, pointless. Because really, Best is such a fickle, arbitrary thing. But it was recognition. And I very much wanted that.

Nicola has no shortage of recognition. She is amazing, she has just published a new novel that is receiving immense praise. In terms of any kind of competition, she’s doing well. I think I was more disappointed on her behalf than she was. Maybe not. It is true that the “just to be nominated” thing matters.

But it made me think about my own career and where I am. The whole weekend turned out to be a moment of reassessment. Not for the first time, I questioned what it was I was doing. I’ve reached a point of wondering if it’s worth the effort.

I do this from time to time. Partly, it’s impostor syndrome. But it’s also a consequence of trying to maintain a reasonable perspective. The way I look at it, I had a window, say between 1995 and 2005. Ten years in which to establish myself. All the possibilities were there. I was selling short stories fairly regularly, in 2000 I started publishing novels. And by 2005, the upward trajectory failed and I had missed the chance to get a major publishing contract and so the long slide into Also Ran status. A variety of factors, most of which were not in mt control, created this situation, and I was brought face to face with some of them last weekend. I’ve spent the last 18 years trying to come to terms with this while also writing with the intent of reversing the trend. I have a new novel out, in a new genre. I’ve continued publishing short fiction.

I wonder occasionally if my lack of a competitive drive has hurt me. Possibly. It was always the work that mattered. All the rest, as my dad used to say, was how one kept score.

Colleagues of a certain age acknowledged my presence. That felt good. But there’s a new generation on stage now and for all I know, none of them ever heard of me. I realized by the end of the weekend that I do not go to these things anymore for professional reasons, but to see friends, of whom I have more than a few, of those very good friends.

Except for that (I have been invited to and attended only one convention as Guest of Honor), I have no reason to attend anymore. (Yes, lightning may strike and next year everything will turn around, but that need for perspective prevents me from hoping, certainly from expecting.)

It was the conversations that made it worthwhile. More than worthwhile. I connected with a couple of new people, spent time in the bar, caught up with old acquaintances. That felt marvelous. That, it seems, is what matters more to me. An award or two would be nice, but it’s the afterparty stuff, sitting in a corner with a few folks laughing and drinking and eating and being in the moment. And for that, I am grateful. Lucky, in fact.

Thank you.

 

Art

Memories

Yes, it is my birthday. I’m 69. In another era I would be an Old Man…or dead. Instead, I seem to be fortunate in what vitality I have. I work at it, of course, but that’s not always a guarantee. I intend fighting decrepitude for as long as I can.

This year, my father died. He was 92. My mother is 88. I come from long-lived stock, so to speak.

But I thought today, for this, I’d depart a bit from the standard birthday celebration kind of reminiscence. Not sure if this will tie in, but what are anniversaries like this for if not for indulging memory?

I remember two homes growing up. There was a house, which we lived in till I was in 3rd grade, when we moved to a two-family owned by my grandparents. That led to some mixed feelings on all sides, but for the most part I was oblivious to all that. Around the age of 15 I took up photography. It went quickly from hobby to passion to potential career. I early on became enamored of the old masters—Adams and Weston and Bullock and Cunningham and all that later became lumped, accurately or not, in the f64 Group. The clarity of those images still holds me. Instead of the more current photographers of my youth, I worked to imitate those older artists, with their grandeur and depth, lugging around those enormous view cameras.

I was not successful at it for several years, but occasionally I got lucky. The light was just right, the scene presented itself as if begging to be photographed. So here is one with specific place memories if nothing else.

The backyard of my grandparents’ house was nothing much, but on one side there were paving stones instead of poured walkway. My grandfather was a fortunate and dedicated gardener and there were always flowers. One morning I stumbled out there with one of my enormous cameras—a 2 1/4 press camera, a Mamiya, designed for weddings and so forth, but which I often used as if it were a 35mm, an instrument for photojournalists—and found this image:

 

 

My method back then was to blaze away and sort through the negatives later. I suspect most photographers do something like that, whether they admit it nor not. I found that with time I got luckier and luckier. (Quite often I would snap a picture, not knowing why, and even wondering for some time after why I’d taken that shot, only to one day, fiddling in the darkroom, discover the gem in the confusion around it.) This one, though, I kind of knew when I framed it that it was a decent image. I did not pose it, despite the apparent intentional composition of the elements. It was just there.

I suppose you could say I’ve been lucky in my seeing. I’ve noticed things. Not always, and I’ll never know how much I did not see, but of the memories and material I have there are some fine things. And many of them I have concrete touch-points, a photograph or the thing itself, to remind me.

I’ve had a print of this one lying around for decades. I thought it time to share a small slice of time. It is my birthday, after all, and the past if what led to the present. This was something I thought beautiful found along the way.

Community

Reunions and Sentiment

I have a strained relationship with the idea of reunions. History (personal) has a lot to do with it, but also aspects of my sensibilities. There are people very dear to me and getting together with them is always desirable, even if opportunity is a target difficult to hit. Others…I don’t mind, but I don’t actively seek or even anticipate seeing them. And then there are groups of people with whom I share so little that I wonder at the very idea of getting together. Why?

Recently my high school reunion happened. Fifty years. I saw the notices, sure, and after a while I realized I had no moment of connection that suggested this was something worth doing. There are a few people I knew in high school and I still associate with them (my best friend, for instance). I kept in touch. The others? Now, I don’t mind owning the fact that this is as much my fault as anyone else’s, but I was never much part of the scene, any scene, back then, and wandered through 4 years of high school all-too-often scratching my head in wonder at just what was going on. I learned to go through certain motions as if I understood, but I felt through most of it like a visiting alien from Alpha Centauri trying to figure out the local customs and rituals. As to personal connections, I don’t know what others felt about me, but I never sensed much interest on their part. Getting out was my primary interest in the whole experience, so why would I go somewhere to celebrate something which clearly meant something to a lot of them that I never quite got?

I saw a photograph of the attendees posted after the event and I recognized not one face among all the aged and wizened people. They got old. I have, too, but somehow I don’t feel old, not like that. I honestly don’t know what I would have to say to any of them.

On a more personal level, we attended my partner’s family reunion over the weekend. A modest gathering, just her siblings and their partners. I like them. I would never in a million years (as they say) attend a reunion of my family. Even as a kid, hanging around with many of my cousins, aunts and uncles, and so forth, I felt virtually no connection. Nothing toxic, but nothing that made me want to remain in contact the way some families do. Again, this is more me than them. I don’t do that kind of association. Since my teen years I picked my family from among those who became close, closer to me than I ever felt by way of blood. And over the years, some of them have fallen away, new members have joined, and we go on, knowing that any “reunion” would be superfluous because we are not structured that way.

I suppose there are expressions of sentiment I have never embraced, or been embraced by.

I think too often these things like high school reunions, while well-intended and for some quite wonderful, come across to some of us—me, for instance—like afterthoughts. One becomes an accoutrement in the bric-a-brac of other people’s lives and as time passes, the attempt to cling to what was requires reaching out to whatever remains of those times. And then, of course, there’s a certain revisionism that happens, memory plays tricks, or we would rather not recall what really happened. I recall being an object of puzzlement to most of the people I knew back then, ignored for the most part, occasionally resented, but I never felt seen much less understood.

And that’s okay. For me, anyway. The best part of my life happened after leaving high school. What went on there is of some historical or topical interest, but almost no sentiment is attached. I too often ran afoul of all the social things going on then primarily because I didn’t know the rules, but then no one explained them, so I came to believe no one cared one way or the other that I had even been there.

And, I repeat, that’s okay. Who I am is not defined by that time.

But I should explain that I would have no problem (and may even welcome) sitting down with one or two at a time, here and there, and kicking the memory ball around. That is where I find the preferred connections. Not in big group things. We are individuals, first and foremost, and as such I have remained pretty aloof from most of the “important” social identity collations. (There is one group I would welcome such a get-together with and I trust they know who they are, but those connections are still personal and individual. Any reunion would simply be the means to have those one on one encounters, because they would be based on genuine one on one connections.)

This is me being that kid of Alpha Centauri still who watches all this with bemusement and a certain anthropological interest. I am not a joiner and I have learned over time that I distrust very large gatherings. And, sure, I’m getting older, too, so I find it difficult to hear conversations in large groups. It’s a thing.

I did have a good time at the family gathering. It may not be my natural milieu but if there are people who have always mattered showing up, I welcome it. I do not write this to judge or offend but to sort my reactions and my thoughts and try to understand. But also to remind myself (and others) that I am not a reflexive part of anything. I do very little “just because it’s a thing everybody does.” I know this bothers some people, and I’m sorry for that, but there it is.

Thank you for your time while I indulge some musings.

Art

New Keys

I’ve been playing music since I was about 11. Sometime that year my parents bought an organ. A Thomas, with a built-in Leslie speaker. An amazing instrument, and for that time an amazing expenditure. Quite promptly, it was decided I should receive lessons. For convenience (and he no doubt came cheap) they hired the organist at my church (who was also my 5th grade teacher) Mr. Lange. What followed was a period of fraught intentions on all parts and a near-calamitous ruin of my musical ambitions.

But the organ itself was the gateway to further explorations, especially after Mr. Lange departed (and no teacher was hired to replace him) and I discovered rock music and fell into company with a cadre of musical rebels. The organ itself, while we never took it out of the house, served for many years until the house I once lived in was sold and I opted not to bring it with me.

 

It was a badly used machine, though I have fond memories of it. My friends and I put it through some things trying to tease sounds out of it never intended by the designers.

The last time I played it was about 1978. I then moved out in 1981. We bought our house in 1991, my parents bought their new one a few years later, and the Thomas disappeared.

In 1989, though, a year after Clarion, we were in a music store, and were given a demo of a new Yamaha Clavinova. A CP-8, which meant is would only produce 8 tones simultaneously. Not fully polyphonic, but what a sound! Superb grand piano and a passable Hammond B-3. Donna made the call, intuiting that this might end up being very good for me psychologically. We bought it. About three grand back then, which was a lot.

I loved that piano. It was delivered and I sat there wondering if I still remembered anything. I set my hands to the keys…

Christmas caroles. Seriously? That’s what my hindbrain retained?

Oh, well. I bought a couple of new books, including a finger exercise (which I loathe, but recognize the need for) and I set about playing.

And between the writing, the day-job, and all the rest, I never did recover what I could once do. Instead, I acquired a manner of improvisation that, if you weren’t paying attention, sounded like I knew how to play.

Oh, from time to time something bubbled up or I would set my mind to learning something, but then there would be long periods during which I didn’t touch it. I have never been willing to submit to the total discipline of the serious keyboardist.

But I had fun, and for a few years I was playing with a group at a coffeehouse and I was good enough to follow a chord chart and slip into a groove. Donna was right, psychologically it had been very good for me.

Alas, things electronic have lifespans, and this past summer the poor thing died on me. No power. I tried to find someone who would come to the house to see about repairing it, but no joy. I would have to replace it.

The thing about that Clavinova, among other virtues, was the “feel” of the keyboard. Nicely weighted, very much the sense of playing a Steinway or something. A replacement would not be cheap.

 

But also I had no idea what an equivalent might be. So I did what I almost never do. I went on social media and asked opinions. I didn’t get any. What I did get was a friend reaching out to say she still had her late husband’s piano and would I be interested.

Well, yeah. Lloyd was a superb player and on our many evenings at their house I was allowed to play his much superior piano. He had sprung for a top of the line Yamaha—still a Clavinova, but a starship compared to my shuttle—and something I likely would never have been able justify brand new.

So, last week, it arrived.

 

I have an orchestra now.

Lloyd Kropp was a good friend, a gentle person, and a fine writer. It was a frustration that he was unable to get his more recent work published, the industry being the fickle beast it is, but I recommend whole-heartedly his novel Greencastle. One of the best coming-of-age novels I’ve ever read, especially for those of us long-steeped in science fiction and fantasy and all things mysterious and macabre. As I say, he was a fine musician, mostly jazz and American Songbook. But he was a composer as well and we heard some of his pieces. It’s a privilege to now have this instrument in my house. I will endeavor to live up to its potential.

I cannot imagine life without music, either to listen to or to play. I play for my own pleasure, mostly meandering improvisations that occasionally seem to go somewhere. But this past year, since retirement, I’ve set to learning some material so as not to bore others or embarrass myself at parties should I be called upon to “play something.”

 

 

Absurdity

If I Could Change One Thing

This is a wholly personal, largely confessional post. I’m telling on myself, though most people who know me will not be surprised.

From time to time you see these things online, which stem from old conversational gambits and party games. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be and would you? There’s utility in these kinds of challenges. You don’t necessarily have to respond openly, but it might prompt you to do a little introspection, and that seems ever in short supply. Do an inventory, if you will. What loose ends are dangling that you might want to tend to.

After decades of playing that game, I’ve come to the conclusion that for the most part, I wouldn’t change much. I’m too aware of how all the things that comprise Me are so intertwined that deleting or changing one might cascade through the rest and I’d come out so different I wouldn’t know myself anymore. That’s a bit dramatic, perhaps, but not as ridiculous as it may sound at first blush. So one has to ask what would you change that would be worth that risk.

I hate to clean.

My entire life I have had this annoying aversion to cleaning things. A very childish attitude, but one that still attends my daily choices. It’s as if some part of me is saying “I cleaned that once, it should stay clean.” For the most part, I manage to clean things anyway, but once in a while I look around and say “Yeesh, what a mess” and I know I have to clean. Usually, “cleaning” to me is a surface thing. As long as you can’t see the mess, it’s fine. But we all know that surface mess usually rests upon a deep foundation of underlying mess that requires attention, and I hate it.

I envy people who can take pleasure in the process, or at least manage not to mind it. I can trick myself into it, but I can never find joy in the doing.

Which results in explosions of major cleaning at long intervals. I get so tired of the mess that I do a top to bottom, major overhaul, scrubbed from stem to stern, which I tackle as a kind of penance, loathing it even as I’m feeling a touch of redemptive self-righteousness while engaging the chaos. I hear the voices of past adults telling me “well, if you just kept up with it, it wouldn’t get this bad.” I am brilliant at finding myriad excuses not to “keep up with it.”

As a child, I recall my parents and my grandmother trying to school me in Being Neat. From time to time they would organize my toys. They would finish and point it out to me that if I put a toy back when I was done playing with it, then it would stay neat. And I would agree. And by the next day, the toys were all over the place, all order destroyed. After all, being “in their place” was never what toys were for. But that didn’t matter. I just found it impossible to maintain the presence of mind to follow through.

They say that disorder and chaos are signs of high intelligence and creativity. Maybe. But honestly, if there were ever one characteristic of mine that I would love to change, it is that aversion to cleaning. I wouldn’t even need to love it, just find it a congenial thing to do regularly, and not have this deep, generally unacknowledged dislike of the actual doing. I do enjoy cleanliness, neatness, orderliness. I do. I just hate the required work.

That one I think would be worth the risk that other aspects of myself might be altered if corrected.

There’s reason for this contemplation, which I will tell you all about later.

Thank you for your attention.

Art

Down There

Things are happening. Slowly. At this point, the plan is to see the cool parts and ignore the annoying parts. I have an urge to cuss, richly and with feeling. But.

Making something cool out of the uncool is an impulse I get to indulge in weird ways.  With all that vagueness, something emblematic.

 

Art

Simpler Complexities

There are times I wonder why I do what I do. I mean, the thought occurs that there are simpler things in life. How did I ever convince myself that I could be a writer?

I cannot retrace the steps, not at this point. Somewhere back in the restructured haze of youth I had this idea that it would be cool to tell stories and get paid for it. I can do that, I can make things up, I do it all the time, all I have to do is write it down and send it in.

Well, I will not retrace the learning that showed me how wrong I was about my abilities. Death by a thousand rejection slips.

I’ll admit, I was baffled. I don’t know about others, but for a time I honestly could not see a difference between what I read in the magazines and what I was putting down on paper. You just tell what happens next. What does logic have to do with it? Life doesn’t follow rules like that, why should fiction? And this is science fiction, so rules should apply even less. I mean, what does it mean, it doesn’t make sense?

Because I did not know any of the rules, not even the rules of submission, I received no feedback in those early attempts, and drifted away into something else. Something I thought would be simpler. As much as I appreciate complexity as such, I was not good at creating it or dealing with it. How I managed to reach adulthood with any capabilities at all is one of those mysteries never to be fully—or even partially—answered. It was never that I thought the rules didn’t apply to me, it was that I never recognized the rules.

And still I managed.

It’s remarkable that I’m even alive.

But there were guardrails. My parents, other adults in my life, the rough outlines of general rules, a certain unexamined caution in my approach to daily life. And limited opportunities to get in over my head. In many ways, I had a sheltered upbringing.

That and I read. (One of my favorite films is Three Days of the Condor and one of my favorite scenes is the one where all these CIA operatives are discussing Robert Redford and how dangerous can he be. He has no field experience, why are we worried. “He reads,” Cliff Robertson tells them. Clearly most of them don’t get it. I loved that. He reads.

I read. A lot.

Not as much as I once did, but I retain more now, so it balances out. While I can’t point to a specific example (other than in a debate or argument) where having read something made a difference in a given situation, the cumulative effect has been like a form of experience.

I grew up at a time in a place soaked in the kind of received nonsense that requires outgrowing. At one time or another I have believed a great many false narratives, especially about the relative value of different people, different kinds of people, and like most of the people around I would let proof of my beliefs dribble from my mouth from time to time.  Some of my contemporaries, no doubt, never grew out of that. For whatever reason, I was fortunate in a disposition that made it impossible for me to categorize anyone I personally knew according to prevailing stereotypes, and by extension whatever group they supposedly represented. Little by little, over time, I left a great many prejudices behind. Can I take any kind of credit for that? I’m not sure. The simplistic veneer of easy discrimination always gives way to the complexness underneath, and I have always preferred to embrace the complex—even when I didn’t understand it. And what I eventually understood is that prejudices, especially towards people, are products of simplistic thinking. The defense of such thinking, when pursued far enough, results in complicated structures that ultimately will not even support themselves. That genuine understanding results in simpler structures that allow us to see clearly.

Because I have learned (eventually) that complex is not the same thing as complicated and that often, perhaps usually, complexity manifests in simple forms. When we examine the properties of a nautilus shell, we see something quite simple in presentation. We can take it in at a glance and appreciate what it is fairly easily. It is a simple thing. But the layers of complexity is contains and offers up with investigation amaze us and lead to a trove of questions which, pursued diligently, offer up a glimpse into the underpinnings of the universe. A simple tune, easy on the ears and elegantly comprehensible in its performance, yields up myriad mathematical, harmonic, and even cultural aspects, an onion in its layers, beautiful complexity that manifests in simple melody and harmony. As noted by Samuel R. Delany, a simple declarative sentence—The door dilated—unpacks in ways that suggest an entire civilization beyond the threshold, all the assumptions necessary to result in the logic of that sentence and what it tells us.

Learning to see the two in collaboration can give us a more satisfying experience of life itself.

As a youth, I was dazzled and delighted by the complexities. Sometimes I mistook complications for complexities. Detail can fascinate, even when it might not add up to anything coherent. A consequence of age and continual observation is that I learned to see the whole where before I might only have seen the components. The art of recognizing and assembling complex ideas and details to create a comprehensible something is the art of recognizing that elegance, truth, and understanding should not confuse. We strive for clarity, which usually presents as simplicity.

But like the misidentification of complexity with complication, we have to learn to tell the difference between simplicity and the simplistic.

Thank you for your attention while I did some sorting.